Indians of Panama 1927

Panama of Today was published first in 1927. It is essentially a revision of Panama, Past and Present, dated 1921. The major differences being the addition of many new pictures and chapters. Those include: 7-Cristobal and the Canal Zone; 10-Through the Interior by Motor Car; 14-The Indians of Panama. There appear to have been six issues of these books.

It is apparent that the chapter on Indians of Panama is based on Verrill's research notes from the Museum of the American Indian. The photographs are by the author as are the paintings which may also have been intended for MAI before Verrill's fateful dismissal from his ethnological research assignment. MAI became branch of the Smithsonian Institute, titled the National Museum of the American Indian./drf

The Indians of Panama

Chapter XIV from Panama of Today, 1927.

by A. Hyatt Verrill

Prehistoric inhabitants. Remains. Ancient cultures. The Garden of Eden of America. Indians of Balboa’s day. Indians of today. Number of tribes. Languages. Relationships. The San Blas tribes. The Kunas or Chuçunaques Juarros. The Chokois. The Coclé Indians. The Yalientes or Boorabbis. The Shayshans. The Tisingal mine. The Guaymís. Aztec influence or blood. The Bogenahs.

To many persons, the aborigines of Panama are one of its most interesting features. That the Isthmus has been inhabited for countless thousands of years and was, perhaps, the birthplace of prehistoric American civilizations, makes the present-day Indians all the more interesting, both from a popular and a scientific viewpoint.

Throughout Panama, vestiges of a vast population of historic races are found, and as these are obviously of many different races and cultures, and of many distinct periods, we know that the Isthmus was inhabited for countless centuries, and that the prehistoric inhabitants reached a high state of culture in Panama long before the Mayas, the Aztecs or the Incas.

In Chiriqui and elsewhere are countless graves or “guacas,” as I have mentioned in a previous chapter, and the stone work and the pottery, as well as the golden ornaments found in these, show a high degree of artistic and cultural development. In Veraguas, a wholly distinct culture and a different race existed, while in Coclé prehistoric Panamanian culture attained its highest development. Strangely enough, very little in the way of prehistoric remains have been found further east and south than Coclé, and apparently the entire areas now known as Panama and Colon provinces were uninhabited by cultured races. Who the long dead races were, whence they came or what their fate, we cannot state positively. In certain ways some of their arts show a marked similarity to both Mexican and South American cultures, but the bulk of the material is wholly distinct. No one can yet say definitely whether the more northerly and southerly peoples influenced those of Panama or whether the better known civilizations of Central and South America had their beginnings in Panama. But recent discoveries in archeology, made by the author in Panama, seem to indicate that Panama may have been the Garden of Eden of America, the spot where the most ancient inhabitants of middle America had their beginning, and, developing a high state of culture, migrated north and south and laid the foundations for the highly advanced civilizations of Mexico, Guatemala, Colombia and Peru.

Unfortunately, the prehistoric races of Panama left no hieroglyphs, no inscriptions that can be deciphered, and they left no great stone buildings or pyramids as far as known. What we learn of them, we must learn from studying their carvings, their ceramics, their graves, their implements and the massive stone monuments they left.

And we have little more in the way of reliable records regarding the Indians of Panama when the Spaniards first arrived on the Isthmus. The Dons were far more interested in looting the natives and destroying them than in studying their customs, relationships and languages. Here and there, in the old writings, we find mention of certain tribes; some of their dialects were recorded, and occasionally some priest or more scientifically inclined person recorded items of interest regarding the Indians. But as a whole, the Spaniards looked upon the natives as inferior pagans and either enslaved them or slaughtered them at every turn. Of the several hundred tribes which inhabited the Isthmus in the early Spanish days, over one-half were completely exterminated within a quarter of a century, and today only those remain who managed to hold their own against the Europeans and who maintained their tribal independence.

Later, came the buccaneers, and these Englishmen, finding the Indians ready allies in any attempt against the hated Spaniards, always treated the aborigines well and were friendly with them. Moreover, among the wild and lawless corsairs were many men of education and scientific attainments. Such men as Esquemeling, Wafer, Ringrose, and more especially Dampier, the buccaneer naturalist, left long and accurate accounts of the Indians of their day, and from these we know that many of the tribes have changed but very little in customs, language or life since the days of the buccaneers.

But despite the efforts of the Dons to exterminate the Indians, despite four hundred years of Spanish and Spanish-American dominion, there are still fully one hundred thousand Indians of pure blood within the Republic of Panama.

To most people this will come as a distinct surprise, and it is still more surprising to learn that there are at least fifteen distinct tribes living on the Isthmus, many of them as primitive, as aloof and as wild as in the days of Balboa.

Of all the Panama Indians the best known and the ones about which the greatest amount of misinformation has been circulated are the so-called San Blas. In Colon especially, one hears hair-raising tales about these people. It is said that they never allow a stranger to pass a night within their territory, and that they kill all outsiders who attempt to penetrate their district. One writer has gone so far as to describe the San Blas Indians as maintaining a constant vigil about their country with sentries posted on guard with Mauser rifles. Another wrote a book and many magazine articles relating the most thrilling experiences and hairbreadth escapes encountered in visiting these Indians, while still another tried to convince the public, and scientists as well, that among the San Blas was a huge colony of “white” Indians. As a matter of fact the San Blas are a peaceful, semi-civilized (and many wholly civilized), people who dwell upon the islands and the adjacent mainland of the San Blas gulf, and who are in constant communication with Panamanians and Americans. They visit Colon regularly, and a number may always be seen about the streets of that city. There are trading stations on the islands; a large banana estate is in the heart of the San Blas district, and a large proportion of the Indian men have served on American whaling and merchant ships and on vessels of all nations.

The majority speak English more fluently than Spanish, and many are equally proficient in other tongues. Indeed, one Indian whom I employed had traveled all over the world and spoke at least ten European languages. Many have resided in New York and elsewhere in the United States, and, with few exceptions, they welcome visitors and have no objection to any one staying a day or a week among them. In fact many of the islands are model up-to-date settlements with straight, well-kept streets which are cleaned and swept daily, with village improvement societies, club houses dance halls, schools, street lights, phonographs and all other appurtenances and ideas of civilization. And it is a common thing for parties from Colon, Cristobal and Panama to visit the Indians and secure curios, souvenirs, photographs etc. During a recent carnival at Colon I saw two San Blas chiefs with their wives and children driving about in an automobile and thoroughly enjoying the merrymaking, which, it must be confessed, savored far more of primitive savagery than any of the customs of these Indians. And today, scores of San Blas boys and girls are attending the various schools in Panama City and are proving the most intelligent and ambitious of scholars.

Strictly speaking, there is no San Blas tribe. The Indians so-called belong to the Towali, or as it is sometimes called, Tule, confederation made up of the four sub-tribes of the Kuna race. The four sub-tribes are the Kunas, the true Towalis, the Tupi-towalis and the Tegualas. Although, through intermarriage and admixtures, there is no hard and fast line drawn between the four, and in one settlement representatives of all may be found, still certain islands and certain districts are occupied wholly by one or another of the sub-tribes. So, too, all speak and understand the common Towali tongue, although the Kunas adhere to their own dialect among themselves, and the older people of the various sub-tribes still retain a knowledge of their own original tongues. The emblem of the confederation is a four pointed star, each point representing one of the tribes and its relative position, the Kunas to the south, the Tupi-towalis to the east, the Towalis to the north and the Tegualas to the west.

In many customs and habits the four subtribes vary considerably, and, with few exceptions, all the tribesmen still retain their ancient rites, dances, decorations and traditions. At dances they wear feather crowns, elaborate bead, bone, teeth and other decorations, and paint their faces as in days of long ago. The medicine man or “Lele” still holds sway and is regarded with implicit belief and faith, and the various wooden and terra cotta idols or fetishes are still used. These, however, are not worshiped or regarded as sacred, but are merely proxies which, under certain conditions, are supposed to have the power of taking the place of living persons, becoming, so to speak, possessed of a spirit. Thus a so-called “god” placed at the doorway of a hut is supposed to keep guard and prevent unwelcome persons or evil spirits from entering during the owner’s absence. Likewise, a medicine man visiting a patient will place a wooden image under the sick person’s hammock so that it will act in the doctor’s stead until he comes again. And if an image proves inefficient the Indian does not hesitate to chop it to bits or to mutilate it and make another to take its place.

The men, when not attending dances or ceremonials, dress in conventional trousers, ready-made shirts, or more often shirts of San Blas make with tucks at shoulders and sleeves and chest, and for head gear don straw or palm-leaf hats many sizes too small for them. A battered Derby is a great favorite, but no matter what the head gear, the San Blas prefers to have a hat that balances precariously on the top of his occiput. No doubt this is a relic of old days when the feather crown was the universal headdress of the Indians, for the feather crown invariably perches on the top of the head. When at home, the men also wear huge diskshaped or crescent-shaped earrings of thin gold. The women, however, still adhere tenaciously to their national costumes,—except on the thoroughly civilized islands, which is far more picturesque and attractive than any European dress. The costume consists of a loose smock-like blouse or “mola” of brilliant hued cloth beautifully fashioned in elaborate designs in a sort of appliqué work, or rather, one might say, intaglio. In making these, a number of layers of vari-colored cloths are stitched together. The patterns or designs are then cut away through one, two or more layers, thus exposing the colors beneath, and the edges hemmed down with stitches so fine as to be scarcely visible. The patterns are more or less heraldic although so conventionalized as to be scarcely recognizable, the central motif representing the totem or clan mark of the woman’s family. Often, too, all manner of odd patterns will be embodied in the design. Arabic and Roman numerals, letters of the alphabet, Chinese characters, airplanes or, in fact, anything that strikes the maker’s fancy. The sewing on these molas is so fine and even that it seems incredible that it is all hand work. But, more remarkable still, the sewing is all done at night by the uncertain light of flickering oil dips.

In addition to the mola a short knee-length, skirt-like garment is worn consisting of a hand-dyed and stamped strip of heavy cotton cloth wrapped about the thighs. When fully dressed, or when not working, the woman wears a second strip of gaudy cotton or calico wrapped about the hips and falling to the ankles and exactly like the sarong of the Javanese. About the neck are draped dozens of strings of beads, shells, teeth, fishbones and coins; immense gold disks are worn in the ears; a heavy gold nose ring of triangular shape hangs over the upper lip, and a brilliant red and yellow bandana handkerchief is draped, in Egyptian fashion, over the head and shoulders, while legs and arms are tightly bound with ligatures of beads so wound on as to form elaborate patterns of many colors.

Among some of the sub-tribes the women’s hair is close cropped when married, whereas among others it is worn long through life. In all cases, the woman rules among the San Blas tribes. She is law unto herself; even the chiefs have little control over the female members of the community; all descent is by the female line, and mere man amounts to very little. When a man marries he is virtually the slave of his father-in-law until a female child is born of the union, and I knew one old fellow nearly sixty years of age who was still working for his father-in-law, for although he had half a dozen boys no girl had arrived in the family. Moreover, a man owns practically nothing outright. All his possessions are, legally, so to say, the property of his wife or mother, and he cannot trade or sell them without feminine permission. For students of the woman suffrage and feminine emancipation problems, the San Blas offer a remarkable field for investigation.

