In order to avoid a long detour to the east, I had chosen to follow the track which passes this place, though travellers generally give it a wide berth; besides, I thought best to take the bull by the horns.  When I reached the robber’s stronghold, I did not find Don Teodoro at home, though he was expected to return the next day.  In the mean time the superintendent showed me around the house and sold me some necessary provisions.

The house looked forbidding enough.  A wall of adobe, eighteen feet high, ran all around the establishment, shutting it in securely.  It was provided with two small towers, which had loop-holes for rifles.

In the house was a small chapel, in which Don Teodoro and his father before him had frequently knelt to pray.  The altar was decorated with the pictures of many saints, and in the centre was a painting of the Christ-child, a crucifix, and an artificial apple.

When the lord of the manor arrived the following day, I immediately went to see him.  As I passed through the enclosure he was scolding the superintendent, but on perceiving me he stepped forward to receive me.  This modern Fra Diavolo was about thirty years old, rather short of stature, but unusually well built.  He wore an embroidered brown jacker and a blue waistcoat, and around his neck was thrown a many-coloured scarf.  On one side of his sombrero was a scarlet rosette.  Under it gleamed brown, piercing eyes.  His hair was cut short.  Altogether he was quite good-looking, except for a cruel, sensual expression of the features.  His entire manner, erect carriage, and quick, decisive movements told me he was a man of violent temper and extreme determination.

He led the way into a room, and I handed him my letter of recommendation from the Mexican Government, and explained what I was doing in the sierra.  After he had read the letter, he said that he was my friend.  I told him that I had heard there were robbers in the vicinity, and in case I was molested I should apply to him for assistance, since he was a very influential man.  Of course I knew as long as he did not rob us we were quite safe.  I then photographed him and his house, and he evidently felt quite flattered.  He accompanied me for a mile down the road, and then, taking me aside, handed me back the paltry sum I had paid for the provisions, saying he did not accept payment from his guests.  This was rather embarrassing, but there was no way out of it, and I had to accept it.  I afterward sent him a copy of his photograph to even up matters.

The guide with whom Don Teodoro had provided me pointed out to us a place where his master last year killed and robbed a man.  “He is a poor shot,” he added, “except at close range, and he generally travels at night.”  In 1895 Don Teodoro Palma himself was killed by the Indians.  If half the rumours about him are true, he certainly deserved his fate.  He never dared to go down to the lowlands, because “he owed so many dead,” as the saying goes.  A few years before my visit, an American had been killed and robbed in the vicinity, and his countrymen in Chihuahua offered a reward for the apprehension of the murderer, dead or alive.  Don Teodoro knew that a certain friend of his had perpetrated the crime, and in order to secure the reward he invited him to his house and shot him down in cold blood.