Captain James Carmichael of the Texas Rangers, home-bound after a week in Mexico City on official secret business for the governor, let his gaze rove idly through the window of his Pullman as the train paused in the late afternoon at an unimportant Mexican hill village. He saw a dingy station, around which stood and squatted expressionless, stolid, serape-draped Indian men. Behind it two or three square, flat adobe buildings, each a mean rabbit warren whose many doors were now crowded with staring women and babies. Beyond, in a disorder that made no reckoning of streets or avenues, fifty low _jacals_, barely higher than dog kennels, before which Indian women tended toy cooking fires or grou…
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