STANDING: WILL CARVER AND HARVEY LOGAN (ALIAS KID CURRY).
(Photographed by John Schwartz, Fort Worth, Texas, 1900)
So whether Sundance and Butch bit the dust in a gun battle over a mule train of gold or died with their boots on in some luxurious tropical paradise paid for with ill-gotten gains is a mystery covered by the dust of history.
NOTES
1. Nellie was actually twenty-two years old at the time of the Mexico trip. She lied about her age to maintain a “girl reporter” image.—The Editors
2. During the years of 1884–1885, in Austin, Texas (population approximately seventeen thousand at the time), a killer called the Servant Girl Annihilator murdered eight people, of whom seven were women. “The murders were committed by some cunning madman who is insane on the subject of killing women” (New York Times, December 26, 1885). When the Jack the Ripper killings occurred in 1888 in London, there was contention that the Ripper may have been the Texas killer, and several cowboys were questioned by Scotland Yard.—The Editors
3. He kept his promise. Nellie’s first article appeared in 1886, with her name in tall, bold type. For the next six months, they would get prominently displayed and other newspapers around the country would print her articles under the heading NELLIE IN MEXICO.—The Editors
4. Nellie never told the truth about leaving high school. She was embarrassed that it was because of financial reasons, not a heart condition. She had to leave school and go to work in a factory to help support her mother and siblings.—The Editors
5. October 14, 1878, Nellie’s mother, Mary Jane Cochran Ford, filed for divorce. Only fifteen divorce actions took place that year in a county with a population of approximately forty thousand people, and only five were granted. Mary Jane’s was one of those granted, thanks to Nellie’s testimony and a letter she wrote to the judge about the abusive treatment her mother received from her stepfather. Her mother also did something unprecedented: She had the Ford name removed and went back to being “the widow, Mrs. Cochran.”—The Editors
6. Nellie did try her hand at writing mysteries. After racing around the world in seventy-two days several years later, she received a contract from a publishing house to write three mysteries. In 1889, she wrote Mystery of Central Park and two other books that have been lost in time.—The Editors
7. Lily kept her promise, but Judge Roy Bean had passed away before she paid the visit.—The Editors
8. He was right: Gertrude Bell’s father did not approve. But she went on to become one of the greatest adventurers in history and literally helped found two nations. See page 287. —The Editors
9. Nellie left school at age sixteen because of financial problems, though after she became famous, she claimed she left because of a heart condition. Her plan had been to become a teacher.—The Editors
10. The poem is “Maud Muller,” written by John Greenleaf Whittier in 1856.
NOTE
FROM
The Editors
IN REGARD TO No Job for a Lady, we are once again forced to defend against accusations that real-life events in Nellie’s life were merged with a fictional story that was concocted. It’s true that Nellie’s 1888 book, Six Months in Mexico, does not include the murders, treasure hunt, were-jaguars, or the other mysteries and adventures recounted here, but that’s because Nellie was forced by the Mexican government to omit from her own book all the facts concerning Montezuma’s treasure.
As we have with the other books in the series, we want the reader to rest assured that they may compare the truth and veracity about the series to that attributed to the lioness of literature, Lillian Hellman, by none other than Mary McCarthy.
Nellie’s book about her trip to Mexico was not published until 1888, two years after her attempt to establish herself as a foreign correspondent by running off to Mexico. When she did return to Pittsburgh, she believed that because her articles sent to The Pittsburgh Dispatch were so well received and enjoyed by readers, she would be officially appointed a foreign correspondent.
Instead, Mr. Madden, the managing editor, thought Nellie was very lucky not to have been kidnapped, raped, or killed. He said she could have her previous job back, writing society twaddle—and nothing more.
Angered, Nellie headed for New York. Publication of her Mexico experiences (those she was able to share with the public) had to wait until her spectacular ten days in a madhouse caper, which we shared with readers in The Alchemy of Murder.
