Aug. io, 1912 
FOREST AND STREAM 
167 
first in the form of red or black or blue 
blotches, usually on exposed portions of the 
body, which spread until they cover large areas, 
gradually turning white with the death of the 
skin, until the disease runs its course. Then 
the victim is left, often to live to a ripe old age, 
possessing all his faculties, as active and eagei 
to work or play as ever, but marred with great 
white blotches scattered all over his body. 
Doctors agree that the original cause of the 
disease was filth, and that, while not leprosy, it 
is a leprotic disease, and is highly contagious. 
White men have been known to get the disease, 
largely through life with Pinto women, or 
through degeneration into the life of the In¬ 
dians of this part of the country, just as the 
beachcomber of the Orient descends to the level 
of his native fellows. 
On the other hand, the Pintos themselves 
have a legend that the dread disease originated 
from the mating of a man with a female alli¬ 
gator, who fell in love with him amid the reeds 
of the Balsas River. They claim the disease 
is only about 150 years old, and that it was un¬ 
known to their remote ancestors. Everything 
possible has been done to stamp out the pinto 
by the Mexican Government, but all to no avail, 
and fully fifty per cent, of the people of the 
Balsas River Valley are afflicted with it, while 
to a lesser degree, it is found throughout the 
southwestern part of Mexico, from Cuerna¬ 
vaca to the sea at Acapulco. 
Here we found a great gray diorite idol 
six feet in length and two feet square. This 
idol was cut in outline on a natural slab of the 
stone. It is impossible to decipher the mean¬ 
ing, or even the name of this image, but from 
the reverence with which present-day Indians 
regard it, and from the legends with which it 
is surrounded, it must have been a god of con¬ 
siderable importance. 
Remains of building foundations about half 
a meter high and covering several square miles, 
appeared on the rolling mesa at this point, at 
the foot of a spur of the Sierra Madre. Ap¬ 
parently some seismic disturbance wiped this 
city from the earth, as the walls are all fallen, 
literally wrenched to fragments and now half- 
buried between the broken foundation walls. 
The earth itself is filled with skeletons and 
broken pottery; evidently practically all the in 
habitants were killed by the disaster which 
overwhelmed their town. 
Xochocoltzin—the name of the small and 
miserable village which now straggles along 
the boundary of the ruined city—is the same as 
the name of the great ruin, and means, “Place 
of the Yellow King”—quite possibly a Chinese 
king. Who- shall say? 
Here we were entertained by the Pintos 
with the greatest hospitality. They had no 
chairs and few beds, but what they had was 
ours, even to the clothes on their backs, had 
we wished them. The best of the poor food 
they possessed was set out for us, and we were 
informed by the few who could speak Spanish, 
that the village was ours, to keep as long as 
we wished. The most touching part of all this 
was, that the natives meant exactly what they 
said, and. though many of them had never be¬ 
fore seen a white man, I was accorded better 
treatment among them than I have received at 
times from my own countrymen. 
Rising early the next morning, we struck 
out north, after bidding farewell to the entire 
village, all of whose inhabitants came out to 
see 11s on our way. Dropping down into the 
bottom of the Xochipala barranca, a branch of 
the Zopilote gorge, we arrived in the town of 
Xochipala, after an all-day’s ride which was 
without incident worth recording. 
Like Xochocoltzin, Xochipala is an Indian 
town, of about 800 inhabitants, the streets are 
paved by nature with limestone, hard and dur¬ 
able, but into which on the shady side the feet 
of passing generations have worn ruts. It was 
the day of the festival of San Pedro, and build¬ 
ings, fences and trees in the plaza were hung 
with paper bunting in the Mexican colors and 
with paper imitations of the images in the 
church. Here and there was a large image of 
St. Peter—the San Pedro of the Spanish lan¬ 
guage—while every inhabitant was dressed in 
his or her best, celebrating one of the three 
hundred or more festival days in every year. 
On our arrival at the town we were received 
very kindly by the chief, Francisco Gomez, 
who, on seeing our letters of introduction from 
Governor Arce, put himself out to do every¬ 
thing possible for our comfort. Pie gave us 
the choice between the church and the court¬ 
house as places to sleep, but, as the courthouse 
seemed to have the better roof, we chose that 
building. Our room was separated from the 
prison only by a partition which did not quite 
reach the ceiling, and we could plainly hear the 
prisoners talking. It was a queer situation, 
and I lay awake for some time that night listen¬ 
ing to the odd comments of the men imprisoned 
so near me, and thinking of the mysterious city 
which all the Indians had told me I should find 
a few miles from Xochipala. 
The chief provided us with a guide, who, 
he said knew the tortuous trail over the moun 
tains to the ruined city, which the Indians of 
Xochipala called Yerbabuena, the name of a 
plant which grows thickly in this part of 
Mexico. Accordingly we set out, about day¬ 
break, on the last stage of the quest on which 
I had come more than two hundred miles— 
to find the center of the wonderful dead civili¬ 
zation of Guerrero. 
Up one mountain spur and down into a deep 
gorge; thence out and up another mountain, 
only to drop again into a barranca was the his¬ 
tory of the first six hours’ ride. Then came a 
broken mesa, cut with gullies wherein rushing 
torrents from the high mountains had done 
their work; and here we came on the first ruins, 
foundations of houses in regular streets, 
broken into squares by cross streets, and dotted 
here and there with circular and square open 
places, evidently once plazas or temple sites. 
Through these we rode for ten miles, and. 
just as the sun stood at the zenith, there ap¬ 
peared, a mile or two distant, the standing 
walls of a huge temple. Below this temple 
stretched away mile on mile of ridges, scarred 
with the white limestone walls of other ruins, 
until the eye wearied with gazing, and hills, 
ruins and sky seemed to melt into one indis¬ 
tinct horizon line. 
Here the guide stopped, planted his horse 
firmly in the trail and said: 
“I go no further. Beyond, on every ridge 
are ruins for fifty miles, all a part of one great 
City of the Dead. This is Y^erbabuena, and 
there is the haunted temple, but the Gods will 
permit no man to go further, and from here I 
return.” 
I wasted no time in argument, but, draw¬ 
ing my revolver and leveling it at his head, I 
answered in the same mingled Indian and 
Spanish patois: 
“Beneath and beyond your horse’s feet lies 
the trail. Follow it if you wish to return to 
your home and family. Here in my hand is the 
real ghost of Y^erbabuena. the real god of the 
ruins. Will you obey him or must he speak?” 
[to be continued.] 
