Whilst there is a growing sense of respect and esteem between the Mexicans and the Americans, the former have never quite forgotten that the latter despoiled them of an empire—from their point of view—by the Texan war, half a century ago or more, and only recently have the Mexicans come to believe that the big republic to the north no longer cherishes desires of further annexation of territory. The Americans, for their part, have given up dubbing the Mexicans as "greasers," and have acknowledged the pleasing and refined civilisation of their southern neighbours. The North American, or Americano, is often known in Mexico as the "Yankee"—not used in an offensive sense, but as a convenient designation. This is varied by the still less distinguished term of "gringo," and indeed, both these terms are employed, not only in Mexico, but thousands of miles below, in South America—Ecuador, Peru, Chile. The latter is not necessarily an opprobrious term, and it is applied to all Anglo-Saxons, British or American, and, indeed, in South America, to all Europeans of a fair complexion. Its derivation has been expounded by various writers as having come from the words of a song sung by some British or American sailors upon landing at a Mexican port, but the etymology seems doubtful. That of "Yankee" is more assured—the corruption of "English," or "Anglais," or "Ingles," employed by the Indians of North America towards the early settlers.
Conditions of life and travel in Mexico vary greatly according to the region we may be called upon to traverse. On the great plateau such as I have described, the hand of civilisation prevails, even if its evidences are at times far apart. In the tropical lowlands, whether of the Gulf or of the Pacific side of the country, we may be much more seriously thrown upon our own resources, whether for food, transport, or habitation. In the State of Guerrero there are yet large tracts of land absolutely unexplored, and the numerous tribes of Indians inhabiting certain of the tropical regions are under scarcely more than the semblance of control. Yet it cannot be said that they are ferocious or dangerous. Some of them, indeed, are cowardly, and will not even venture far from their villages for fear of wild beasts, whilst others form the most active and fearless guides, varying characteristics which show the wide range of peoples embodied in the country, as set forth in a previous chapter. Whilst Mexico cannot be called a "sportsman's paradise," there is in certain regions a great profusion of game, from turkeys to crocodiles. The guajalote, or Mexican wild turkey, with its great red beard and shimmering blue-black plumage, is a conspicuous inhabitant of Tamaulipas and other wild regions, and its low flight and plump body render it comparatively easy of securing, whilst it forms an excellent addition to the bill of fare. Huge wild cats abound in the broken country, and osos, or Mexican bears. Of sport, adventure, and romantic travel we may take our fill among these semi-tropical valleys, rivers, and mountains. Of noxious insects, malaria, wild beasts; of flooded streams and parched deserts; of sand-storms, snow-storms, and rain-storms; of precipitous mountains, tracts, and dangerous bogs; of gloomy forest and appalling crags; of delay, danger, and hardship, we shall have all that adventurous spirits may seek, and count the time well lost. Of pleasure in nature and solitude we shall have much, and of the study of primitive and civilised man, and of coquettish maidens and Indian maids, we shall carry away enduring recollections.
We are in camp. The exigencies of our travel have bid us take up our abode in that hastily-constructed jacal, or hut built of branches and plastered outside with mud, such as the peon knows cunningly how to contrive. Indeed, in such habitations a large part of Mexico's fifteen million inhabitants dwell. I inspect the well-ventilated walls, for numerous open chinks are left. "The wind will come in," I say. "Yes, señor," José, my peon-constructor, replies with unconscious wit, "it will not only come in but it will go out"—and he proceeds to remedy the defect.
Our residence in this spot may be for some weeks whilst at our leisure we examine mines, hydrographic conditions, flora, or other matters of scientific or commercial interest which our self-chosen exile demands. The simple habitation is pitched when possible, of course, near to a water supply, a clear running stream, or lake, and if the latter we can take a morning plunge. This excites the surprise of our mozo, or servant, and the other men in our employ.
"No, señor," they hasten to urge us, "it is dangerous to bathe the body." This objection to the use of cold water in this way does not arise from a dislike of cleanliness necessarily. The traveller in Western America soon finds that care must be exercised in bathing in the open, for the effect of the sun and the water is to bring on malaria sometimes, which is more easily acquired than cured.
On the edge of our lake great white herons stand in the cool of the early morning, and the wild ducks swimming lazily on its surface invite a shot. If it is winter and we are upon the high regions of the great plateau, the lake may freeze at its edges, imprisoning the unfortunate birds in the ice. The heat of the midday sun at these high elevations is succeeded at night by the bitter cold of the rarefied air, and the white drill suit we have worn must be supplemented by heavier garments.
The sun sets in gorgeous splendour over the plain and upon the grey-blue hills, and the short tropic twilight gives place to darkness, save perchance as the silvery moon of Mexico may cast its peaceful beams over the desolate landscape. Cigarettes and coffee are finished. No sound breaks the silence; our men's tales are all told as they crouch round the campfire. We have sought our couch and turned in, bidding the peones look to the horses, which, tethered near at hand, champ their oats or maize contentedly, giving from time to time that half-human sign with which the equine expresses his contentment and comfortable weariness. All is still. Sleep falls upon us.... Hark! what is that? A long mournful howl comes from the plain and winds through the canyon, and is repeated in chorus. "What is it, José?" I call to my mozo and the other men. "Coyotes, Señor," he replies, "they are crying to heaven for rain." Of course, I had forgotten for a moment that they have this habit, and the sound seemed almost unearthly.
To return to the game. We are going a-hunting to-day. The great barren plains and sterile rocky ribs which intersect them, the stony foothills and the dry arroyos do not seem to offer much prospect of sport. But our friend the Mexican hacendado, who has ridden up from his hacienda for the purpose of inviting us, assures us to the contrary. And, indeed, his words are soon justified. He and his men have led us far away towards the head of the canyon, and the dry stream-bed is fringed with mesquite and cactus which might offer shelter to quarry of some nature. A dozen dark forms start suddenly from the shadow of the bank upon whose verge we stand. Bang! bang! bang! In the twinkling of an eye we had dismounted, flung our horses' reins to the attendant mozos, and pointed our Winchesters. Several of the dark forms lie upon the sand below, inert; the others, already squealing far enough off, scrambling away. What are they? "Javelines, Señor," the mozos make reply. They are peccaries. A good bag indeed and excellent eating, as their ribs, roasted over a fire at the bottom of the arroyo, attest. Later on we look round for our host, but he is away after a plump venado—deer—which, passing near at hand, proves too strong for the sportsman's instinct. But the night falls ere he returns. "Never mind," is his greeting, "although we have to sleep here we may eat good venison," and across the horse of his mozo lies the drooping body of the deer, its eyes glazed in death, and the blood still dripping from the bullet wound which laid it low.
And so our hacendado friend, who owns the land we are upon for leagues away, and knows it well, leads us to a cave snugly hidden in the rocky wall, with a floor of purest quartz sand, and a limpid rivulet flowing thereby. The saddle bags are brought in; they are full of bread and tinned meats and native fruits, brandy and wine from his own vineyards. We are his honoured guest, and he plies us with all this fare, not forgetting the venison roasting outside. And filled and comforted with good food we discourse far into the night of weird things tinged with our friend's strange superstition and curious lore. Outside the coyotes howl, far away on the plain, and the mournful cry of the tecolote, or Mexican night owl, faintly reaches my ears, as, wrapped in my blankets with a saddle for a pillow, I fall asleep upon the cavern floor.