He laughed at the
idea of danger and said I was not likely to find any one, even if I
was anxious to do so, until I got to the La Bolso Ranch near the Gulf.
They would be glad to see me. He thought it was likely to prove
uninteresting unless I intended to hunt wild hogs, but that was
useless without dogs, and I would have trouble getting a gun past the
custom officers. His advice was to talk with the Mexican consul, as he
might know some one who could bring me back by horseback.
In the consul I found a young Spaniard, all affability, bows, and
gestures; and without being conscious of it at first I too began
making motions. He deplored my lack of knowledge of the Spanish
language, laughed at any suggestion of trouble, as all trouble was in
Eastern Sonora, he said, separated from the coast by two hundred miles
of desert, and stated that the non-resident owner of the La Bolsa
cattle ranch happened to be in the building at that moment. In a
twinkling he had me before him and explained the situation. This
gentleman, the owner of a 600,000-acre grant, and the fishing
concession of the Gulf, stated that the ranch drove a team to Yuma
once a week, that they would bring me back; in the interval I must
consider myself the guest of the Rancho La Bolsa. The consul gave me a
passport, and so it was all arranged.
In spite of the consul's opinion, there were many whispered rumours of
war, of silent automobiles loaded with firearms that stole out of town
under cover of the night and returned in four days, and another of a
river channel that could be followed and was followed, the start being
made, not from Yuma, but from another border town farther west.
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