Although today peaceful and quiet, desiring only to be left to themselves and to work out their own problems and salvation in their own way, yet in times past the Towali tribes were fierce and savage fighters. They are of Carib stock, and, like all the Caribs, were noted for their warlike tendencies, their superb skill in building and using boats (they are still marvelous sailors, especially in small craft) and their cannibalism. Indeed, the nose rings of the women are survivals of the old cannibal days.

In ancient times, when these Indians raided another tribe, the men were killed, and usually eaten, while the younger women were carried away as prisoners. In order to handle their captives more readily and yet not hinder their movements, the prisoners’ noses were pierced and they were strung together like unruly bulls. In this way the pierced nose became the mark of an alien woman in the tribe, and it was but a step to the nose ring, which, originally a badge of servitude, later became a mark of distinction, for from slaves the women became rulers. Very probably the San Blas women originally possessed a distinct dialect unintelligible to the men, as do the women of other Carib tribes, but today this no longer exists. In the San Blas tribes the early buccaneers found ready allies, for the Indians, who had suffered at the hands of the Spaniards, were ready to join anyone who might help them wipe out old scores against the Dons. To the Indians’ help, much of the buccaneers’ success was due, and without their aid many of the most famous piratical exploits on the Isthmus would have been impossible.

Even today, the San Blas people cherish anything but friendly feelings for the Panamanians or any race of Spanish blood. Several uprisings have occurred, usually, I am sorry to say, due to the overbearing or short-sighted policy of the Panama government, while the last revolt was incited and fostered by an ill-advised and wholly irresponsible American who was later deported, and the unfortunate misunderstanding, during which several Panamanians were tortured and killed, was smoothed out without further bloodshed. At the commencement of this trouble I was conversing with a Teguala chief who was in some doubt as to the wisdom of joining forces with the malcontents and came to Panama City to ask my advice. His reply to my query as to why the Indians were about to rise was as amazing as it was amusing. “We don’t want to be civilized,” he stated. “We want to live like Americans!"

Why, it may be asked, have so many tales been told of these Indians if they are so well known and so closely in touch with civilization? All the misinformation and fiction circulated about the San Blas are due to the popular confusion of these people with their relatives the Kunas. Although so closely related, and members of the same confederation, yet the true Kunas of the Interior of Darien are very different in customs, temperament and life. But even among the Kunas there is a vast amount of variation. The so-called “tame” Kunas dwell in harmony with their neighbors, and are as friendly and peaceful as the Towalis or Tegualas, whereas their neighbors the “wild” Kunas of the upper Canazas and Chucunaque valleys are aloof, semi-savage and do not welcome visitors, either white, black or colored. But they are not one-half as dangerous or as savage as they have been painted.

Their so called “forbidden district” is more of a myth than a reality, and there is no evidence to prove that they have ever killed or injured a white man, although strangers entering their territory are warned off and are threatened. No one with any sense of justice can blame the Indians for this, for wherever civilized man has entered Indian territory the Indians have suffered and have lost all. Very wisely the Kunas have decided that to permit one white man to enter their land means the entry of more, and they have no intention of letting gold and rubber seekers exploit their country and destroy their independence, their lives and their moral code. But once their confidence has been won, and they are sure the stranger seeks neither gold, lands nor other riches, they are friendly, hospitable and peaceful. Moreover, like all Indians I have met, once they are friends they are friends for all time. During the past year, while in Panama, three of the Kuna chiefs from the headwaters of the Chucunaque journeyed all the way to Panama City to see me, having heard of my presence through San Blas tribesmen whom I had visited. Constant communication is maintained between the Kunas and the San Blas tribes, and in the homes of the most remote Kunas one may see sewing machines, alarm clocks, and other articles of civilization which have been brought in by the San Blas. Indeed, several of the San Blas chiefs are also high officials of the Kuna tribe, while Kunas of the Chucunaque are not infrequently to be seen among the Indians of the San Blas villages, for it is a short, and, for an Indian, an easy journey from the coast to the Kuna country.

In color, the Kunas are lighter than the average San Blas tribes, although the latter vary from a coppery brown to a pale olive, according to tribe, and many of the women, and especially the young girls, are no darker than a brunette Caucasian, a fact that was noticed and dwelt upon by Dampier, Ringrose and others. The Kunas also average taller and are better proportioned than the coast Indians, which is to be expected as forest tribes are usually larger than seacoast tribes. Also, among the Kunas and San Blas, as among their neighbors and all Central and South American Indians I have studied, albinos are not unusual.

It is probable that the percentage of these freaks is no greater among these tribes than among others, but owing to conditions and customs they appear to be more numerous. Today, albinos among these tribes are not destroyed at birth, if indeed they ever were, and, in the case of the island Indians, the albinos are more in evidence as every individual of a settlement or village may be seen by a visitor. But that anyone at all familiar with biology or with Indians could ever have been deluded into mistaking these abnormal beings for a distinct race seems preposterous. Brown fathers and mothers may have tow-headed, white-skinned, partially albino children, and they are most repulsive freaks. Owing to lack of pigment in the skin they do not tan but burn in patches or blotches; their eyes are weak and squinting, their skins are rough and pimply and they may be best described in the words of one observer who stated that they resembled “peroxide Swedes with barber’s itch.”

Not far from the Kuna country, and even wilder and more feared by the natives than these tribesmen, are the Juarros, a nomadic, brown-skinned tribe of which very little is known. They are in no way related to the Kunas, the San Blas or the Chokois, and speak a dialect wholly distinct from all other Panama tribes. They are strictly a hunting race, use extremely long blow guns and powerful bows and arrows and have seldom been seen by white men. Three individuals whom I met in the jungle, were peaceful but shy. But they gladly exchanged a blow gun, a bow and arrows and a feather headdress for beads and tobacco. They could not or would not give much information regarding their homes or their habits, stating merely that they were on a hunting trip, and that their country was somewhere about the headwaters of the Savanna River.

Most numerous of all the Darien tribes of the interior are the Chokois, a good natured, peaceful brown race which extends far into Colombia and in Panama has spread as far westward as the lower Bayano River. Though even more in contact with civilization than the Kunas, yet the Chokois in many respects are far more primitive. Both men and women are practically nude, the men wearing merely a breech doth, or at times a ragged shirt, and the women a strip of calico about the waist and falling to the knees. To the visitor who has never seen primitive savages at home the Chokois will prove most interesting, especially as their villages are easy of access and they welcome strangers. Short, thickset, with slender limbs and wonderfully developed chests and shoulders; with coarse hair falling to their shoulders; with brown skins painted; with huge earrings of beaten silver, the Chokois completely fulfill one’s ideal of the primitive Indian. But nearly all speak Spanish, they have adopted most of civilized man’s vices, and they are far from over cleanly in habits or persons. Their houses, raised on posts ten feet or more above the earth, are reached by notched logs, and their home life is of the simplest. Scattered about, or hung on rafters, are baskets, earthen pots, dried corn and bundles of rice, and rolls of the soft bark cloth which the Indians use as beds and blankets. Squatted on the split cane floors are the women, cow-eyed, stupid-faced, and surrounded by their naked youngsters. In one corner of the hut a slow fire burns and beside it an ancient, shriveled hag cooks food in a huge earthen pot. Fastened to posts, standing in corners and tucked into crevices of the thatch, are queer figures carved from wood and gayly painted, the household gods or fetishes of the Indians. There are gods for everything; gods of the hunt, of crops, of the house, of the children, of the dance, of fertility, of weather, of sickness, of health and of marriage. But it is when a dance or a feast is in progress or preparation that the Chokois are seen at their best. Then they are decked out to rival Solomon in all his glory and the lilies of the field as well. Fathoms of bright colored beads are draped over their shoulders and across their breasts; broad belts of beadwork encircle their bodies; gaudy bead head bands are about their black hair; on their heads are immense crowns of painted wood or bamboo strips; their arms and legs are weighted down with silver ornaments; necklets of mother-of-pearl and silver are about their throats, and their skins are painted with every color of the rainbow.

In sharp contrast to these primitive tribes of Darien are the Coclé Indians of the province of Coclé. Of a very different race from either the Chokois or the San Blas tribes, the Coclé Indians are the most highly civilized of all Panama tribes, despite the fact that for years they fought relentlessly against Spain and managed to hold their own at that. Today, as I have already mentioned in another chapter, they have forgotten their own tongue and live in a far more civilized manner than their Panamanian neighbors. They are the most industrious inhabitants of the province and the only ones who till the soil, raise crops and gather rubber and other forest products. All profess Christianity, but they still retain some of their ancient beliefs and customs. They weave excellent hats, baskets and “chakaras” or bags, make bridles, saddle-pads and ropes of fiber and horsehair, manufacture splendid baskets and earthenware, and are adepts at wood carving. Once a year they don weird dance costumes of bark cloth with grotesque masks fitted with horns and the jaws and teeth of wild animals, and take part in the tribal “Kukwa” or devil dance. This dance, which has its counterparts in Peru, Boliva and elsewhere in South America, is supposed to exorcise all evil spirits for the ensuing year. The idea seems to be to out-devil the devil, to frighten him and his satellites by the dancer’s horrible appearance, and to drive out any lingering spirits by beating and lashing everything animate and inanimate wherein the spirits might have sought refuge.

Prancing and shouting, waving their arms, striking to right and left with long-handled whips, the dancers are truly enough to put any self-respecting devil to flight. And, oddly enough, the Coclé Indians have selected the Catholic feast day of Corpus Christi as the most propitious date for their devil chasing, thinking no doubt that no devil could withstand both their antics and the Christian Holy Day.

Further west and north, in Bocas del Toro province, and especially about the shores of Almirante Bay and the Valiente Peninsular, are the so-called Valiente Indians, or more properly the Boorabbis. These Indians, while still retaining their tribal integrity and independence, as well as their ancient customs and their own tongue, are partially civilized and are quiet, peaceful and industrious. They dwell in neat huts placed here and there in the jungles near the shores of bays and rivers, and live mainly by hunting and fishing, though all raise enough fruits, vegetables, rice, etc., for their needs. They belong to the Guaymí race, but differ in many ways from the true Guaymís and are wholly distinct from the Darien tribes. Ordinarily both men and women dress in more or less conventional clothes, though the dresses of the women are usually typically Indian in gaudy colors and ornamentation. But at dances, ceremonials, and when among themselves, the men wear feather headdresses and beautifully woven bead collars and breast ornaments, as well as plumes on arms, necklaces of teeth, girdles of human hair and numerous charms or fetishes. Both sexes paint their faces, the tribal mark being a line extending from the cheek to the bridge of the nose on both sides of the face, and both sexes sharpen their teeth. This custom, common to many tribes, is supposed to preserve the teeth. Perhaps it does, for the sharpened teeth prevent particles of food lodging between them and causing decay, and I have observed many very old Indians whose sharp-pointed teeth were in perfect condition. The teeth are not, however, filed to points, as is usually thought, but are chipped off by means of a stone and are then rubbed or filed smooth. In color, the Boorabbis are a light ochre, the women often pale olive, and they are better proportioned and larger than the San Blas tribes.

They make excellent dug-out boats, use cleverly designed harpoons and fish spears, as well as powerful bows and arrows, but do not use knowledge of English and adopted English names. And throughout the years that have passed, the Indians have handed down their knowledge of English and their English names with many if not all the old-time obsolete words and expressions. And to this district also, came many of the refugees from the ill-fated Walker filibustering expedition to Nicaragua. Settling among the friendly, English speaking Indians, these American adventurers also left their influence. Once, in a remote spot, I came upon an aged woman, apparently white, living, except for her servants, alone in a tiny but neat house in a clearing in the jungle. She spoke perfect English, and to my amazement informed me that she was Mrs. Smith and an American. Inquiry elicited the information that her grandfather had been one of Walker’s men and that the family had never left the little farm and home he had established in the jungle.