The following are excerpts from the 1888 publication of Six Months in Mexico. Her opening paragraph reveals in an understated manner that she had left the reporter’s job “usually assigned women on newspapers” and headed for Mexico to become a foreign correspondent, with her mother tagging along.
ONE WINTRY NIGHT I bade my few journalistic friends adieu, and, accompanied by my mother, started on my way to Mexico. Only a few months previous I had become a newspaperwoman. I was too impatient to work along at the usual duties assigned women on newspapers, so I conceived the idea of going away as a correspondent.
Three days after leaving Pittsburgh we awoke one morning to find ourselves in the lap of summer. For a moment it seemed a dream. When the porter had made up our bunks the evening previous, the surrounding country had been covered with a snowy blanket. When we awoke the trees were in leaf and the balmy breeze mocked our wraps.
The land was so beautiful. We gazed in wonder on the cotton-fields, which looked, when moved by the breezes, like huge, foaming breakers in their mad rush for the shore. And the cowboys! I shall never forget the first real, live cowboy I saw on the plains. The train was moving at a “putting-in-time” pace, as we came up to two horsemen. They wore immense sombreros, huge spurs, and had lassos hanging to the side of their saddles. I knew they were cowboys, so, jerking off a red scarf I waved it to them.
I was not quite sure how they would respond. From the thrilling and wicked stories I had read, I fancied they might begin shooting at me as quickly as anything else. However, I was surprised and delighted to see them lift their sombreros, in a manner not excelled by a New York exquisite, and urge their horses into a mad run after us.
Such a ride! The feet of the horses never seemed to touch the ground. By this time nearly all the passengers were watching the race between horse and steam. At last we gradually left them behind. I waved my scarf sadly in farewell, and they responded with their sombreros. I never felt as much reluctance for leaving a man behind as I did to leave those cowboys.
I shall never forget the sight of that waiting-room [at the El Paso, Texas, train station]. Men, women, and children, dogs and baggage, in one promiscuous mass. The dim light of an oil-lamp fell with dreary effect on the scene. Some were sleeping, lost for awhile to all the cares of life; some were eating; some were smoking, and a group of men were passing around a bottle occasionally as they dealt out a greasy pack of cards.
It was evident that we could not wait the glimpse of dawn ’mid these surroundings. With my mother’s arm still tightly clasped in mine, we again sought the outer darkness. I saw a man with a lantern on his arm, and went to him and asked directions to a hotel. He replied that they were all closed at this hour, but if I could be satisfied with a second-class house, he would conduct us to where he lived. We were only too glad for any shelter, so without one thought of where he might take us, we followed the light of his lantern as he went ahead.
El Paso, the American town, and El Paso del Norte (the pass to the north), the Mexican town, are separated, as New York from Brooklyn, as Pittsburgh from Allegheny. The Rio Grande, running swiftly between its low banks, its waves muddy and angry, or sometimes so low and still that one would think it had fallen asleep from too long duty, divides the two towns.
Communication is open between them by a ferryboat, which will carry you across for two and one half cents, by hack, buggies, and saddle horses, by the Mexican Central Railway, which transports its passengers from one town to the other, and a street-car line, the only international street-
car line in the world, for which it has to thank Texas capitalists.
It is not possible to find a greater contrast than these two cities form, side by side. El Paso is a progressive, lively, American town; El Paso del Norte is as far back in the Middle Ages, and as slow as it was when the first adobe hut was executed in 1680. It is rich with grass and shade trees, while El Paso is as spare of grass as a twenty-year-old youth is of beard.
At every station we obtained views of the Mexicans. As the train drew in, the natives, of whom the majority still retain the fashion of Adam, minus fig leaves, would rush up and gaze on the travelers in breathless wonder, and continue to look after the train as if it was the one event of their lives.
As we came to larger towns we could see armed horsemen riding at a 2:09 speed, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake, to the stations. When the train stopped they formed in a decorous line before it, and so remained until the train started again on its journey. I learned that they were a government guard. They do this so, if there is any trouble on the train or any raised at the station during their stop, they could quell it.
