“I feel very sorry for the peons even though I am an agent of Huerta. But as I have weighed it out, my duty to my employer comes first no matter whether the employer is a scoundrel or not. It is not for me to judge. I am asked to keep Mexico City illuminated and I will keep the lights burning no matter who is in the National Palace, and, moreover, I’ll do it in spite of this man with the scarred foot, whoever he is.”
Thus recalled to their mission, Jack instantly became attentive to their surroundings. He found that the trail had narrowed and that the rurales ahead had formed in single file. His little mustang was patiently picking its way through rough places and underbrush to keep beside the animal ridden by the engineer.
“I guess we have been talking too much and paying too little attention to our horses, Jack,” said Mr. Ryder. “Push ahead and get in single file. This is a section of the trail that carries us over the shoulder of a mountain and it is rather narrow.”
Soon the shoulder was topped, however, and the horses began to descend in single file toward the Indian village. The community was somewhat larger than the villages Jack had seen from the train window on his way to Mexico City, otherwise it was the same collection of dilapidated huts that looked as if they had been literally thrown together by their builders.
As they drove down through the single street a regiment of barking dogs and screaming naked Indian children greeted them. Robust, dark-skinned men lounged about before the huts (most of them clad in pajama like cotton garments), while their women folk worked hard at grinding corn between stones or carried water from the river in tall earthen jugs which they balanced deftly on their heads. Down at the river bank Jack could see other women busy washing clothes. This laundry work was accomplished by pounding the garments between stones much to the detriment of the garments, for the hard stones rubbed innumerable holes in the cloth as Jack found later when he gave his linen to a native washerwoman.
In the village Mr. Ryder took the lead and Jack followed, leaving the rurales to their own diversions. The engineer drove toward a more pretentious hut than the rest, where a very much wrinkled old Indian sat sunning himself before the door and idly watching a half dozen scrawny razorback pigs rooting in the dirt almost at his very feet.
The two Americans reined up before the house and viewed the picture that the old fellow made as he sat there staring absently at the animals.
“That,” said Mr. Ryder, “is Señor Yuai and his pigs. Pigs and vultures, as you know, are the scavengers of Mexico. But for their able services the country would be unfit to live in because of its filth and carrion. And Señor Yuai, though he is neither pig nor vulture, is also a very useful inhabitant. He is the Indian doctor who attends to all the natives in this vicinity. The old fellow is very much looked up to and every one comes to him for advice. He is aged and very nearsighted but his mind is as keen as ever. He knows every peon for miles around and I’ve an idea that he can identify our trouble maker with the scarred foot if he wants to. Come, we’ll hear what he has to say on the question.”
The Americans dismounted and after kicking their way through the drove of grunting pigs confronted the austere old Indian. Señor Yuai peered up at them with eyes bleared by age and demanded in Spanish to know whose shadow fell across his doorway. (The following conversation then took place which Mr. Ryder translated for Jack’s benefit.)
“It is I, Señor Ryder, from the electrical plant,” said the engineer.