Our way lay for the next few days through forty-odd miles of a country
densely wooded but traversed by a fair road. This latter had earned a
bad reputation of late as being infested by bandits, Mexican criminals
shipped from Vera Cruz to serve against the Indians, who had deserted
and betaken themselves to the woods with their rifles. Only a few days
before our arrival a gang of them had murdered three Indians who were in
charge of a drove of pigs. It had been such collar-work inducing the
Do-littleians to do even the little they did that it was wearing well on
to four o'clock before we found ourselves out into the open. Once past
the outlying huts of Valladolid, the dust of the rock-strewn road
changed into a brick-red loam. In many parts of Yucatan for scores of
miles at a time the tracks through the forest are red like this,
suggestive of nothing so much as a rough cart road to an English
brick-field. Once you have seen one such road you have seen them all,
for they are as like as two pins. The dense woods hemmed us in on each
side, and the monotony was only broken now and again by meeting
straggling parties of Indians, naked but for breech-cloth, with rough
plaited straw hats, their long guns slung on their brown backs, a linen
hunting bag at their waist, on their way to shoot in the woods.
Throughout Eastern Yucatan every Indian is out at dawn and sundown to
pick up something for the pot. Their guns are for the most part
antiquated muzzle-loaders, single-barrelled, sometimes of obviously home
manufacture. They are poor sportsmen from the English point of view, for
they are out to kill, and they think nothing of following a bird up for
a mile or two till they can shoot it sitting. They were a very different
breed of men from those Indians we had seen nearer Merida, and some of
them even looked truculent. But they gave us a very civil "_Buenas
tardes!_" ("Good afternoon!") as they stopped to rest on their guns and
gaze with wonder at such an unusual spectacle as two khaki-clad
Englishmen and the three laden horses.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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