Texas' Peyote Hunters Struggle to Find a Vanishing, Holy Crop

One Indian from South Dakota called Morales and told him he would come down to his place the next day. The man had been visiting Morales for decades, and like many Indians, he had formed a friendship with the peyotero. The Indian brought 20 people to pray for Morales in his little peyote garden behind his house. In the garden, Morales has clumps of old peyote—chiefs—as well as ultrarare specimens of the star cactus, a super-potent, highly endangered plant in the same family as peyote.

"I was so sick," Morales says. "I didn't think I could make it in the teepee—you've got to be in there all night long. I got up at 5 a.m. to go out. I didn't want to go back in. It's so hot in there, and I'm sweating."

Still, he went back in. Morales, who had spent the majority of his life working around peyote, had never used it. Now, with his Indian friends praying over him, he took the medicine.

"I've only taken it when I've been real sick," he says. Days later, Morales started gaining weight. He got off the couch and was able to walk without pain. He's not sure how it worked, but he's convinced that the medicine—along with the Indians' prayers—healed him. Now, when they come back to Morales' place, he cuts them a deal, selling them bags of peyote at $200 a piece, which amounts to a significant discount from his regular price of $350.

"You've got to have faith in the medicine," he says. "Without faith, it won't work."

Morales says he's seen the medicine work for others as well. The most miraculous case he's seen happened when his brother was dying in the hospital. A doctor called Morales to tell him the brother had two days left. Morales started calling his family. At the same time, a group of Indians was visiting him to stock up on peyote before heading back to Arizona.

"One of them told me to write my brother's name on a piece of paper," he said. Morales wrote the name—Ajeo—and the Indians left. He didn't ask the Indians' names because he didn't believe it would work. "They told me not to worry because my brother wasn't going to die."

The family gathered at the hospital, thinking that it would only be a matter of hours. Days passed, and Ajeo held on. He didn't die for another six months. Weeks after the Indians left, one of them called Morales.

"He asked how my brother was doing," he says. "I said that he was still alive. He said it was the medicine. They were praying for him."

Other terminally ill people have turned up at Morales' door, looking for medicine. He would like to be able to help them, but if he deals to the wrong people, Morales' license to sell peyote could be revoked.

"One woman drove here from San Antonio," he says. "She had been taking chemo, and it wasn't working. Nothing had really worked for her, and someone had mentioned the medicine. But she didn't have the papers, so I had to turn her away.

"If you don't have papers, I can't sell to you," he says. Then, with a little smile, he adds, "but I can tell you where you might find it."

As Morales explains the magical power of the medicine, he inspects his supply. So far, business has been slow for the winter. It was still deer season in early January and Morales couldn't harvest much peyote if he wanted to. He sold about 5,000 buttons for December, which means that he netted around $1,750. Subtract wages for his handful of part-time workers, and it becomes clear that Morales isn't making much money, even though the price of peyote has more than doubled in the past 10 years.

He keeps thousands of buttons ready to sell. Stored in large wooden trays behind his house, some of them are covered by tarps and others by a makeshift roof. There's little security to protect his supply, but he says he's never had a problem with theft.