Hucksters and beggars constitute most of the crowd that welcomes the train. From the former we bought flowers, native fruit, eggs, goat milk, and strange Mexican food. The pear cacti, which is nursed in greenhouses in the States, grows wild on the plains to a height of twenty feet, and its great green lobes, or leaves, covered thickly with thorns, are frequently three feet in diameter.… It has a very cool and pleasing taste.
At larger towns a change for the better was noticeable in the clothing of the people. The most fashionable dress for the Mexican Indian was white muslin panteloons, twice as wide as those worn by the dudes last summer; a serape, as often cotton as wool, wrapped around the shoulders; a straw sombrero, and sometimes leather sandals bound to the feet with leather cords.
The women wear loose sleeveless waists with a straight piece of cloth pinned around them for skirts, and the habitual rebozo wrapped about the head and holding the equally habitual baby. No difference how cold or warm the day, nor how scant the lower garments, the serape and rebozo are never laid aside, and none seem too poor to own one. Apparently the natives do not believe much in standing, for the moment they stop walking they “hunker” down on the ground.
Never once during the three days did we think of getting tired, and it was with a little regret mingled with a desire to see more, that we knew when we awoke in the morning we would be in the City of Mexico.
“THE City of Mexico,” they had called. We got off, but we saw no city. We soon learned that the train did not go further, and that we would have to take a carriage to convey us the rest of the way.
Carriages lined the entrance to the station, and the cab-men were, apparently from their actions, just like those of the States. When they procure a permit for a carriage in Mexico, it is graded and marked. A first-class carriage carries a white flag, a second-class a blue flag, and a third-class a red flag. The prices are respectively, per hour: one dollar, seventy-five cents, and fifty cents. This is meant for a protection to travelers, but the drivers are very cunning. Often at night they will remove the flag and charge double prices, but they can be punished for it.
We soon arrived at the Hotel Yturbide, and were assigned rooms by the affable clerk. The hotel was once the home of the Emperor Yturbide. It is a large building of the Mexican style. The entrance takes one into a large, open court or square. All the rooms are arranged around this court, opening out into a circle of balconies.
The lowest floor in Mexico is the cheapest. The higher up one goes the higher they find the price. The reason of this is that at the top one escapes any possible dampness, and can get the light and sun.
Our room had a red brick floor. It was large, but had no ventilation except the glass doors which opened onto the balcony. There was a little iron cot in each corner of the room, a table, washstand, and wardrobe.
It all looked so miserable—like a prisoner’s cell—that I began to wish I was at home.
One continually sees poverty and wealth side by side in Mexico, and they don’t turn up their noses at each other either; the half-clad Indian has as much room on the Fifth Avenue of Mexico as the millionaire’s wife—not but what that land, as this, bows to wealth.
Policemen occupy the center of the street at every termination of a block, reminding one, as they look down the streets, of so many posts. They wear white caps with numbers on, blue suits, and nickel buttons. A mace now takes the place of the sword of former days. At night they don an overcoat and hood, which makes them look just like the pictures of veiled knights. Red lanterns are left in the street where the policemen stood during the daytime, while they retire to some doorway where, it is said, they sleep as soundly as their brethren in the States.
Among the most interesting things in Mexico are the customs followed by the people, which are quaint, and, in many cases, pretty and pleasing. Mexican politeness, while not always sincere, is vastly more agreeable than the courtesy current among Americans. Their pleasing manners seem to be inborn, yet the Mexican of Spanish descent cannot excel the Indian in courtesy, who, though ignorant, unable to read or write, could teach politeness to a Chesterfield. The moment they are addressed their hat is in hand. If they wish to pass they first beg your permission. Even a child, when learning to talk is the perfection of courtesy. If you ask one its name it will tell you, and immediately add, “I am your servant” or “Your servant to command.” This grows with them, and when past childhood they are as near perfection in this line as it is possible to be.
