Their success has already invited the more avaricious, but less coldly calculating Gentile; and while it is stating it a little strong to say there is a "boom," or even indications of one, within the thirty to sixty miles between villages, my conscience is not disturbed in saying that I can at least agree with the great American poet that,
We hear the first low wash of waves
Where soon shall roll a human sea.
Already a railway was talked of, and the usual undue excitement was manifested. Every stranger was supposed to have something to do with it. Even my own little expedition was thought to be a sort of preliminary reconnoissance. I have never constructed a railway in my life, but I have been along the advancing lines of a number of new ones, and have seen them grow from two iron rails in a wilderness to a great country. I do not recall any that had much brighter prospects ahead than the proposed one along the eastern slopes of the Sierra Madres. That it must be built some day the resources of the country clearly demand, and it is to be hoped that it will be at as early a date as possible.
At La Ascension we were greatly indebted to Mr. Francis, a young English gentleman, who literally placed his house at our disposal, giving up his own room for our comfort. As there were no inns in La Ascension except those of the lowest order, this generous hospitality of the only Englishman in the town was warmly appreciated by us. One of our wagons having met with a slight accident, we remained over Sunday to await repairs. As soon as this was known to the inhabitants invitations began to pour in to attend cockfights, and one of especial magnitude was organized in our honor. The finest cocks in the place were to take part, and the presidente or mayor of the town would preside. Then, to add distinction to the already exciting programme, a baile or ball was hastily gotten up for the evening. Hospitality could go no farther in this out-of-the-way town, for the people were really not rich enough to support a bullfight. Early in the morning, before the population had recovered from the dissipations of the previous night, we bade our hospitable host "good-by," and, wrapped in our heaviest coats against the chill morning air, we started southward toward Corralitos, about thirty-five or forty miles away. After crossing wide mesas and threading our way around the bases of many picturesque groups of mountains, we came to the Casas Grandes River and valley, and along this stream, literally alive with ducks, we traveled for some hours. It was a great temptation to get out the guns and shoot at the ducks that were calmly sailing by us on the broad and rapid stream; but as we had neither dog nor boat it would have been impossible to secure them had we done so. The consoling thought was ours that the hacienda was not far distant, and there we would likely find everything necessary to assist us in this or any other sport.
Approaching the hacienda we passed immense droves of horses and cattle grazing on the rich bottom lands. Corralitos has a very pretty, an almost poetical name, but it loses much of its romantic character when it is known that it is named for some old, dilapidated sheep pens that once existed here, corralitos being little pens or little corrals. It is a hacienda, some eighty or ninety years old, with an extremely interesting history, that would make a book more thrilling than any fiction. The main building is a great square inclosure with very thick walls, having many loopholes for guns, and high turrets or towers at the corners. To enter the building are massive gates, while inside are a number of courts with other gates leading to other inclosures, and making the interior building appear like a small town. Here during the fierce Apache raids the whole population was gathered for protection, and the crack of Apache rifles has often been heard around the thick walls. Dons of Spanish blood have extracted fortunes from the mountain sides near by in mines that have been worked since shortly after the Conquest. It is a hacienda of about a million acres in extent, and one of the most beautiful in the whole State of Chihuahua, the Casas Grandes River running for some thirty miles through the estate. The true hacienda, of which we hear so much in Mexican narration, is really a definite area of twenty-two thousand acres, but the name is now used so as to mean almost any estate, whether large or small, under one management. With the advance of railways haciendas are slowly disappearing, and will soon exist only in poetry or fiction.
The views from the hacienda are beautiful in the extreme. To the east lies a range of mountains filled with seams of silver, the Corralitos Company working some thirty to forty mines; while one hundred and fifty to two hundred "prospects" await development. These mines have been known and worked since the Spaniards entered this part of Mexico. To the west of the hacienda flows the Casas Grandes River, flanked on either side by enormous old cottonwood trees; while for a background rise the immense peaks of the Sierra Madres, covered with snow, and breaking into all sorts of fantastic shapes as they extend down toward the river.
The Corralitos Company is owned mainly in the United States, New York capitalists being the principal stockholders.
While at Diaz City I had learned from Dr. W. Derby Johnson, the ecclesiastical head of the Mormon colonies in Upper Chihuahua, that at the lower colony on the Piedras Verdes River a number of ancient Aztec ruins were to be seen, very few of which had ever been heard of before. I determined to visit them as soon as possible, for the reason that Mr. Macdonald, the business manager of the lower colony, was expecting to leave shortly for Salt Lake City. This gentleman was unusually well acquainted with the country of the Piedras Verdes, having spent months in surveying it, and being more familiar with its ancient ruins than any other man living. Fortunately Dr. Johnson was going through to see him—a two days' trip—so to a certain extent we joined our forces for that time. Expecting to return to Corralitos, we left early one morning for a drive of about sixty miles to the lower Mormon colony of Juarez, named after Mexico's greatest President since the war of independence.
Twenty-five or thirty miles to the south of Corralitos we came to the town of Casas Grandes, said to consist of three thousand inhabitants, but we did not see three people as we drove through its seemingly deserted streets. It is the most important town in the valley, both historically and in point of numbers. It takes its name, meaning "big houses," from the ancient ruins situated in its suburbs, and comprising the largest found in this part of Mexico when it was first visited by Europeans many years ago. The name of the town has also been applied to the river which flows just in front of it, and which is formed by the junction of two others, the San Miguel and Piedras Verdes. The San Miguel is the straight line prolongation of the Casas Grandes, and is apparently the true stream; but the Piedras Verdes is the more important, as its waters are perennially replenished by branches which rise in the never-failing springs of the sierras to the west. At Casas Grandes we left the river and struck out inland for the little Mormon colony on the Piedras Verdes River, a distance of some twenty or twenty-five miles. Like all other distances in this part of Mexico, there is not a sign of civilization between, not even a camping place, although the country traversed is a fine one for cattle grazing, with numerous beautiful valleys where farms could be made remunerative, and where three or four dozen houses ought to be seen if a tenth part of the country's resources were developed. As we crossed stretch after stretch of beautiful prairie, watered by many little mountain streams, it seemed as though only a short time must pass before this fertile country would be dotted with hundreds of homes and thousands of cattle on its grassy hills. The meaning of Piedras Verdes is green rocks, but the rock projections in cliff, hill, or stream, are of all imaginable shades, not only of green, but of red, yellow, brown, rose, and even blue. The effect is inconceivably beautiful against the wonderful blue sky of this part of Mexico. Just before reaching the Mormon colony you come to a high ridge from which can be seen the little town nestling along the banks of the picturesque Piedras Verdes River. It is a scene seldom surpassed in beauty. Far to the west are the grand Sierra Madres, crested with snow, while nearer, the great shaggy hills, covered with timber, and the many bright-colored rocks between, make up a picture that neither poet nor painter could depict.
Juarez is a bright-looking little town of some fifty families, who raise all their own fruits and vegetables, and have a goodly supply for the less thrifty people of the surrounding country. Our party was kindly cared for by two or three of the Mormon families, as there were no other places of shelter beside their homes. The next day we