Down in the valley, across a little stream, we struck into a pleasant
meadow road leading to the Hacienda of San Bartolo. Suddenly, before us,
in the road, we saw a man lying. We thought he was dead. He was a young
man, an indian in the usual dress, apparently a Zapotec. His face was
bloody and his shirt was soaked in front with blood, which had trickled
down upon the ground forming a pool in which he lay. We could see no
deep wound, but, as he lay upon his side, there may have been such. Near
him in the road there lay a knife, the blade covered with blood. The man
lay perfectly still, but we fancied we could see a slight movement of
the chest. In Mexico, it is best not to investigate too closely, because
the last to touch a murdered man may be held responsible for his death.
So we hurried on toward the _hacienda_ but, before reaching it, met two
girls about nineteen years of age and a little lad all Zapotecs. We told
them what we had seen and bade them notify the authorities. One of
the girls cried, "_Si, Señor, es mi hermano_" ("Yes, sir, it is my
brother"), and they ran down the road. As for us, we hurried onward,
without stopping at the _hacienda_, in order not to be delayed or held
as witnesses.

There is no love between the Zapotecs and Mixes. We never learned
the actual story, but imagined it somewhat as follows. The old Mixe,
carrying his burden, had probably encountered the young Zapotec and
had words with him. Probably there had been blows, and the old man was
having the worst of it when his companions came along and turned the
tide of battle.

The road, after passing the _hacienda_, ascended almost constantly for
many miles. We passed clumps of yuccas. As we mounted we faced a strong
and cutting wind, and were glad when any turn in the road gave us a
moment's relief. The final ascent was sharp and difficult, up a hill of