A year
before there had been an outbreak at this place of certain restless
spirits,--some whites included,--and they went along the northern line
of Mexico, sacking the ranches and terrorizing the people. The La
Bolsa ranch was among those that suffered. The party contained some
discharged vaqueros who were anxious to interview the ranch foreman,
but fortunately for him he was absent. Then they turned south to
Chihuahua and joined the army of Madero. War, to them, meant license
to rob and kill. They were not insurrectos, but bandits, and this was
the class that was most feared.
Meanwhile I had not given up the idea of a possible companion. Before
coming to Yuma I had entertained hopes of getting some one with a
motor boat to take me down and back, but there were no motor boats, I
found. The nearest approach to a power boat was an attempt that was
being made to install the engine from a wrecked steam auto on a sort
of flat-bottomed scow. I heard of this boat three or four times, and
in each case the information was accompanied by a smile and some vague
remarks about a "hybrid." I hunted up the owner,--the proprietor of a
shooting gallery,--a man who had once had aspirations as a
heavy-weight prize fighter, but had met with discouragement. So he had
turned his activities to teaching the young idea how to
shoot--especially the "Mexican idea" and those other border spirits
who were itching for a scrap.
The proprietor of the shooting gallery drove a thriving trade.
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