ABOUT seventy miles south-west A of the city of Puebla, there lies a pretty little town, rejoicing in the rather difficult name (to Anglo-Saxons) of San Juan Iscaquixtla. Pleasantly situated at the foot of a broken range of hills rising off the table -land, its climate is delicious—never too warm, nor too cold; and, as the traveler approaches it from Puebla, he passes through extensive fields of maize, varied here and there by an occasional patch of frijoles, or beans. The hills themselves present rather a dreary and monotonous aspect, as they are chiefly covered by the stunted palm— very useful to the Indians for the manufacture of fefates, or mats, but not very beautiful, taken from a picturesque point of view; here and there the tall and solitary organo raises its slender head above a few thorny shrubs, which afford pasture to various herds of goats and sheep. One would imagine that these animals would have been allowed to remain in undisturbed possession of those bleak ranges; but they had for companions far more dangerous creatures than either wild-cats or wolves — Mexican bandits. For these, the very loneliness and broken nature of the range possess a charm: they know every path, every gully, every nook, in these convenient hiding- places; and woe betide the unfortunate who, having fallen in with a band of these freebooters, thinks to escape by taking across country. He suddenly finds himself on the brink of a deep darranca, or gully, whose perpendicular sides render the descent impossible, except at certain places, well known to the /adrones, but not to the unlucky wretch, who would give half his fortune to find one. These hflls were, toward
the close of last year, the scene of a fearful tragedy, which I will endeavor to relate in as few words as possible, simply remarking that this is no imaginary tale, as several of the actors were personally known to the writer.
About eight miles from San Juan lies the rancho of "Barragan," belonging, at the time of which I write, to a very hard-working and greatly respected old Indian, named Cirilo Gil. This old man, who could neither read nor write, had been mayordomo, or manager, of a small goat-run, and had, while in that position, managed to scrape together a few thousand dollars—thanks to untiring industry and perseverance. With this money he rented a small cattle-run, was very fortunate in all his ventures, and soon found himself in possession of such capital that he was enabled to purchase Barragan. A new life was now opened to the self-made proprietor: he experienced all the pleasure of a child with a new toy in being from daylight to sunset in Ais fields, in the midst of his Jeones, as the Indian laborers are termed; and, under his vigilant superintendence, and animated by his untiring zeal and example, these Jeones soon had the satisfaction of hearing that praise so dear to the true husbandman; for Barragan was spoken of as one of the finest and most prosperous vanchos in the district. Fortune, though proverbially so fickle, stuck firm to old Gil, and he soon proved himself to be no unworthy object of her favors. The wretched little sacaée hut was replaced by one of those plain, but solid adobe houses familiar to all who have traveled in Mexico—a large, square, one-story building, in the centre of which is the Patio, or court-yard, into which