Besides the Borrabbis, another and wholly different tribe dwells within the confines of Bocas del Toro. These Indians whose territory is about the head waters of the rivers along the Costa Rican boundary, are the Shayshans, also known as Palenques or Terribis. Formerly a large tribe, the Shayshans, at the time I visited them in 1924, had been decimated by influenza, and the tribe then numbered but forty-five individuals. As nearly all of these were suffering from the malady, or from tuberculosis which followed in its wake, the tribe may by now be practically extinct. The Shayshans are very different in every respect from all other Panama tribes. Many words of their tongue are distinctly Maya, their feather headdresses, worn on the forehead, are very similar to the headdresses depicted in Maya sculptures, and their noses are strongly aquiline.

Perhaps they are of Maya ancestry, or again the tribe may have been greatly influenced by the Mayas who had outlying colonies as far southward as Costa Rica. In color the Shayshans are copper-brown, varying to ochre-brown in the women. They are short, sturdy but well proportioned race, far quieter and more taciturn than the other tribes, and, in many ways far more intelligent than the average Central American Indian. They are strictly a forest dwelling people, their neat houses raised a few feet above the earth being built here and there on high bluffs near the mountain streams. They are ruled by a chief or cacique who appoints a number of ministers or councillors, each representing the chief in a certain district, and all records, accounts and other data are kept by means of knotted strings. Although excellent hunters, using powerful bows and arrows, and blow guns in which clay pellets are used in place of darts, yet they depend largely upon forest fruits and vegetables for food. A wild potato, dwarf bananas, the nuts and flowers of the “piva” palm, native almonds, cacao and some corn and rice are their mainstays. In preparing cacao, the beans are roasted and ground and are boiled, the liquor being used like coffee. Their arts are comparatively few and their handicraft is rather crude. Baskets, chakara bags and some pottery, as well as grass or palm hammocks, are made, and they possess a wide variety of cleverly designed flutes, thistles and other musical instruments. Nearly all of the tribe speak some Spanish, and, with few exceptions, all wear, at ordinary times, clothing obtained through trade with the Indians nearer the Bocas del Toro or Costa Rican settlements.

They are a friendly, peaceful, hospitable race, although in times past they were valiant fighters, and they strongly discourage strangers who wish to penetrate the interior of their district. Rumor has it that this is because they know the location of the famous lost Tisingal Mine and do not wish to have it rediscovered.

This ancient mine was, if we are to believe the old records, the richest gold mine the world has ever known. Having been destroyed by the Indian slaves, who revolted and massacred their Spanish masters, the Tisingal has been lost to man, and almost to memory, for centuries. Time and time again, some wanderer has reported finding it, and expedition after expedition has gone forth to locate it. But in every case they have failed. Some have been destroyed by sickness and some by hostile Indians. Some have never been heard from, and the lost mine still remains hidden deep within the mountain forests. Whether or not the Shayshans know the secret of Tisingal, I cannot state. But, during my stay among these Indians, a chief who had become very friendly guided me far into the jungles to a spot where there were the ruins of an ancient Spanish fort, a paved road and two antique bronze cannons half buried in the earth. These, he insisted, were the outlying fortifications that guarded the old mine. But he insisted that the “Doraks,” whom I later suspected were synonymous with the Shayshans, would destroy any stranger who attempted to locate Tisingal. How much of this was truth and how much fiction or imagination I do not know, but I am thoroughly convinced that I was nearer to Tisingal than any other white man has ever been and that I really looked upon the Spanish guns that once guarded the fabulously rich mine.

By far the most independent, the most superior and the least known of all Panama tribes are the mountain Guaymís of the unexplored interior of Chiriqui province.

Although the Guaymís of the outlying Indian district are in constant communication with the Panamanian settlements, and are familiar figures in David, Remedios, Tole and other towns, which they visit for the purpose of disposing of their wonderful pita-hemp bags, their coffee and their other products, yet their fellow tribesmen of the interior mountains are almost unknown to the outside world. Few strangers have ever attempted to enter far into their territory, and tales wilder than those related of the San Blas and Kunas are told of these mountain Indians. Weird stories are told of cities of strange people buried in the heart of the mountains, of head hunters, of cannibals, and of how the Guaymís kill all who have the temerity to try to enter the Indian zone. The majority of such tales are, of course, purely imaginary, but there is no doubt that the average stranger is far from welcome, and that many men have been warned out of the country with threats of dire results if the warnings were not heeded. Within the past few years a party of ornithologists from the American Museum of Natural History in New York City were driven out of the Guaymí district when, after having received permission to enter, a member of the party was seen panning the sand in a stream. Suspecting that the bird collecting was merely a ruse to enter the country, and that the Americans were really searching for gold, the Indians promptly took measures to insure the strangers’ hurried departure.

During my stay of many weeks among the Guaymís of the most remote and inaccessible districts I found them a splendid lot, far superior in every way to all other Central American Indians I have met, and in many ways much like our own southwestern tribes. Being strictly mountain Indians, and wholly unfamiliar with boats, and possessing excellent horses, the Guaymís are muscular, well built and proportioned and are tireless mountaineers.

They are dignified in manner and have the erect, free and independent appearance of an unconquered race. In color they vary from a dark olive to an ochre-brown, but average lighter-skinned than the other Panama tribes.

Like the Boorabbis, who are of the same parent stock, the Guaymís sharpen their teeth. In many other habits and customs the two tribes are similar, and there is constant communication between the two tribes, although each speaks a distinct dialect. Both tribes take part in the stick-dance or “balsaria,” and many of the headdresses and other adornments are common to both tribes; but aside from such similarities the two are wholly distinct. There are no Guaymí villages, the houses being isolated and often several days’ travel apart, and as they are usually well hidden in the mountains it is difficult to believe that there are fully twenty-five thousand Guaymís under the rule of the three head chiefs, each of whom is supreme in his own district, although all the tribe and the two lesser chiefs acknowledge the sovereignty of the king or high-chief known as Montezuma. This name in itself would suggest either Aztec blood or Aztec influence. But, in addition, about forty per cent of Guaymí words are distinctly Aztec; the insignia of the chief is the feather crown of the long green tail feathers of the Quetzal,—sacred bird of the Aztecs, and the spear throwing-stick still used by the Guaymís, and which, among the Aztecs was called “Atlatl,” is known by the Guaymís as " 'Natdlei." Personally I am convinced that the Guaymís are of Aztec lineage, perhaps the descendants of an ancient Aztec colony or outpost.

The Guaymí houses are strongly built with walls of split timber and high peaked roofs of thick grass thatch, and are very large, often over sixty feet in length by thirty feet in width. Along one or more of the walls are a number of small platforms raised a few feet from the floor and partitioned or screened off by palm mats. Each of these is occupied by a family or an individual, so that the main building is, in effect, an apartment house and may contain as many as thirty or forty Indians. Unlike most Indians, the Guaymís are cleanly and enforce sanitary regulations. The houses are always built in such a position as to prevent drainage from reaching the drinking water supply, and all washing and bathing are done below the point where the drinking water is obtained and down stream from it.

No domestic animals, except the dogs, are allowed in the houses; the earth floors are swept and cleaned constantly; food and water are kept in receptacles on platforms or suspended from hooks overhead and out of reach of dirt and dogs, and latrines are maintained at some distance from the house.

Ordinarily the women wear loose Mother-Hubbard-like dresses of bright colored cloth obtained through trade with the Boorabbis or with the outlying Guaymís, and decorated with appliqué designs in contrasting colors. The men wear short blouse-like shirts of the gaudiest hues elaborately decorated with appliqué work; and trousers of home-spun cotton or cloth with red, white, blue, green and yellow appliqué designs down the seams of the legs. Both sexes, however, strip to a loin cloth when traveling in rainy weather or when in their homes, and both sexes at times wear palm-leaf hats closely woven in attractive designs of black and white. About the crowns of these, bands of feathers are worn, thus giving the effect of a feather crown. As a matter of fact, the Guaymí hat is a direct evolution from the feather crown, for, by adding a top, the palm-leaf framework of the crown became a hat. Very often, too, the band of feathers is worn without the framework, and for certain dances and ceremonials this is always the case. Although feathers of various colors and of many species of birds are used, those of the great egret and the Quetzal or resplendent trogan are confined to the use of chiefs, the Quetzal feathers indicating a tribal chief whose rank is indicated by the number of feathers and the admixture of feathers from other birds, while the egret plumes denote that the wearer is a dance chief. In addition to these, headdresses of hair from the tail of the giant ant-bear are used by the medicine-chiefs. Often, however, a man may combine the ranks of tribal chief, dance chief and medicine-chief, and thus he may wear any one of the official headdresses, according to the occasion and the capacity in which he is acting.

Both sexes paint or rather decorate their faces with black and red designs, and as all the designs used have a special significance and it is important that they should always be the same, carved wooden stamps are used for imprinting the patterns on the skin. When fully dressed for state occasions, for a dance or a ceremonial, the Guaymí man is a brilliant and strikingly glorious barbaric figure. Upon his head is the feather crown of brilliant feathers; his face is half hidden under elaborate patterns of red and black paint; about his neck, and covering his chest, are collars of magnificent beadwork; hanging from his headdress over his shoulders, and about his waist as well, are braided scalplocks; his prowess as a hunter is shown by the strings of jaguar, puma and peccary teeth about his neck; his highly decorated blouse and trousers are ablaze with color; an almost priceless chakara bag of red, yellow and black,—so tightly woven as to hold water, hangs at his side and, if a ceremonial dance is to take place, he carries a painted drum, a cow-horn trumpet and a gourd rattle, while on his back is strapped the stuffed skin of an ocelot, a jaguar, an otter or some other creature, decorated, like the wearer, with bead collars, feathers and scalplocks.

These stuffed animal skins serve a very useful and necessary purpose in the dance. The favorite dance is the stick-dance compared to which our foot ball is a gentle game. As one Indian prances and leaps about to the shrilling flutes, the sonorous horns, the shaking rattles and the throbbing drums, another Indian strives to bowl him over by throwing a seven-foot pole, sharp at the end and about three inches in diameter. If the dancer dodges the missile, the thrower exchanges places with him, but in case he is struck or knocked down the poor rascal must continue to serve as a target until he succeeds in dodging the stick. At such times the stuffed animals serve to protect the wearer’s spine from injury. Broken limbs and bruised and cut bodies count for little, and, as the back and spine are protected—the dancer’s back always being turned to the stick thrower—serious injuries and fatalities are rare.

During my stay among the Guaymís a special ceremonial and dance was arranged for my benefit and in my honor. At this ceremonial, which was held in a special “temple” or ceremonial house erected on a mountain top, nearly two thousand Indians were present, and the head chief, Montezuma, attended in person. All these tribesmen had been summoned by means of knotted strings of braided palm fiber. These were of white, or black, and of various black and white patterns, the colors and designs indicating the class of message, while the knots conveyed the details. Not only was I permitted to witness the entire ceremonial, which was of a most sacred nature, but I was also initiated as a member of' the tribe with the rank of medicine-chief. Having been rechristened “Cubiboranandi” which, freely translated, means the white man-who-came-over-water-and-became-a chief, I was decked with all the insignia and regalia of my new station. Thus having become a full-fledged Guaymí I took part in the ceremonial dance which followed. And all because I had cured the old dance chief who was suffering from colic!