When woman meets woman then doesn’t come “the tug of war,” but instead the “hug and kissing;” the kissing is never on the lips, but while one kisses a friend on the right cheek, she is being kissed on the left, and then they change off and kiss the other side. Both sides must be kissed; this is repeated according to the familiarity existing between them, but never on the lips, although with an introduction the lips are touched. The hug—well, it is given in the same place as it is in other countries, and in a right tight and wholly earnest manner. From the first moment they are expected to address each other only by their Christian names, the family name never being used.
There are some really beautiful girls among this low class of people. Hair three quarters the length of the women, and of wonderful thickness, is common. It is often worn loose, but more frequently in two long plaits. Wigmakers find no employment here. The men wear long, heavy bangs.
Nine women out of ten in Mexico have babies. When at a very tender age, so young as five days, the babies are completely hidden in the folds of the rebozo and strung to the mother’s back, in close proximity to the mammoth baskets of vegetables on her head and suspended on either side of the human freight. When the babies get older their heads and feet appear, and soon they give their place to another or share their quarters, as it is no unusual sight to see a woman carry three babies at one time in her rebozo. They are always good. Their little coal-black eyes gaze out on what is to be their world, in solemn wonder. No baby smiles or babyish tears are ever seen on their faces. At the earliest date they are old, and appear to view life just as it is to them in all its blackness. They know no home, they have no school, and before they are able to talk they are taught to carry bundles on their heads or backs, or pack a younger member of the family while the mother carries merchandise, by which she gains a living. Their living is scarcely worth such a title. They merely exist. Thousands of them are born and raised on the streets. They have no home and were never in a bed. Going along the streets of the city late at night, you will find dark groups huddled in the shadows, which, on investigation, will turn out to be whole families gone to bed. They never lie down, but sit with their heads on their knees, and so pass the night.
… The Mexicans are certainly misrepresented, most wrongfully so. They are not lazy, but just the opposite. From early dawn until late at night they can be seen filling their different occupations.
On the street a wom
an is not permitted to recognize a man first. She must wait until he lifts his shining silk hat; then she raises her hand until on a level with her face, turns the palm inward, with the fingers pointing toward the face, then holds the first and fourth fingers still, and moves the two center ones in a quick motion; the action is very pretty, and the picture of grace when done by a Mexican senora, but is inclined to deceive the green American, and lead him to believe it is a gesture calling him to her side. When two women walk along together the youngest is always given the inside of the pavement, or if the younger happens to be married, she gets the outside—they are quite strict about this; also, if a gentleman is with a mother and daughters, he must walk with the mother and the girls must walk before them.
Tortillas is not only one of the great Mexican dishes but one of the women’s chief industries. In almost any street there can be seen women on their knees mashing corn between smooth stones, making it into a batter, and finally shaping it into round, flat cakes. They spit on their hands to keep the dough from sticking, and bake in a pan of hot grease, kept boiling by a few lumps of charcoal. Rich and poor buy and eat them, apparently unmindful of the way they are made. But it is a bread that Americans must be educated to. Many surprise the Mexicans by refusing even a taste after they see the bakers.
The frijoles, or beans, are served on a tortilla, a sort of corn-cake baked in the shape of a buckwheat cake. Another tortilla is folded together, and answers for a spoon. After finishing the beans it is not considered proper or polite unless you eat your spoon and plate.
The meat express does not, by any means, serve to make the meat more palatable. Generally an old mule or horse that has reached its second childhood serves for the express. A long, iron rod, from which hooks project, is fastened on the back of the beast by means of straps. The meat is hung on these hooks, where it is exposed to the mud and dirt of the streets as well as the hair of the animal. Men with two large baskets, one in front, one behind, filled with the refuse of meat, follow near by. If they wear trousers they have them rolled up high so the blood from the dripping meat will not soil them, but run down their bare legs and be absorbed in the sand. It is asserted that the poor do not allow this mixture in the basket to go to waste, but are as glad to get it as we are to get sirloin steak.
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