Guachochic lies at an elevation of 7,775 feet and at the southern end of a mesa, the largest one in the Sierra Madre del Norte, being twelve miles long and three miles wide.  Except on the southern end this plateau is bordered with stately pine forests.  Many Indians live on the mesa and in the numerous valleys adjoining it, but they are all “civilised”; that is, contaminated with many Mexico-Christian notions, and have lost their pristine simplicity.

I had a letter of introduction to the principal personage in Guachochic, Don Miguel, who enjoys the rare reputation of being just and helpful toward the Indians; and, being a large land-owner, he is a man of considerable influence also with his fellow-countrymen.  To those in need he lends money on liberal terms out of the pile of silver dollars buried under the floor of his house.  Robbers know from sad experience that he is not to be trifled with.  Once, when a band of marauders had taken possession of the old adobe church and were helping themselves to the buried cash of the inhabitants of the ranches, he rallied the terrorised people, gave the robbers battle and routed them effectually.  He upholds authority against lawlessness, and wants justice to have its course, except when one of his own relatives has done the shooting—­I was sorry to learn that in this regard he was probably not beyond rebuke; but his many good deeds to the needy and oppressed, whether Mexican or Indian, should make us lenient toward this failing.  The Indians appeal to him of their own accord.  Three ruffians once went to the house of a well-to-do Indian, recently deceased, and told his mourning relatives that they had come to see to the division of the property among the heirs, and that they must have good things to eat and plenty to drink while thus occupied; calling upon the relatives to brew plenty of beer and kill an ox.  Their orders were promptly obeyed; but in addition they charged the heirs a fee of three oxen, one fanega of corn, and some silver money.  This struck the simple and patient Indians as rather excessive, for what would then be left to divide between themselves?  So they took their grievance to Don Miguel to be settled.  I do not know of any white man in those parts who would have taken the trouble, as he did, to protect the poor Indians’ rights against the wily schemers.

The old gentleman was not at home when I arrived at his ranch, but I met one of his sons, who lives at Guachochic.

“I am the postmaster,” he said proudly, stepping forward and showing me, at the same time, his credentials, which he evidently always carried in his pocket.  The mail from the lowlands to the mining towns passes over this place, and the mail-carrier sleeps in this house.  In the course of the year he may also bring a few letters to the inhabitants of this part of the country.  We soon entered into a conversation about postal matters, which naturally interested me greatly, as I was anxious to communicate