I have already mentioned the throwing-stick used by the Guaymís. With this a Guaymí can hurl a six foot throwing-spear with incredible force and accuracy, and although they have excellent bows, they prefer the spear and throwing-stick whenever possible. Living as they do, among the most broken and rugged of mountains, and at an altitude of from four to five thousand feet, the Guaymís, as I have said, are born mountaineers. At dead of night they will traverse their country, afoot or on horseback, covering enormous distances and following trails, which, in the daytime, make one’s head swim. But the Guaymís think nothing of moving in stygian darkness over crumbling hogbacks less than two feet in width and with yawning thousand foot precipes on either side.

Although excellent hunters yet the Guaymís depend mainly on agriculture and possess well cultivated fields of rice, corn and vegetables, groves of coffee and cacao, and numerous halfwild cattle and tough, wiry mountain ponies.

Last of the more interesting tribes of Panama are the Bogenahs, a strange, almost unknown race totally distinct from all others on the Isthmus, and, perhaps,—indeed probably,—the most ancient and primitive of all. They are undersized, with long arms and slender limbs; orange-brown or copper-brown in color; with thick lips, flat noses, oblique eyes, narrow foreheads and with the lackluster eyes and unintelligent expressions of apes. Their hair is extremely thick, and coarse, and the men have straggling beards and mustaches which give them the appearance of Tibetans or other Mogols. They have no fixed homes, roaming here and there, subsisting on any game they can secure, and eating grubs, beetles, lizards or any living thing as readily as fish, birds or other game. Their houses, erected only as shelters during the rainy season, are rude shacks of palm-leaf thatch; they have no arts or industries, and they are as inveterate thieves and as mischievous as monkeys.

Today the tribe is almost extinct and numbers but a few hundred individuals who live in the heart of the Guaymí country. Here they are kept in almost complete subservience by the Guaymís. They can have no chiefs of their own and are regarded as little better than animals by the Guaymís. But, despite this, they have managed to retain their tribal integrity, as well as their own language, their own customs, life and weapons. Indeed, so firmly fixed are these that, instead of the Bogenahs acquiring a knowledge of the Guaymí tongue, the superior Guaymís have been forced to learn the Bogenah dialect in order to communicate with their inferior neighbors.

They Found Gold Ch 3 and 4

THEY FOUND GOLD

The Story of SUCCESSFUL TREASURE HUNTS

By A HYATT VERRILL

Digitized by Doug Frizzle, November 2013 

Link to the first part = http://stillwoods.blogspot.ca/2013/11/they-found-gold-pt.html

Chapter III.

THE TREASURE-TROVE OF CASCO BAY. 22

The strange story of a Maine treasure.

Chapter IV.

THE GOLDEN BOOKS OF THE MAYAS. 31

An amazing tale and a treasure hunt in the Yucatan jungles.

CHAPTER III

The Treasure-Trove of Casco Bay

THE mere thought of buried treasures creates visions of tropic seas, palm-fringed keys and the Spanish Main, which is quite natural, for the Caribbean and the tropics were the haunts of the buccaneers and pirates, and piratically-inclined gentlemen and hidden hoards of precious metal and precious stones are ever associated in the public mind. Yet by no means all the sunken, hidden and buried treasures are confined to the favorite haunts of the freebooters and the seas where-on Spanish plate ships sailed and came to grief. And while the rock-ribbed coast of Maine would be about the last place where one might expect to find hidden treasures, yet, if we can believe history and tradition, many a cached hoard lies buried in Maine soil, and more than one Maine treasure-trove has been recovered. To be sure, most of the treasures found in Maine have been comparatively small, scarcely valuable enough to merit being called treasures; but at least one has been wrested from its hiding place which not only was a veritable treasuretrove, but in addition was surrounded with all the mystery, the romance, the tragedy and the secrecy which make tales of treasure and treasure hunting so fascinating.

For generations, from the days of the earliest settlers, there had been a tradition that a treasure was hidden somewhere on Jewell's Island in Casco Bay. The oldest inhabitant could not recall when the oldest inhabitant of his memory could remember who was the originator of the tale. Neither could any one recall when the first seekers for the hidden gold dug and delved for the reputed treasure. But for at least two hundred years people had searched for the treasure, without success. Who had buried the hoard, or what its origin, no one knew; but it was generally agreed that it was pirates' loot and, as in the minds of the islanders, one pirate was as good, or as bad, as another, it was always referred to as "Captain Kidd's Treasure" regardless of the fact that poor, timid, much-maligned Captain Kidd never went near the Maine coast nor possessed treasure to bury.

Being, like many fisherfolk and islanders, somewhat prone to superstition, the people embroidered their tales of the treasure by adding stories of ghostly guardians, spectral pirates and terrifying apparitions which watched over the hoard of gold and frightened away those who sought for it. And as a result, many a treasure seeker sought to checkmate the guardian spirits by employing occult or supernatural means of locating the legendary hoard.

Lambs were slaughtered and their fresh blood was scattered on the areas where it was planned to dig. Charms and talismans of various kinds were used as aids in locating and securing the treasure, and one man even brought a famed mesmerist and a girl subject to the island, his idea being that when under a hypnotic spell the young woman could locate the gold. But neither charms, talismans, fresh lamb's blood, divining rods nor a mesmerized maiden resulted in finding a cent's worth of treasure on the island.

And then, one day, a stranger arrived. To be sure, strangers were not so unusual upon an island within sight of Portland as to cause any particular comment; but this particular visitor made no bones of announcing that he had come to Jewell's Island for the express purpose of recovering the traditional treasure and, so he declared, he possessed a chart which showed exactly where the treasure was buried. He had come, he said, from St. Johns, Newfoundland, where, according to his tale, he had obtained the precious document from an aged negro who had recently died. The deceased African, it seemed, had once been the devoted and faithful body-servant of a notorious pirate, who, upon his death bed, had given the chart showing the hiding place of his treasure to the negro. Unable to read or write, and, needless to say, without means, the black man had never attempted to secure the loot; but had safeguarded the chart until, when he in turn was passing away, he presented the map to the man who had befriended him and who had now arrived at the island.

One would have expected that a man having a chart which allegedly indicated precisely where the treasure was concealed, would have lost no time in getting to work to dig it up. But instead of hurrying to secure the treasure, the owner of the precious chart hung about, and volunteered the information that he was awaiting the arrival of Captain Jonathan Chase, the skipper of a Jewell Island schooner, giving as his reason that Captain Chase was the only inhabitant of the island who possessed an accurate mariners' compass and who could "shoot the sun," both the instrument and the ability being essential to the finding of the treasure.

Naturally tongues began to wag. How did the man from St. Johns know of Captain Chase? Had they once been shipmates or old friends? And why, the people asked one another, hadn't the stranger provided himself with a compass and acquired a knowledge of taking an observation before he started on his treasure hunt?

But no one could find an answer to these logical questions, and no one ever knew whether or not the possessor of the chart had ever before met Captain Jonathan; although from the events which transpired it may be quite reasonably assumed that the two were not strangers.

Once an element of mystery had been injected into the matter, rumor and gossip added more. Captain Chase, it seemed, bore a far from savory reputation. In hushed tones it was noised about that he himself had once been a pirate. Every one knew that he made the greater part of his money by smuggling, and there were lurid tales of strange goings-on in the big rambling house where he dwelt. But as smuggling was not considered in the light of a crime by the islanders, and as the captain when at home led a law-abiding, moral life and regularly attended "meeting," and as he was a hearty, friendly sort, he was regarded in a most favorable light by his fellow islanders.

In due course of time Captain Chase's rakish little schooner came beating up Casco Bay and dropped anchor off the island. And scarcely had the skipper stepped ashore and, after the usual greetings, entered his home when the stranger from St. Johns knocked at the heavy oak door and was at once admitted.

What took place within the residence of Captain Jonathan, what was said, no one of course will ever know, although many an islander would have given his or her "eye teeth" as they would have expressed it, to have been able to overhear the conversation that took place between Captain Chase and his visitor from Newfoundland.

There was one thing certain, however: the Captain must have been convinced that the stranger possessed a valuable and trustworthy clue to the hiding place of the traditional treasure, for after a few hours the two men appeared, carrying a shovel and pick, the captain's compass and sextant, and without speaking to any one, they vanished in the woods. Of course no one followed them—the burly captain was not one to deal lightly with snoopers if caught, and the man from St. Johns was not the type to be trifled with either. Hence no one knew where they had gone or how long they were absent, for, oddly enough, no one on the island saw them return. Yet, a few days later, Captain Chase was pottering about his garden as usual and when, in quite a casual manner, neighbors mentioned the stranger from St. Johns, the captain either ignored the matter altogether or made non-committal replies and opined that the fellow's chart wasn't worth a tinker's darn and that, finding he was on a wild goose chase, he'd probably cleared out. But on a small spot such as Jewell's Island a man's movements are pretty well known, especially if he is a stranger, and as nothing had been seen of the Newfoundlander since he had set out with Captain Jonathan, and as he could not have left the island without taking a boat—which he assuredly had not—another mystery was scented by the islanders. And when, shortly after his reappearance, Captain Chase sailed away on another trading voyage, and the man with the chart had not shown up, tongues began to wag with a vengeance. He had not been seen about the island or the village, he had certainly not been aboard the captain's schooner when she had sailed, no small boat was missing, and no one had rowed or sailed him ashore. Every one was soon asking every one else: "What became of the man with the pirate's chart?"

It was a delectable mystery, but mystery soon changed to suspicion, and, the captain being out of the way, the people decided it was high time to do a little investigating on their own account. But even if they found no traces of the missing man they did find something else.

On the Southeastern shore of the island was a deep, freshly-dug hole, and in the soft earth and sand at the bottom of the cavity was the rectangular impression left by a chest or box! It was quite obvious to all that some one had dug the hole and had removed a chest from its hiding place, and no one doubted that the chest had contained treasure and that Captain Chase and the man from Newfoundland had been the lucky ones to lift "Captain Kidd's Treasure" from the spot where it had rested so many years. That, in the minds of the islanders, explained everything. It was quite natural, they reasoned, that the stranger should have departed secretly carrying his share of the loot, and unquestionably, they decided, he had left in one of Captain Jonathan's dories, the captain owning a number. And no doubt, they thought, Captain Chase had quietly placed his portion of the treasure aboard his schooner and had sailed away to deposit it in some large town on the mainland.

So, satisfied that they had solved the mystery, and that the long-sought treasure had been found at last, the islanders again resumed their placid lives and forgot all about the man with the pirate's chart. And when, in due course of time, Captain Chase returned, and abandoning the sea, settled down and lived in ease and comfort in his big house, the people accepted his change of life as a further proof that he had found the treasure, and forbore questioning him as to the source of his sudden affluence.

Years went by. Captain Chase passed away, respected as a well-to-do, substantial citizen and the island's wealthiest inhabitant should be. But he had left no will as far as known, he had neither kith nor kin, and when, after due formalities, the properly constituted officials took possession of the deceased captain's home they discovered a number of strange things. Everywhere within the place were secret compartments, sliding panels, underground passages and similar devices such as no honest man would need. But there was nothing of an incriminating nature other than a goodly store of casks and bottles of liquor, cigars and other goods which had paid no customs duties; and the inconsiderable amount of money that had been left by the dead captain was in ordinary currency.

