exterminate the invaders and to preserve their homes. The roads fairly
swarmed with Mexicans. Those who had no guns carried lances, those who
had no horses went on foot. Caborca was soon surrounded by Mexicans, and
the forty-two Americans and one little boy took refuge in the church on
the east side of the plaza.

This proved only a temporary refuge. An Indian shot a lighted arrow into
the church and set it on fire. The Americans stacked arms and
surrendered. My God! had they lost their senses? These forty-two
American gentlemen, who had left their wives, children, and friends in
California a month or two before under a contract with Pesquiera were
butchered like hogs in the streets of Caborca, and neither God nor man
raised hand to stop the inhuman slaughter.

They had not come within two hundred miles of my place, and nobody could
have turned them from their purpose if they had. Many of them were old
friends and acquaintances in California, and their massacre cast a gloom
over the country.

There was only one redeeming act that ever came to my knowledge, and I
know it to be true. When Pesquiera's order to massacre the invaders were
read, Gabilonda, second in command, swore he would have nothing to do
with it, and mounting his horse swung the little boy Evans behind him
and galloped away to Altar. Gabilonda carried him to Guaymas, from where
he was afterwards sent to California.

It has been stated that the corpses were left in the streets for the
hogs to eat, but the cure of Caborca assured me that he had a trench dug
and gave them Christian interment. I never saw nor conversed with any of
the leaders, but a detachment came up the Gila River to Tucson and