some prominent man in the neighbourhood.

The first village of any importance we passed was Fronteras. It
is built on the summit and slopes of an elevated plateau and looks
extremely picturesque at a distance. Seen close, however, it turns
out to be a wretched little cluster of adobe, or sun-dried brick,
houses. Not only the town itself, but also all the ranches in the
neighbourhood are erected on elevations, a precaution from former
days against the bloodthirsty Apaches.

Not so very long ago Fronteras was quite an important place, numbering,
it is said, some 2,000 inhabitants. But the Apaches, by their incessant
attacks, made the life of the villagers so miserable that the place
became depopulated. Once it was even entirely abandoned. Many stories
of the constant fights with these savages are related by the survivors
of those struggles. Never was it safe in those days to venture outside
of the town limits. Yet the conflicts did not always end in one way,
and the Mexicans sometimes got the better of the raiders, although
it may be doubted whether the methods by which these results were
brought about would come under the rules of modern warfare.

One bright moonlight night an old man, who had himself taken part in
many an Apache fight, led me to a deep gorge where seven Apaches once
met their doom. The story he told was as follows:

A large band of warriors came threateningly into the town. They had
killed two hawks and, decorated with their feathers, were on the
warpath. As they were in such numbers the Mexicans realised that it
would be useless to attempt resistance, and therefore sued for peace,
which was granted. A peace-banquet followed, during which mescal,