a living by hunting down their former companions, shouldn't the peons,-who had nothing to lose or gain from either, be as friendly with the one as the other? All of which made it quite as hard for the smugglers to evade the Rurales as for the Rurales to catch the smugglers. Let a pack-train of laden mules pass through a village at dead of night, their hoofs clinking dully on the roughly paved streets, their drivers cursing the beasts under their breaths, mounted horsemen with cocked rifles across their saddle-bows hemming the cavlacade in, and they would find hearty welcome in fonda or posada, many a friend to provide food and shelter for man and beast, plenty of safe hiding places where the contraband might lie for a space, and none the wiser. And if by chance, as often happened, another party of horsemen should clatter into the place; horsemen on whose sombreros gold and silver braid flashed in the moonlight, whose tight-fitting trousers and short jackets of buckskin bore elaborate braiding, whose saddle-flaps showed the Mexican eagle, and whose ready carbines, heavy revolvers and sabres spoke eloquently of fighting men, they too would be received with open arms and would be lodged and fed and entertained. Across a rough board table in the little dobe inn, a dark-visaged, keen-eyed, tousel-headed Mexican in stained and much worn chorro suit, with leggings caked with dried mud, with sombrero white with

dust, and with grimy unshaven cheeks, would toss dice or cut cards for drinks with a Rurale officer resplendent in gold embroidered hat, dove-colored costume braided in white, and a gorgeous zerape across his shoulders. Like old friends,-as they often were, they would chat, laugh and pass the news on the best of terms, for while the smuggler would know his companion for what he was and would know why he was there, he was perfectly safe. The Rurale might know, as well as he wanted to, that the other was a smuggler or a bandit or both, he might even be an old friend or acquaintance of lawless days-and he would be morally certain that the mountaineer was at that moment engaged in smuggling or worse. But there was no proof. No evidence of wrong doing, and as far as the law was concerned he was an innocent and honest citizen of the republic. As long as both were on neutral ground so to speak, they were quite willing to be pals, and it was a fascinating game, a battle of wits which had to be played with great care by both sides until such time as chance, accident or design, brought the ex-smuggler and the active smuggler together where proof was conclusive. Thereupon the mental battle gave place to a physical encounter in which both sides fought like tigers with their whole hearts, souls and bodies.

Very seldom was the outcome doubtful. The smugglers, to be sure, had life and liberty at stake

and were splendid fighters, for all disparagements to the contrary notwithstanding, the Mexican is no coward in a hand-to-hand fight with his fellows and under conditions he understands,but the Rurales had the honor and the reputation of their crack corps to uphold, and which they value more than mere life. Moreover, as is always the case, the power of the law and of the commonwealth behind them counted. And the reputation of the Rurales as go-getters was equalled only by the Northwest Canadian mounted police. Like the latter, the Rurales always "got" their man, and as a result, brigandage was practically stamped out and the smugglers had been woefully decimated at the time the Villa, Madero, Diaz factions started the pot boiling in northern Mexico. With the laws null and void in that particular section, with each man figuratively if not literally flying at every other's throat, with everyone too busy keeping soul and body together to bother about smugglers and bandits, the brigands and contrabandistas again had things pretty much their own way, although to be sure the bulk of them found better pickings and more excitement by throwing in their lot with one or the other, often first one and then the otherof the insurrectos. Indeed, even the Rurales took a hand in the game and fought side by side with their former friends and enemies, or against them, with equal readiness and impartiality. Then, as matters

progressed and the United States patrolled the border with troops, the few smugglers left had a hard time of it. There was nothing to smuggle out of Mexico and into the States, for the warring Mexicans left nothing worth smuggling, and while there were endless articles to smuggle from the United States into Mexico it was next to a hopeless undertaking.

Mexicans on the American side of the border were distinctly unwelcome and constantly watched. Long stretches of boundary desert and mountain that had formerly afforded excellent opportunities for passing unnoticed from one country to the other were now patrolled by lynx-eyed and quick shooting troopers and rangers. And, even if all such difficulties were overcome and the smuggler safely reached his own land with his contraband, the chances were that he would meet some band of his fellow countrymen who would promptly take possession of his property and leave him stripped and penniless, if not worse, for his pains.

As a result, the smugglers of the Mexican border became few and far between. Just as Quebra Huesos was supposed to have joined the Carlists and was never heard from again, so the Mexican smuggler and bandit chiefs, the men whose names had become the subjects of stories, legends and tales through all of northern Mexico, joined Villa, Madero or some other aspirant to the dictatorship

of the war-torn republic and passed into oblivion. But once more, now that peace is hovering over Mexico, the smuggler-bandits, the contrabanistas of the Mexican borders, are dropping into their old trade. Once again their camp fires gleam in many a deep cañon and hidden fastness among the Sierras. Once again contraband goods find their way across the border. And once more the Rurales are on their job, hunting down, ferreting out their former comrades in arms and lawlessness, and once more the peons earn many a peso by observing strict neutrality and affording refuge and shelter to both the hunters and the hunted.

Southward along the ever-narrowing isthmus that separates the Atlantic from the Pacific, smugglers exist wherever two countries abutt, but smuggling on a large scale is a most unprofitable means of earning a livelihood where the inhabitants are as few and far between and the methods of transportation so primitive as in Central America. But farther south, beyond Panama and Colombia, in the larger, richer, more populous countries of the South American continent, the smugglers again find business far from dull. To be sure it is not carried out on a very large scale either ashore or afloat. The passes over the Andes are few and are well guarded; from one large city to another is a far cry and a hazardous journey overland, and few of the republics produce goods that are in demand