Captain Chase had been dead and buried for several years, his house and contents had been disposed of at public auction, and the islanders had lost all interest in the tale of the famous treasure and its lucky finders when a hunter made a most exciting and gruesome discovery. In a dense patch of woods not far from the "treasure pit," he came upon a human skeleton lying in a deep and narrow crevice between two ledges of rock.

Years of sun and rain, of snow and ice had left no traces of perishable garments other than a few bits of cracked, rotten leather that had once been boots, and a few fragments of a so'wester. But among the bleached bones were buttons and a silver finger ring that identified the remains beyond all question. The skeleton was all that remained of the man from St. Johns!

That he had met death by violence was obvious, for in the back of the skull, near the nape of the neck, and evidently inflicted as the man had been bending over, was a clean square hole such as would have been made by a blow of a pick. Of course, in the light of this discovery, no one doubted that Captain Jonathan had murdered the stranger when, by the aid of his chart, they had secured the treasure chest. All the known circumstances, as recalled by those who were living at the time, pointed to the crime having been committed. But there was nothing to be done about it. Captain Chase was as dead as the skeleton of the unfortunate man from Newfoundland, and no one knew if the murdered man had relatives, or if so, where they could be located in order to notify them of the discovery of his mortal remains. So the bones were duly interred in the graveyard, not far from all that was earthly of Captain Jonathan, and there the matter ended as far as the islanders were concerned. But for many years in fact up to the present time there are hair-raising tales of strange noises and mysterious lights seen and heard about the Chase house at dead of night, and all the treasures of all the pirates would not induce any islander to visit the vicinity of the "treasure pit" or the spot where the skeleton was found, after nightfall.

CHAPTER IV

The Golden Books of the Mayas

IT was a fascinating story that the little aviator told, a story that sounded more like the pages of a fiction magazine than fact, yet told in such a convincing and simple manner that it had the ring of truth.

It began with the ill-starred Escobar revolution in northern Mexico when the rebels ordered six aeroplanes from a firm in the States. Under the contract, the planes were to be flown across the border by American pilots and delivered to the Escobar forces, and the little aviator who was narrating his amazing adventures had undertaken to deliver one of the planes. But when the miniature flying squadron had landed safely within the rebel lines it was discovered that the Mexicans were two pilots short, and when General Escobar offered seventy-five dollars in gold a day for the services of American pilots, our aviator friend and his buddy jumped at the chance.

For a time all went well; the planes were employed solely in scouting and observing, and the promised salaries were paid promptly. But gradually payments fell off, and when several weeks had passed with no money forthcoming, and with all demands met by profuse apologies and excuses, the two Americans decided it was time to quit. That, however, was easier said than done. Being unfamiliar with the Spanish language they had unwittingly signed papers binding themselves to serve the rebel forces for the duration of the revolution, and to attempt to desert and fly across the border was hopeless, for never were they permitted to take off unless accompanied by a Mexican officer. But at length the two men devised a scheme which they felt might work. The next morning when they were ordered to make a flight the motors missed and sputtered and after tinkering with them for some time without improving matters, the two men informed the commandant that the machines required a complete overhauling. And when this wholly unnecessary work had been ostensibly completed, they declared that a "tuning-up flight" was essential and that to test out the planes with an extra man aboard would be dangerous. Shrugging his shoulders at the seemingly inevitable, the officer gave his consent, and elated at the success of their ruse and thoughts of soon seeing the last of Mexico, the two men took off with fuel and oil tanks filled to their capacity.

Once in the air they separated. Where his friend went or what became of him, our aviator could not say; but as he himself had heard that there was need of an American pilot in El Salvador, he headed southward.

Thousands of feet beneath him the terrain of Mexico was spread like a vast map. Deserts and plains, jungles and haciendas, ranches and cities, mountains and valleys, unrolled like a gigantic panorama, until to the east the coastline and the sea appeared.

Unfamiliar with the country, and fearful of being compelled to make a landing and being instantly seized as a rebel, the fugitive followed the shore, hoping to reach the borders of Guatemala or British Honduras before his fuel was exhausted.

All went well until he had passed Carmen Island off the coast of Campeche, and swinging westward high above the lagoon, he set a course for the boundary.

And then, when safety seemed certain, when the worst of his long flight was over, his engine began to miss.

It was no temporary or minor trouble, but a broken oil line, and he realized that a landing was inevitable. Below him stretched the primeval jungle. To crash among the giant vine-entangled trees meant certain death or worse. Far off on either side he could see the silvery gleam of rivers, but already he had lost much of his altitude, and was too low to glide to either stream.

With tensed nerves and set face he stared at the endless sea of green forest, searching for some spot where there would be one chance in ten thousand of coming down without being killed or crippled. Each second that he dropped his peril increased; the engine was coughing and spitting, and at any instant it might "go dead." Then, when, as he expressed it, he had "kissed the world goodby," he saw a clearing in the heart of the jungle. It was not an open field by any means, but a large rectangular area where there were no big trees, a space that might have been an old clearing grown up to low brush and rank weeds. There was no time to consider the chances; all he could do was to "pancake" the plane and hope for the best. But luck was with him; the plane tore through the brush for a few yards, swung sharply to one side, ripped off a wing, and then slowly turned turtle.

Shaken but uninjured, the aviator crawled from under the wrecked plane. But as he glanced about he realized that he might almost as well have crashed in the jungle and finished everything. He was miles—he had no idea how many miles—from the nearest settlements, he had no food other than his emergency rations which would serve for a day; he had no weapons, not even an axe or a machete, and on every side stretched unbroken, uninhabited forest. But standing beside the wreck of his plane was merely wasting time, and securing his electric torch, his emergency ration and the compass, he examined his surroundings, seeking the most open spot at which to enter the jungle. A few yards from where he stood was a low hillock or mound, and thinking the slight elevation might provide a better survey, he pushed through the brush towards it. It was covered with a tangle of weeds and vines, and he shuddered involuntarily as he thought what an ideal spot it afforded for snakes. But in the face of his greater and more concrete peril his inordinate dread of reptiles did not prevent him from forcing his way recklessly up the slope.

Suddenly the ground seemed to open beneath his feet. He shot downward and, amid a shower of earth, stones and leaves, came to an abrupt and jarring stop. Dazed and shaken, he gazed about. He was in an underground chamber or vault, and behind him a flight of stone steps led up to the aperture through which he had fallen. Above his head arched a stone roof, and on the farther side of the room, dimly outlined in the semi-darkness, he could see an immense sculptured idol and a square stone table.

Rising, he stepped toward the great stone god, and as he passed close to the table-like affair of stone he noticed that it was hollowed into a deep trough from which hung curious-looking objects resembling gigantic fish-hooks with discs in place of eyes.

Wondering what they were, he examined them closely, and discovered that, threaded on to the ends resting in the trough, were numbers of square leaves or plates of metal. Scraping away the bat guano that covered them, he was amazed to find the plates covered with incised glyphs and figures. And as he raised the uppermost and exposed the surface of the plate below, he could scarcely believe his eyes. The surface gleamed dull yellow—it was solid gold!

Still unable to credit the evidence of his eyes, he attempted to lift one of the affairs from the trough. But he could barely move it, for the hook-like rod with its attached plates weighed over two hundred pounds! And there were fourteen of the things—fourteen immense hooks, each bearing eleven sheets of beaten, engraved gold!

Abruptly he burst into peals of wild laughter. He was standing beside a fortune, half a million dollars' worth of gold at least, yet of as little value to him as the great stone idol in the shadows. At that moment he gladly would have traded all that precious metal for a square meal, or a gun. Cursing his luck, he dropped the metal back into the trough, and climbing the stairs he plunged into the forest.

Realizing that if he went north he must eventually reach a stream which would lead him to the coast, he headed in that direction. But could he survive long enough to make the nearest river? Torn by thorns, beset by swarms of the terrible rodederos or biting gnats of Yucatan, he tramped doggedly on. Without a machete to hew a pathway, he was compelled to make long detours around dense tangles and swampy spots. Conserving his meager rations until he was faint with hunger, and never stopping to rest, he stumbled forward.

For seventeen hours all through the night he pushed onward, keeping as nearly as possible to a compass course, until, almost at the end of his strength, he burst from the forest into a small clearing surrounding a chicle camp. The rest was easy. Well fed and rested, and accompanied by a guide, he mounted a mule and rode to the nearest village, whence by packet-boat and steamship, he returned to the States.

Such was the story the little aviator told, strange, fantastic, to be sure, but, paradoxically, reasonable by its very incredibility. Naturally he had tried to interest some one to finance an expedition to return with him to the scene of his discovery and secure the treasure. Among others he approached a fellow aviator—a wealthy young man whom he had met at an aviation school, and who was willing to finance an expedition. But neither he nor his friends knew anything about the tropics or the jungles, none of them spoke Spanish, and none of them possessed any archaeological knowledge. For this reason they got in touch with me and asked if I would take charge of the party in return for a share in whatever they found.

Although, when I first heard the aviator's story, I was skeptical, yet as I weighed and measured his statements my doubts began to dissolve. The fellow was absolutely ignorant of archaeology or the ancient Mayan civilization, yet he had correctly described the appearance of the almost legendary Maya "books." And he could not have imagined anything of the sort nor could he have read of them, for no book, pamphlet or magazine article describing similar objects had ever been published as far as I could ascertain. Only in rare, almost unknown writings of the old Spanish priests and conquerors was there any reference to the traditional, or supposedly fabulous, golden books containing the secret history of the Maya race and civilization. Nevertheless, it seemed far too remarkable a coincidence that an aviator, crashing haphazard in the Yucatan jungles, should have happened to fall in the exact spot where the most valuable of Mayan treasures had been concealed. Still, truth at times is far stranger than fiction. I knew by experience that amazing coincidences do occur far more often than is generally believed, and I decided to secure the opinion of a friend, who is perhaps the best known authority on Mayan objects, before coming to a final decision.

His reply astonished me, for I had rather expected a practical hardheaded scientist would scoff at the whole story. Instead, he wrote to me as follows: "I am convinced of the sincerity of the aviator, and I believe that he has found something there, probably of great interest. ... Of course, we could not take part in the expedition officially, as it would spoil our cordial relations with the Mexican Government. As far as the objects described are concerned they are unique. ... Whether gold or not, they would be of extraordinary archaeological value, and I am extremely interested in the proposition. I hope you will be able to help unravel this intriguing problem."

That decided me; I agreed to accompany the treasure hunters and take charge of the expedition. But there were many difficulties to be overcome and many details to be attended to before we could start. First of all we had to secure a proper boat for the trip. This had to be large enough to accommodate our party and our outfit, staunch enough to weather the gales and heavy seas of the Gulf of Mexico, yet it must be of shallow draught to navigate the lagoons and rivers, and equipped with both sails and motor. Most important of all, we needed a captain and crew whom we could trust and who were of the adventurous type.

At last we found a vessel that seemed to possess all the essential requirements. She was sloop-rigged, forty feet in length, drew four feet of water, had a beam of thirteen feet and was equipped with a fifty horse-power gasoline motor. She had had a varied career; sponger, rum-runner, fisherman and smuggler in turn; and her grizzled, leather-faced Norwegian owner, who also acted as captain, asked no inconvenient questions.

