A MEXICAN LAND OF CANAAN 



323 



Of these Indians the 8,000 Yaquis, with 

 their crude Bacatete hill forts, their 

 weird ceremonial masque dances and 

 their warlike attitude, are easily most 

 conspicuous. Many are enlisted with the 

 federal army or employed as ranch hands 

 and mine or railroad laborers. 



General Obregon tells a story, typical 

 of the Yaqui's subtle mind. Obregon 

 once had occasion to warn his men 

 against wasting their ammunition by 

 shooting from the moving trains at ob- 

 jects along the road. Halted one day at 

 a station, Obregon heard a shot and saw 

 a Yaqui lowering his rifle, smoke floating 

 about him. ■ He went out personally and 

 rebuked the Yaqui. 



"But, my General, I did not shoot," 

 pleaded the Indian. "It was some one 

 who was here yesterday. The smoke you 

 see is old smoke." 



The Yaquis with the federal troops are 

 termed "Manzos," or "tame" Yaquis ; 

 those in the hills, wild and hostile, are 

 the "Bronchos." The latter are a vagrant 

 lot. robbing ranches for food and ani- 

 mals, carrying rawhide drums and water 

 gourds, wearing sandals of green cow- 

 skin — living by their wits. Pressed by 

 hunger, they subsist as well on burros as 

 beef. 



These burros, "the short and simple 

 animals of the poor," thrive by the thou- 

 sand on the West Coast. Many run wild, 

 like "the wild asses of Mesopotamia." 



The Maya Indians, some of whom still 

 carry bows and arrows, inhabit the flat 

 coastal plain south of the Yaqui region 

 along the River Maya. Excellent labor- 

 ers, peacefully inclined, many of the 

 Mayas are trusted helpers on American 

 ranches and plantations. 



THE STRANGE SERIS OE TIBURON 



Most of the well-advertised brands of 

 wild men are fairly familiar to the show- 

 going American public. The head- 

 hunter, the Pygmy, the Bushman and his 

 boomerang are all old circus acquaint- 

 ances. But right here at home, within 

 700 miles of chaste and classic Los An- 

 geles, there dwells a lost tribe of savages 

 whose very name is known to but few of 

 us ; for this tribe has never been tamed, 

 "uplifted," or even exhibited. Yet it is 

 older, perhaps, than the Aztecs ; it may 



even be the last living fragment of the 

 American aborigines. 



The Seris, these strange people are 

 called, and they inhabit a lonely, evil rock 

 called Tiburon (Shark) Island that lifts 

 its hostile head from the hot, empty wa- 

 ters of the Gulf of Cortez. (Gulf of Cal- 

 ifornia it's printed on American maps.) 

 And all down this coast the name of Ti- 

 buron is spoken with a shrug of the 

 shoulders, for these Seris are thieves and 

 killers. It is even whispered that long 

 ago they were cannibals. However, they 

 did not try to eat us or even hint at it 

 while I was visiting them. 



From where we anchored, off the north 

 end of the island, it had seemed quite de- 

 serted ; but no sooner had we waded from 

 our whaleboat to the beach than two In- 

 dians appeared, carrying a flag of truce. 

 Then came others, in swarms, venturing 

 timidly from the mesquite and polo vcrde 

 brush. They were tall men, mostly very 

 slender, with straight black hair ; their 

 teeth were remarkably white and sound. 

 Except for a few bows and arrows, all 

 were unarmed. (Later I learned that 

 they had hidden their few old rifles in a 

 neighboring arroyo before showing them- 

 selves.) 



A DISAPPOINTED CHIEE 



One picturesque old man, clad in tat- 

 tered rags, an antediluvian "Stetson." and 

 rope sandals, advanced and asked in 

 broken Spanish for the "Chief" of our 

 party. We shook hands, and then, waiv- 

 ing further formalities, he demanded a 

 drink. Our failure to produce alcohol 

 had an immediate and depressing effect 

 on old Juan Tomas, as he called himself. 

 It also seemed to upset the rest of the 

 tribe, who yapped and chattered excitedly 

 for several minutes. 



I was told afterward that previous ex- 

 ploring parties had invariably started ne- 

 gotiations with the Seris by offering 

 whisky or mescal. Luckily I had brought 

 some cigars, and when the tumult among 

 the "wets" had subsided I produced these 

 and gave them to Chief Juan Tomas. 

 He made no move to pass them around ; 

 whereupon the other bucks again broke 

 into noisy, jabbering protest. Then 

 crafty old Juan lit a panetela, took a few 

 puffs, and passed it to the Indian nearest 



