There was nothing to do. The window was jammed with faces, and a hundred tried to crowd in at the door. It was an ordinary room in a peon’s house, whitewashed, with a humpy dirt floor. In the light of two candles sat the musicians. The music struck up "_Puentes á Chihuahua_." A grinning silence fell. I gathered the young lady under my arm, and started the preliminary march around the room customary before the dance begins. We waltzed painfully for a moment or two, and suddenly they all began to yell: "_Ora_! _Ora_! _Now_!" "What do you do now?" "_Vuelta_! _Vuelta_! Loose her!" a perfect yell. "But I don’t know how!" "The fool doesn’t know how to dance," cried one. Another began the mocking song: _"The Gringos all are fools,_ _They’ve never been in Sonora,_ _And when they want to say: ’Diez Reales,’_ _They call it ’Dollar an’ a quarta’ ...."_ But Patricio bounded into the middle of the floor, and Sabas after him; each seized a _muchacha_ from the line of women sitting along one end of the room. And as I led my partner back to her seat, they "_vuelta’d_." First a few waltz steps,—then the man whirled away from the girl, snapping his fingers, throwing one arm up to cover his face, while the girl put one hand on her hip and danced after him. They approached each other, receded, danced around each other. The girls were dumpy and dull, Indian-faced and awkward, bowed at the shoulder from much grinding of corn and washing of clothes. Some of the men had on heavy boots, some none; many wore pistols and cartridge-belts, and a few carried rifles slung from their shoulders. The dance was always preceded by a grand march-around; then, after the couple had danced twice the circuit of the room, they walked again. There were two-steps, waltz and mazurka beside the _jota_. Each girl kept her eyes on the ground, never spoke, and stumbled heavily after you. Add to this a dirt floor full of arroyos, and you have a form of torture unequaled anywhere in the world. It seemed to me I danced for hours, spurred on by the chorus: "Dance, meester! _No floje_! Keep it up! Don’t quit!" Later there was another jota, and here’s where I almost got into trouble. I danced this one successfully—with another girl. And, afterward, when I asked my original partner to two-step, she was furiously angry. "You shamed me before them all," said she. "_You_—you said you didn’t know how to dance the _jota_!" As we marched around the room, she appealed to her friends: "Domingo! Juan! Come out and take me away from this Gringo! He won’t dare to do anything!" Half a dozen of them started onto the floor, and the rest looked on. It was a ticklish moment. But all at once the good Fernando glided in front, a revolver in his hand. "The Americano is my friend!" said he. "Get back there and mind your business!..."