BarbarousMexico JOHN KENNETH TURNER

IN THE VALLEY OF DEATH 87
"They are sending us to our death—to our death!" And
always at the words the soft-faced, cringing boy of eighteen
at his side would cry silently.
At El Hule, The Gateway to the Mexican Hell, we
parted from our unfortunate friends for a time. As we
left the railroad depot to board our launch in the river,
we saw the ten, strung out in single file, one mounted
rurale in front and one behind, disappear in the jungle
toward Tuztepec. Four hours later, as we approached
the district metropolis in the thickening twilight, we saw
them again. They had beaten the launch in the journey
up the river, had crossed in a canoe, and now stood resting
for a moment on a sandy bank, silhouetted against
the sky.
Rodoipho Pardo, the jefe politico, whom we visited
after supper, proved to be a slender, polished man of
forty, smooth-shaven, with eyes which searched our
bodies like steel probes at first. But the thought of fresh
millions to be invested where he might levy his toll upon
them sweetened him as we became acquainted, and when
we shook his cold, moist hand good-bye, we had won all
that we had asked for. Don Rodoipho even called in the
chief of police and instructed him to find us good horses
for our journey.
Early the following morning found us on the jungle
trail. During the forenoon we encountered several other
travelers, and we lost no opportunity to question them.
"Run away? Yes; they try to—sometimes," said one
native, a Mexican cattleman. "But too many are against
them. The only escape is down river. They must cross
many times and they imist pass Jacatepec, Chiltepec,
Tuzetpec and El Hule. And they must hide from
every one on the road, for a reward of ten pesos is paid
for every runaway captured. We don't love the system,