The Tarahumares have names for six kinds of pines.  One species, first met with near Tutuhuaca, was new to science.  Though not a large tree, it is very ornate, owing to its slender, whip-like branches, and its hanging needles, from eight to ten inches long.  It grows here and there in groups at high altitudes, on decomposed volcanic tuff.  The needles are boiled by the Indians and the Mexicans, and the decoction used as a remedy for stomach troubles.  It is not disagreeable to take, the taste resembling that of anise-seed.  The Tarahumares prefer the wood of this variety of pines for the making of their violins.  I found this species as far south as the sierra above Pueblo Nuevo, in the State of Durango.

The vegetation of the Sierra Madre is incomparably stronger and more luxurious than that of the cold North.  The pine-trees in higher altitudes, for instance in Norway, appear miserably puny and almost stunted when compared with the giants of the South.  Trees of 100 to 150 feet high and 10 to 15 feet in girth are frequent.  We noticed some species of pines the needles of which were over a foot long.

The region through which we were passing seemed uninhabited, and there were really but few Indians living here.  The cordon nearest to the one on which we were standing was covered with snow, and we climbed without difficulty to a point 9,300 feet high.  There was no water, but snow three inches deep in some places, yielding all the water we required, though it had a slight flavour of the pines.  The Mexicans did not like it, and said they would not eat food cooked with snow; but after I had shown them that the water obtained in this way was very good, they also took to it.

On our arrival at some Indian ranches, the people screamed with terror, ran away and hid themselves.  There was something so unusual about their fright, that the interpreter and I went out of our way to investigate the matter.  I saw two children making their escape among the bushes as best they could, a boy leading a three-year-old girl all the time, never deserting her.  We found the children and a young woman on top of a rock.  After we had succeeded in allaying their fears, they answered our questions readily.  It appeared that two men from this place had recently been hanged by some people from Cienega Prieta, the ranch for which we were making.  One of the victims had been revived, but the other had died.  My Indian boy Patricio knew about the outrage, too.

I had at the outset been warned against robbers south of Guachochic, and advised never to sleep in houses—­a thing I rarely did, anyway, for other reasons.  One man especially, Teodoro Palma, had an unsavoury reputation as a “gentlemanly highwayman.”  In the desolate region where his residence lies, his father had maintained a band of valiant men, who made regular plundering expeditions, driving cattle away, etc.  It was a common tale that travellers who had to pass his place were invited to come in, but never came out again.  The bodies of the victims, it was said, were buried at night in the cemetery of the Indian village of Chinatu, a few miles distant.  Times had changed since then, and the son was more guarded in his operations, but still sufficiently active.