Then came the matter of outfit supplies, medical stores, camping outfits, arms and ammunition. But at last all was ready and our search for the Maya treasure began.

We were rather crowded, for eight of us went aboard at Havana, while the aviator, who had gone ahead by steamer, for he was a poor sailor, was to be picked up at Progreso. Our party consisted of the captain, the mate who also acted as engineer, the cook who was likewise the radio operator; Dick, Pete, George, Bob and myself; about as varied an assortment as could have been found. The skipper, a hawk-nosed old fellow who would have made an ideal pirate, but in whose veins the Viking blood had turned to water and very thin water as we later discovered. The engineer-mate, an ex-naval man. Sparks, the ne'er-do-well scion of a wealthy family of note. Dick, young, exuberant, enthusiastic and an amateur yachtsman. Pete, who thought himself almighty hunter and a dead shot, who constantly read wild west thrillers and was provided with a veritable arsenal of rifles, shot guns and revolvers. Bob, big, blonde and British, a husky young giant who had gone through the World War. George, a well-known author and novelist, a treasuretrove fan, and possessing a tendency towards communism and a dry humor, and finally, myself. With everything in readiness, tanks filled with water, refrigerator packed with ice, extra drums of gasolene on deck, we moved bag and baggage aboard and waited impatiently for the weather to permit us to start, for the Gulf of Mexico in winter is a treacherous sea and on the morning we had planned to leave a howling "norther" was thundering across the Gulf. Mountainous seas came rolling in to burst in up-flung foam and spray above the Malecon, and no ships other than the ocean liners dared venture forth. But the next day dawned dear and sunny, and although the seas were still running mountain-high beyond the Morro we cast off moorings and headed for the harbor mouth. For a few moments, as we reached the open sea, I thought certain that our expedition would end then and there, for it seemed impossible that the Vigilance could live through such a sea. Between the waves even the highest buildings of Havana were invisible, and friends ashore told us later that each time we vanished in the trough of the seas they never expected to see us rise again. But the little craft managed to survive and even made good time.

By mid-afternoon there was only a moderate sea running, and as we were all dog-tired and it would have been dangerous to attempt navigating the channels of the barrier-reef, we put into Bahia Honda for the night.

A mile or so from the entrance of the great landlocked harbor, a boat came pulling alongside, its occupants two Cubans, one in khaki shirt and trousers, barefooted and bare-legged; the other clad in dirty white, and both wearing heavy revolvers and cartridge belts. He of the khaki introduced himself as a sergeant in the Cuban Army and his comrade as a soldado, and explained that they had been fishing, and offered to pilot us to the port in return for their passage. At the port, which consisted of a weather-beaten, ramshackle building that served for a barracks, an even more tumble-down shed that did duty as a warehouse, and a rickety wharf, a group of Negroes and a few slouching soldiers had gathered on the dock. But there was no official to receive us, and we were informed that in order to comply with the law we must go to the "City" ten miles inland, the port being only a landing place. And, looking as if he had been waiting for us ever since we had left Havana, a grinning colored fiend sat in the remains of what once had been a Ford car.

"Good Lord!" I ejaculated when I saw the ancient conveyance. "That's nothing but a wreck."

The chauffeur grinned the wider. "Si, senor," he agreed. "But it's the best wreck in Bahia Honda!"

There was no alternative, so the six of us crowded into the battered tin Lizzie, a ragamuffin cranked the motor, and with a rattle and bang it woke into life. Off we went and never have I had such a wild ride! As if ruts, stones, holes, fallen branches and other natural objects were not enough, our maniac driver seemed to take supreme delight in seeing how close he could come to running down stray cattle, by how narrow a margin he could miss barbed wire fences and trees and how fast he could take a corner on two wheels. But eventually, by nothing less than a miracle, we reached the town. It was a miserable apology of a place with horrible streets filled with mud-puddles, with a bare dusty plaza, a church that stood drunkenly awry, sundry unpainted shacks and hovels and with mangy, starving curs, naked black and brown children and repulsive black vultures everywhere. In response to our knocks at his door, the Captain of the Port appeared clad in filthy pajamas. He was a surly looking rascal, black-browed and muddy-skinned, and calmly informed us that if we wished to make entry we must return to the port and there await his pleasure to receive us.

We had thought the up trip a nightmare, but it was nothing compared with the return journey, for another "wreck" having materialized from nowhere, our driver decided to make it a race, and how we escaped death still remains a mystery to us all. Like madmen the two black fiends drove their protesting, rattling, tortured cars; leaping the bowlders and the obstructions, plunging through swamp-holes, crashing through brush, skidding around corners, and yelling like wild Indians. But by the grace of God we reached the port in safety. Eventually, also, the Captain of the Port put in his appearance, quite gorgeously arrayed in spotless white uniform, gold lace and brass buttons, and a peaked blue cap, and accompanied by a bodyguard of half a dozen soldiers in full service equipment including rifles and bayonets. Having glanced over our papers he proceeded to "hold us up" by declaring we had violated several of the Cuban maritime laws, that we were liable to a heavy fine for not having taken on a qualified pilot, etc. In vain I argued that as there was no pilot available we could not have taken him aboard, and that our authority from Havana permitted us to alter and leave any Cuban port without paying dues. Very arrogantly the rascal informed us that the absence of a pilot had no bearing on the case. The law decreed that pilotage was compulsory, but it made no provision for having a pilot. It reminded me of the story of the collegiates who, when driving a car without a windshield, were held up by a traffic policeman, and when they protested that the law did not compel a windshield on a car the cop agreed that might be the case, but reminded them that the law made it compulsory for a car to be provided with a windshield-cleaner, and thereupon handed them a ticket. There was no use trying to convince the Cuban official, but he did admit that as we were strangers and Gringos, and hence ignorant of the law, we probably had not violated them deliberately, and hence he would overlook the fine if we paid him fifteen dollars which was the pilotage fee. Then, as an afterthought, he added that there would be a further charge of five dollars to pay for his services for coming aboard. It was out-and-out robbery we knew, but he had the local section of the Cuban Army to support him so there was nothing to be done but to submit.

At dawn we bade Bahia Honda farewell and heading westward found smooth water inside the reefs, and late in the afternoon dropped anchor in the lee of Jutia Cay. A short distance from us was a dingy, patched Cuban fishing smack, and hardly were our sails furled when a boat put off from her and came alongside. Its occupants were the two blackest, raggedest, dirtiest Cubans I have ever seen, but they grinned amiably, announced themselves the captain and mate of the Angel Blanca (White Angel). Ye gods! was ever a vessel more inappropriately named! And presented us with half a dozen fine lobsters. Naturally this called for a return, and with our visitors puffing American cigarettes, and with friendly relations thus established, the schooner's skipper informed us that the neighboring bay was fairly swarming with the jutias. "Ah, senor, you have but to load and fire Bam! Bam! Bam!" he cried, gesturing vividly. For the benefit of those who do not know, let me explain that the jutia is a large rodent, weighing twelve to twenty-five pounds, resembling a giant guinea pig in appearance, with the fur of a raccoon and the tail of a rat, and more or less arboreal in habits. As its flesh is most delectable, the dusky skipper's information resulted in immediate preparations for a jutia hunt.

Landing upon the cay in company with the two Cubans who had volunteered to act as guides and to carry back the bag of jutias we found ourselves faced by an impenetrable barrier of dense thorny brush and vines. But our guide assured us that farther on there was an opening where we might penetrate to the interior where the gaunt limbs and trunks of dead trees marked the alleged haunt of the creatures we sought The "opening" proved merely a slightly less impenetrable wall of jungle. But we managed to get through or rather Bob and I did, for the others gave up after the first few yards and with clothes torn and legs scratched and bleeding we emerged from the entanglement into more open country where a jungle of small trees bordered a dark, dismal swamp filled with dead trees and with swarms of hungry mosquitoes. Slapping at the vicious insects, splashing through black mud, dodging thorn trees, we pressed on; but with no sign of the jutias that were supposed to infest the place. And then, suddenly, an enormous jutia dashed from a thicket ahead. I threw up my gun to shoot, but before I could press the trigger the Cuban near me uttered a yell like a Comanche, and waving his machete rushed after the beast directly in my line of fire. The next instant both man and beast vanished in the brush, whence, presently, the Cuban returned ruefully picking thorns from his bare feet and cursing volubly. And that was the only jutia we saw. Tired and disgusted we tramped back to the boat and vowed never again to believe anything a Cuban told us.

Before sunrise we were again on our way. The day passed uneventfully and just as the sun sank below the western horizon we passed Cape San Antonio light and headed across the channel for distant Yucatan.

A strip of dazzling snow white beach above a sea of liquid beryl, and beyond the beach a wall of malachite-green verdure and waving palms such was our first vision of Yucatan as we dropped anchor off Holbox Cay (pronounced All bosh). Had it not been for the boats moored close inshore, and the throng of people gathered upon the beach, the island might have been uninhabited, for there was no sign of village or house. Directly the keel of our dinghy touched bottom, a dozen men rushed knee-deep into the water and literally lifted our boat high and dry onto the sand. Then, laughing and chattering, the people crowded about us, as curious as though we had been beings from Mars. And no wonder, for never before had Gringos visited the cay and never before had any of the inhabitants seen an outboard motor. In fact we were the first strangers of any kind who had visited Holbox in more than twenty years!

All were Mayas or partly Maya, spotlessly clean and neat, the men wearing drill trousers, the typical Yucatan shirt much ruffled and tucked and worn outside the trousers and high-crowned palm leaf sombreros; the women in the low-cut ruffled and richly embroidered Mayan dresses.

Greetings and introductions over, and with the Alcalde of Holbox leading the way, the procession escorting us marched along a straight sandy path between walls of jungle and nodding palms. Two hundred yards inland and suddenly, unexpectedly, we were in the "town." Perhaps it should not be called that; rather it might be deemed a mere village, for its total population would not number three hundred. But as it is the only settlement on the island, as it is the metropolis and the port as well as the capital, with its essential officials, why not dignify it by referring to it in the fond terms applied by its delightful citizens?

Though its streets were merely thoroughfares of sand, all were named, and although the buildings were all of thatch, all were numbered, all were spotless, and many were painted. There was a tiny plaza, and, quite true to form, on one side was the alcaldia and the church. Although the church was a tiny affair, and while neither priest nor cleric dwells at Holbox, yet loving care was lavished upon it, and very impressive was the deep reverence the people showed for it. And even if the alcaldia was of thatch, yet it was the largest of the buildings and served not only as the seat of government, but also as a schoolhouse and a ballroom as occasion demanded. But there were two things that I missed. I saw no jail, no calaboose, and I saw no one who appeared to be a policeman. In answer to my queries I was told, quite as a matter of course, that neither policemen nor a jail were required. Neither did Holbox possess a lawyer, a doctor, a judge nor even an undertaker.

"Do the people never die are they never ill?" I asked the roly-poly, brown-faced alcalde. For a brief instant he removed the long, crooked cigar from his mouth in order to reply.

"It is a most healthy place my island," he informed me. "Perhaps it is that we of Holbox eat so much of the fish, quien sabe?" he shrugged his shoulders. "And never have we required a medico. And only the very young and the very old die, senor."

