Tequila—Mexican respect for the white man—Personal vengeance preferred to Law—Mexican stoicism—Victims of red tape.

Tequila, which is the common drink in Guadalajara, is fermented and distilled pulque. Pulque is the fresh sap of the maguey or “century” plant (one of the big-leafed cacti), tasting something like sweet cider. Like “tari” in India, it is practically non-intoxicating when fresh, but when fermented is very much so, and when distilled into tequila it is something like Indian “arrak,” and has the effect of driving most men fighting-crazy. An ordinary tumblerful sells for six cents, so the very poorest can afford it, and practically every one, men and women, drink it. The police are very indulgent with drunks, and generally leave them alone if they can zig-zag within the confines of the street. Even when they do have to arrest them they handle them tenderly. For instance, one night I saw a drunk, on his way to the lock-up, sit down in the middle of the street and swear by all the calendar that he would go no farther until he had another drink. After remonstrating and arguing in vain one of the police went and got him a drink, when he arose and went peaceably along.

Only on two occasions have I seen the police club a man, which in the States is no uncommon sight. Once was when two police were taking off a man by his arms pulled over their necks; he took a bite out of one of the necks, and they had to club him off. The other case shows the respect of the average Mexican for a white man. On one occasion two men started to fight near where I was working. One of them had a knife and the other a blocksetter’s spike. I noticed that one of them was wounded and, being the smaller, would probably be killed by the other. They were not my men, but I hated to see an unevenly matched fight, so I ran up, and on my demand (I am afraid I spoke rather roughly) they both gave up their weapons. One had a stab in the stomach, and I told him I would send him to the hospital, at which he broke and ran. I followed, but to all my arguments he would reply that he had a family to support and would be sent directly from the hospital to the jail for fighting, so preferred to cure himself. Finally I let him go, and when I got back to the work I found a policeman whom one of my men had run to fetch when I started to take a hand. To him I turned over the weapons of war, and, on his insisting, I also gave him a description of the men, telling him about the wounded man. As he was returning to the police station to make his report he ran into my wounded friend who was on his way home, and with the assistance of another officer tried to take him to the hospital. Then this man, who had given up his weapon to me without a fight, now, though unarmed, put up such a fight that they had to club him into submission before they could take him. On another occasion a man who formerly had worked for us got into a fight on the Paseo, and with two policemen after him, shooting at him, he ran into our gate, and getting behind some barrels of asphalt defied the police. They did not seem anxious at all to come to close quarters with him, and so things rather hung fire. Our yard foreman, who was an old miner and prospector in the early days of Colorado, told the police to hurry up as his men were doing no work owing to the excitement. Then, seeing that the police were stuck, he walked up to the man, took him by the wrist, and jerked him out from his barricade and turned him over to the police out in the street.

The police in Mexico carry open lanterns at night, I suppose it is to warn evildoers to get out of their way! I saw three of them once hunting for a man among the vacant lots of the Colonia Francesa, and they looked like three fireflies whom any one could easily elude in the darkness. Once one of my men disappeared for a few days, and when he returned to work I asked him what he had been up to. He told me that he had got into a fight, and a policeman in trying to arrest him had hit him over the head with his lantern and broken it, and that he had to lie in jail till he could pay his fine, besides paying for a new lantern.

The Mexicans hate the law to step in to settle their differences, as they believe only in personal vengeance. I was in the commissaria once when a man was brought in badly hurt, and, as he refused to tell the judge who had done it, he was sent to jail till he should tell. On a recurring sentence or, as the judge said, “trenta days y vuelta” (thirty days and return); this is a very common way of prolonging a sentence when the law distinctly lays down the limit of sentence for the offence. I said to the judge, who is a good friend of mine, that this seemed queer justice. “Well,” said he, "it is the only means I have to deal with these people, and to avert murder. If I can only find out who the other man is I can put him out of harm’s way till this fellow cools down and forgets his wrongs." I heard of another case of a man brought in as a drunk, who was set in one corner to wait his turn at examination. When his turn finally came, they tried to prod him up when he did not answer, thinking he was shamming, but they found he was dead from a bad stab in the chest. He had kept himself so covered with his blanket that they had not known he was wounded, trusting, I suppose, that it would not be discovered, and that later he could settle with his opponent in his own way.

Mexicans are of a stoical Indian blood, and pain that they understand they can bear without a murmur. But a headache or other pain that they cannot account for makes them think they are going to die. One of our men slipped into a melting-tank containing liquid asphalt at between 300° and 400° Fahrenheit. He fell in up to his armpits, yet never made a sound either then or when he was pulled out, but actually assisted us in getting his clothes off. We rolled him in oiled cloths, got him into a hack, gave him half a bottle of tequila, and prepared to start him off to the hospital when a priest came up, running, confessed him, and gave him the last rites of the church. Through it all he never made a moan, though his teeth were chattering with the shock. The law in this country said that in case of an accident one must not touch the person until the police have had a chance to investigate, and had this happened with only Mexicans around, they would have telephoned the police, and then sat idle till they came, with the man still in the kettle: this law has since been changed. I, however, took chances, and ordered a hack, then I telephoned to the Jefe Politico (mayor and chief magistrate) asking permission to send the man direct to the hospital without waiting for the police investigation. He consented on my assuring him that it was an accident. So I sent a man with the poor fellow and a note to the director of the hospital, but I found out later that when the director saw that the man was certain to die, he refused to receive him without a permit from the police captain of our precinct. So the poor devil was driven one and one-half miles back to the police station and from there back to the hospital, and it was nearly two hours from the time of the accident before he got medical attention. At the police station the man, half crazy with pain and tequila, accused the man who had pulled him out of having pushed him in, so down came the police and arrested him. The judge of the first criminal court was a good friend of the company, and we went up to see him so as to have an immediate trial if possible. He took our depositions, and as luckily half a dozen of us had seen the accident, he turned the accused man loose in a very few hours, though it caused us some trouble. I told the judge about the hospital business, and he severely reprimanded the director.