I glanced about, children barely able to toddle, kiddies of both sexes and all ages, were everywhere in evidence, and in the blazing sunlight, spreading copra to dry, were two men whose snow-white hair and beards spoke most eloquently of age.

"And what, Señor Alcalde, do you consider very young and very old?" I asked him.

He grinned. "Until they can creep about and after they can no longer creep," he replied. Then, indicating one of the ancients busy with the copra, "There, senor, is my great-grandfather. He is one hundred and two, yet he still carries his load of wood as well as any one. And there with him is Pablo Gonzales whose ninety-eighth birthday was but last week, and who celebrated by taking to himself a new wife. Ah, a lovely bride, senor; muy guapa, and only ninety-six!"

Perhaps the most outstanding feature of Holbox and its people is cleanliness, and this is the more astonishing as the inhabitants are engaged in one of the dirtiest of trades, for the sole industry of the people is shark-fishing! I doubt if any other community of equal size anywhere is supported entirely by sharks; but sharks not only provide a livelihood for the three hundred odd inhabitants of Holbox, but enable them to live very well indeed.

To be sure, nobody is rich, but neither is anybody poor. All are independent, all are content and there are no social distinctions, no jealousy. One might think that shark-fishing would be a hazardous occupation; but I was assured by the alcalde and others that never in the history of Holbox had a man been killed or badly injured by a shark. "Not that the sharks are not dangerous," the alcalde explained, "but because we of Holbox are most careful."

Of course our visit called for a fiesta which lasted until dawn when, accompanied by practically all the inhabitants, we wended our way to the beach, bade farewell to our charming, happy hosts, and boarding the Vigilance, set sail for Progreso where we arrived late that night. Next morning we prepared to receive the port officials, but hour after hour passed with no sign of anybody bothering about us. But at last a boat arrived and its two swarthy occupants informed us that we were to go alongside the dock to be received. As we hove up anchor and prepared to get under way I picked up a line with the idea of throwing it to the fellows and giving them a tow.

"No! no, señor!" they cried in unison. "We cannot touch a rope until you have been passed by the sanidad (doctor). If we did we would be arrested, fined and cast into prison."

A moment later as I was hauling in the trolling-line, one of the fellows called to me, a broad grin on his face: "The law says nothing about a fishing-line, senor." So, at the end of our trolling-line the boat was towed to shore, thus complying with the letter, if not with the spirit, of the regulations.

We soon discovered that the boatmen were not the only experts at circumventing the maritime laws of Mexico. As we neared the dock a man waved his arms wildly, yelling for us to keep off. Here was a pretty how-do-you-do! One moment we were told to come to the dock; the next we were told not to. But the seeming impasse was solved by one of the assembled officials shouting to us to come alongside a tug moored to the dock. Mexican rules may prohibit a vessel touching the dock until passed by the health-officer and Customs, but they say nothing about mooring to another ship lying at a dock!

We had planned to stop at Progreso only long enough to secure fresh water and provisions and to pick up our aviator, but Fate decreed otherwise, for a norther sweeping down across the treacherous Gulf lashed the harbor into a maelstrom and held us prisoners ashore for three days while the port remained closed to all shipping. Time, however, did not hang heavily on our hands, for there was Merida only a few miles inland, with the amazing ruins of Chichen Itza and other ancient Maya cities and temples within easy reach.

When at last the norther had blown itself out we once more resumed our journey toward the site of the aviator's strange discovery. Stopping in at Campeche we were received as hospitably and effusively as at Progreso and we were asked by the postmaster if we would carry two bags of mail to Puerto Aguada. Anxious to accommodate him, but fearing that it might result in some entanglement in the intricacies of Mexican red tape, I explained that we had cleared for Carmen and that as Aguada was not a port of entry, we could not legally put in there. But he assured me that it was quite all right. "You will be carrying the national mails, senor," he said. "Si, I will provide you with an official flag. And you need not land. If you but blow the whistle a boat will come to you from the shore and receive the correo."

So, temporarily, we became a mail packet, and by so doing raised as much of a commotion in Mexican officialdom as though we had smuggled a cargo of munitions of war into Aguada.

Leaving Campeche and headed for the Laguna de Terminos we felt that we were "getting warm" as they say in "hunt the thimble," for up one of the rivers that empty into the big shoal lagoon was the wrecked plane and the golden books of the Mayas. But scarcely had we entered the lagoon, having duly delivered the mail to the boat at Aguada, when Fate began to interfere with our plans. Though we were directly in the channel—as plotted on the charts—we went hard and fast aground on a mud flat. Pushing, poling and kedging proving fruitless so we gave up and settled ourselves to await the rising tide, meanwhile sending Dick and Bob in the small boat to Aguada to secure a pilot. With the Maya practice aboard we had no further trouble, until we approached the fringe of mangroves with the mouth of the Candelaria River marked by a primitive lighthouse on a flooded point of land. But here our local pilot came to grief. Like all the rivers of the district the visible mouth of the Candelaria is barely one hundred feet wide and barred by sand banks and oyster reefs between which, somewhere, was a reputed channel. But to find the channel was like hunting for the proverbial needle in a haystack and only after going aground a dozen times did we succeed in entering the river's mouth and drew up to a flimsy bamboo wharf near the lighthouse where a couple of thatched huts were perched on posts above the mud and water among the mangroves. Upon the landing stage two men awaited us, one gray-haired and gray-bearded, clad in heavy woolen mackinaw and canvas trousers; the other, almost as venerable, dressed in a patchwork of odds and ends. That any human beings could exist in such a spot seemed incredible. There was no dry land, no fresh water, no firewood nothing but stinking mud, sprawling mangroves, hordes of pelicans, ibis and herons, and oysters, growing by millions on the mangrove roots and bed of the stream. But he of the mackinaw, who declared himself to be eighty-four, informed us that he had lived in this spot for sixty years and never had been ill for a single day. By this time our skipper had acquired the pilot habit and as our practice from Aguada admitted total ignorance of the river channels, we hired the ancient with the mackinaw, who claimed to be familiar with every bend, shoal, current and twist of the stream. The fact that he was the tender of the lighthouse and that he would be deserting his post did not trouble him in the least "The light, senor," he informed me, "has been here but thirty years. Before then, for God knows how many years, there was no light. Yet all that time boats came and went. For Dios, senor, can it not then be spared for a few days? And—," he added as a final argument, "few boats come this way, and those that do know the channel without the light and, of a truth, much of the time I bother not to light it anyway."

Our aviator treasure-finder had assured us that the Candelaria was the stream he had noted just before he had crashed and that he could easily identify the proper place to search because of a conspicuous sharp "S" bend of the stream due south of the spot where he had crashed. But as we chugged up the great river between interminable mangroves and impenetrable jungles, we were unwittingly traveling not nearer but farther from the treasure that we sought. And very soon it became obvious to all that we were on the wrong river.

The aviator insisted that he had not sighted a house, village or even a clearing other than the deserted spot where he had come to earth. Yet along the Candelaria there were clearings galore, houses and settlements, and even two good-sized villages! However, having come thus far, we decided to keep on. Possibly, we thought, the aviator had been farther inland than he had believed, and that the upper reaches of the river might be uninhabited. Anyway, we'd have a look, do a bit of exploring and satisfy ourselves one way or the other before deciding on our next move. But when we were a few miles above the largest settlement—which most appropriately bore the name of Suspiro or "The Last Gasp," our pilot informed us that we could go no farther in the Vigilance. Just ahead were rapids a whole series, hundreds of them. So, running in under the banks, we moored our little ship to a tree, and lowering our dinghy with its outboard motor, I prepared to discover for myself what lay beyond. George, it appeared, had a mortal terror of snakes and firmly believed the Yucatan jungle fairly swarmed with venomous serpents. Pete, too, held back, for he shared George's fear of deadly reptiles.

And as the aviator had already decided that for some inexplicable reason he had made a mistake, and hence took no further interest in the river, only Dick, Bob and myself embarked in the small boat and headed up stream.

The first rapid didn't amount to much, and with little trouble our motor forced the boat through the swift broken water. But the second rapid was an entirely different proposition. Foaming and roaring, the stream came plunging over the rocks with terrific force. But I had had years of experience with tropical rapids, and selecting a chute-like stretch of black water, I shouted to Dick to give the motor full speed and head for it. With a rush we were at it. For a moment the boat hesitated; then slowly, inch by inch, it moved up the liquid slope and emerged in the smooth water beyond. At the third rapid, however, we very nearly came to grief. Despite the full power of the motor, the boat remained stationary in the terrific grip of the current, and even when Bob and I pulled with all our strength at the oars, we could make no headway. Realizing that the struggle was hopeless, I yelled to Dick to slow the motor down and permit the boat to drop back. But I had forgotten to warn him that the eddies and whirlpools below the rapids were more dangerous than the falls themselves. Instead of letting the dinghy drift with the current, until well clear of all danger, Dick opened the throttle and swung the boat about. Instantly we were in the grip of the whirlpool. The dinghy careened perilously, water poured over the gunwale, and she spun like a top. For a moment I thought nothing could save us; but fortunately Dick heard my frenzied: "Stop her!" in time.

He shut off the motor and the boat righted and swung with the current.

But it was a mighty dose shave!

Next morning, completely beaten by the series of rapids, and thoroughly convinced that we were on the wrong river, we returned downstream and again moored to the lightkeeper's wharf. After discussing every possible angle of the situation, and cross-questioning the aviator and consulting maps and charts of the district none of which were anywhere near correct we decided that our only course was to try the next river. So with our venerable mackinaw-clad pilot at the helm we left the Candelaria and headed across the lagoon for the Chumpum River. But before we sighted the mouth of that stream, another norther came howling down, whipping the shoal water into ugly seas. To be caught in the height of the storm on a lee shore without harbor or shelter would have meant certain disaster, and our only hope was to head across the bay and anchor in the lee of Carmen island. It was lucky for us that we did not delay, for we barely made it.

Green seas broke completely over the decks, the little ship seemed actually to stand on end at times; and each time she dropped from the crest of a wave she came down with a sickening crash that threatened to knock the bottom out of her. Even with her powerful motor at full speed she made barely three knots in the face of the terrific gale, and six terrible hours were consumed in crossing that eighteen-mile strip of bay to where, at last, we were able to drop anchor in comparatively smooth water. By the next day the worst of the norther was over, and as we were in need of fresh water and provisions, we decided to put into port before returning to ascend the river.

A crowd was awaiting us as we approached the dock at Carmen, and to our surprise we discovered that we had innocently and unwittingly created more commotion and excitement than anything since the last revolution. In fact we had been the cause of a serious controversy between officials that had for a time threatened to disrupt the peace of the district, we had caused official despatches to keep the wires hot between Carmen and Mexico City, and we had very narrowly escaped being chased by an armed force, arrested and thrown into prison! And all because of those sacks of mail from Campeche which we had delivered to the boat at Aguada!

Our stop at Aguada had been reported; the port captain at Carmen had been advised from Campeche that we had cleared for Carmen, and instantly he had gone up in the air, so to speak. He had sent a scathing and denunciatory message to the commandante at Aguada in which he accused that official of having violated the law by allowing us to enter the port, and hinted that he was aiding and abetting revolutionists or filibusters, or at the least an American secret mission, to enter Mexican territory illegally. Following this, the irate and excitable port captain had sent a wireless message to Mexico City asking for the arrest and imprisonment of the poor Aguada commandante. The latter had countered by wiring to the capital that as we carried mail from Campeche to Aguada, and had had the mail flag, the authorities must have expected us to touch at Aguada, and he quite logically argued that had he not permitted us to enter he would have been interfering with the Government mails. In the meantime, frenzied word had been sent that an "American gunboat"—Ye gods! the Vigilance being mistaken for such—had been seen ascending the Candelaria River after kidnaping the keeper of the lighthouse! The excitable natives and the imaginative port captain could think of but one explanation. The Americanos had designs on Yucatan! And the fact that the local press had been filled with hot-headed denunciations of the "Yanquis" in connection with the Lower California episode, lent color to the idea. Thereupon the port captain had been on the point of radioing for a gunboat and a company of soldiers to capture us when an American resident of the town had received word from our "agent" in Campeche informing him that as we had taken out "cabotaje" or coasting papers we had a perfect right to stop at Aguada or anywhere else. Thereupon every one concerned was satisfied. The tempest in a teapot was over. The port captain and the commandante exchanged mutual regrets over the misunderstanding. Mexico City was duly notified that a mistake had been made, amicable relations were once more established all around, and when we arrived we were welcomed effusively, and literally with open arms. "But," suggested the fiercely-mustached and pompous port captain, as he patted me on the back and embraced me, "it would be wise if the Americanos did not fly their flag on the 'yate' except when entering a port."

Even if all suspicions of our gun-running mission had been allayed, still the romantically-minded Yucatecans could not be satisfied with such tame and everyday reasons as we offered in explanation of our presence, not of course mentioning our search for the Maya treasure. To their minds there must be something far more advenurous to have induced Gringos to voyage so far in such a small boat. And as they knew nothing of the Maya treasure-trove that the aviator had discovered, their active, imaginative minds sought for some sinister and ulterior reason for our being there. As a result, when we were at last ready to sail, our local "agent" informed us that the port captain would not issue clearance papers unless we were accompanied by an officer. Moreover, we were not only required to supply bed and board to the unwelcome official, but were to pay him for his time also. It was crowded enough aboard the Vigilance as it was, we had no intention of supporting an officer in comparative luxury and paying him in addition, and with an officer on board it would be impossible to get away with the treasure. Finally, we decided, it was just a new scheme for squeezing a few more dollars from us, and angry and disgusted I hurried off to beard the port captain in his den. As I entered his office he sprang to his feet, welcomed me cordially and patted me on the back like the dearest of friends. And when, still seething, I demanded why he had given such an order, and added that if that was his idea of courtesy we'd clear for Progreso forthwith, he instantly disclaimed all intentions of causing us the slightest inconvenience and actually appeared to be as "desolated" as he claimed to be because I should have misjudged him.

"But, senor mio!" he exclaimed. "I am your friend, your compadre, your servant. I kiss your hand, excelencia, I obey your slightest wish. I am here to show you and your companions every courtesy, to make everything easy, to render you every service. Of a truth, amigo mio, anything within my poor power will I do to make you remember Carmen with nothing but delight. The order—" he chuckled, embraced me and beamed "the order, senor, was but my little joke. You are at liberty to go where and when you so desire without hindrance, amigo. But—" he winked—"I must show my authority at times. Your agent—" he shrugged—"must be made to know his place. He would have you Americanos think that only he can arrange matters. So to him I give the order so that you will come to me and I may thereupon prove my desire to be of service, while your agent may thus know that he is not such a great man as he may think himself. Ah, si, excelencia, it is in such manner that we must make small those who feel themselves to be great. Si, of a truth, senor, we must now and then prick the bubbles so that they may burst—Pff ! Is it not so, excelencia? And now, mi amigo, do me the honor to accept my most humble apologies that you have been so inconvenienced. And may you go with God, senor!"

Grinning, I left his presence. There was something very ludicrous in his scheme for calling down the agent by issuing an order aimed at us and which did not affect the agent in the least. In fact it reminded me forcibly of old Blackbeard the pirate who, having pistoled two of his officers, remarked that if he "didn't shoot an officer now and then his crew would forget who he was."

The water over the bar at the river's mouth proved too shallow for the Vigilance, so she was anchored outside and we ferried ourselves and belongings ashore in the dinghy and made ourselves at home in the ranch house of a huge estate whose owner had given us letters to his Mexican manager. Here, once again, George's terror of snakes caused him to decide to remain at the ranch rather than tempt Fate in the jungles, and, as usual, Pete followed suit. So, with a grinning, brown-skinned Mayan to serve as guide, camp-boy and man-of-all-work, Dick, Bob, the aviator and myself started up river in hopes of finding the hidden treasure.

As an excursion or a hunting trip the voyage was all any one could have wished. There were no houses, no settlements. Everywhere was jungle containing countless forms of bird-life. Alligators and crocodiles basked on logs beside the banks. There were deer, peccary, jaguars, pumas, ocelot, tapir and wild turkeys in the forests. And, basking in the sunshine upon the tops of the low trees that lined the river banks, were hundreds of gigantic iguanas, dragon-like monsters eight to nine feet in length and striped like tigers with brilliant orange and black.

Possibly iguanas should not be dignified by the name of game; but if any one thinks that these giant lizards cannot provide sport and excitement let him try shooting iguanas with a rifle while standing in a fifteen-foot boat. And to see and hear an eight-foot dragon come crashing down at the report of one's rifle gives one no small thrill. Moreover, the creatures are good to eat, and with three of the big fellows in our boat I anticipated a toothsome stew when we camped for the night. At last, a short time before sundown, we swung around a bend and Encantada was before us, a deserted camp-like dwelling once used as barracks by the vaqueros and chicle gatherers of the ranch. In its entrancing setting of luxuriant tropical vegetation, flaming flowers, golden fruit-laden orange trees, waving palms and background of virgin forest its name, meaning "The Enchanted," seemed most appropriate. But no sooner had we stepped ashore than we realized how misleading was the name and why the place had been abandoned. Instantly we were enveloped in a perfect cloud of the terrible rodederos or day-flying biting gnats of Yucatan. In vain we thrashed about, slapped, brushed, smoked and cursed. They filled our ears, crawled up our noses, blundered into our eyes and drew blood from every inch of our exposed skin. Madly we raced up the steep bank, hoping the pests might be confined to the lowland. But they were as thick if not thicker there, and to make matters worse, they were reinforced by swarms of equally vicious mosquitoes. It was humanly impossible to withstand the united attack, and we dashed for the tumble-down building that had once served as a kitchen, hoping that by kindling a smoky fire we might find relief. But scarcely had we entered when we were in full retreat, for the kitchen was fairly alive with vermin. We were between the devil and the deep sea, so to speak, but sulphur candles and spraying with formalin decreased the flea army in the kitchen to some extent, and to our vast relief we found that the rodederos abandoned their offensive in the semi-darkness of the building, while the pungent smoke from green leaves had the desired effect upon the mosquitoes.

With sundown, both rodederos and mosquitoes vanished, but we looked forward with anything but pleasure to exploring the jungle the next day. In the morning, however, a brisk wind was blowing, and although the jungle teemed with mosquitoes, and we were compelled to cover our heads and faces with improvised nets, to stuff cotton in ears and nostrils and smear our hands and arms with a mixture of vaseline and creosote, we managed to do fairly well. Throughout that day we explored the river, cruising for miles upstream, searching for the aviator's peculiar S-shaped bend by which we hoped to locate the treasure. Time after time we would come to a bend which he declared must be the right one. Landing, we would take compass bearings and hew our way into the jungle with machetes. And such jungles! Never in my forty years' experience in the West Indies, Central and South America, have I seen anything to equal them. It was impossible to move five feet in any direction without cutting a path. Palms with trunks covered with great black spines, wiry bushes armed with crooked thorns, twisted, tangled briars, razor-edged saw-grass, prickly agaves, acacias and cacti, with fallen limbs and leaves, knee-deep vegetable debris and slimy trunks of wild plantains all formed an almost solid wall, while underfoot the ground was a sea of sticky black ooze in which we sank to our ankles. It was obvious that the aviator, with no machete, could never have forced his way at night through such a barrier, and according to him the vegetation about the ancient clearing was not dense. In fact it couldn't have been, for he had walked through the forest for seventeen hours with no means of cutting a trail. But there was the chance that the character of the jungle might change a short distance from the river, and the only way of determining what lay inland was to hew a way in. It was terrible work, and bitterly disheartening, to toil for hours cutting through the tangle, tearing flesh and garments, in agonies from biting insects, only to find no large trees or open forest.

But so positive was the aviator that we were on the right stream, so certain he seemed of his distance from the coast and river and his compass bearings when he had first found his engine missing, and so sincere in his statements, that despite discouragement after discouragement, despite the fact that he "identified" fully a dozen bends as the right one, we kept at it. But at last, after days of futile, fearful labor, after weary hours of hacking and hewing through the jungle, the aviator was forced to admit that he had made a mistake somewhere, that he was totally at a loss. The river, he argued, when viewed from a boat upon its surface did not look the same as when seen from the air, and also, he pointed out, although he had spotted only one S-bend there were scores which, in all probability, had been hidden from his view by the forest. All our hopes were dashed. The one man who knew or claimed to know the secret of the Mayas' treasure had failed us. And at last, bitterly disappointed and utterly discouraged, we abandoned the search and returned downstream.

We arrived at the ranch to find George tremendously elated. He actually had seen a snake! During all the time we had been upriver and in the jungles we had not seen a trace of a serpent, yet hare at the ranch, a snake and a venomous snake at that had been killed in the kitchen patio. And I still maintain that the little viper wriggled from the jungle and into the patio and sacrificed its life for the express purpose of satisfying George that there really were snakes in Yucatan.

Perhaps it was lucky for us that we did not find the Mayan treasure, for when we reached Carmen we were boarded by my friend the port captain and half a dozen soldiers who with profuse apologies and begging ten thousand pardons thoroughly searched the Vigilance from stem to stern. Evidently they had their suspicions, and had the Mayan treasure been found on board who can say what might have been the result as far as we were concerned? But it was not until we were about to sail, and the port captain had invited Bob and myself to drink a farewell toast in a native liquor which, he affirmed, was compounded of sulphuric acid and gunpowder, and which tasted as if it might have been, that I learned why our vessel had been searched.

During the last ill-starred revolution, an airplane, bearing a fleeing rebel leader and laden with gold coin and incriminating documents, had crashed somewhere within the jungle, and that, so the officials surmised, was what we had been seeking.

Here was an entirely new angle, a new development. By some strange and almost incredible coincidence had two rebel airplanes crashed in the same jungle-covered area? Was our aviator the pilot of the ill-fated plane freighted with revolutionary documents, revolutionist funds and a revolutionary leader? If so, had the little aviator really stumbled upon the underground hiding place of the golden books of the Mayas, or had he invented the tale in hopes of luring an expedition in search of a mythical treasure in order that he might locate the plane and secure the papers for which the Mexican Government would pay a small fortune? Quien sabe? as the Spaniards say. It is a mystery we have never solved. Unquestionably, somewhere in the jungle, rests the wreckage of an .airplane containing the skeleton of a rebel leader, thousands of dollars in minted gold and paper which, if in the possession of the Mexican Government, would result in many a man facing a firing squad. And possibly, not far distant, the golden books of the Mayas still lie hidden in their subterranean chamber, a treasure whose value is beyond all estimate.
Link to next chapter of They Found Gold - Ch 5-6