I had imagined that it would be beside the river, and
that guards would be seen patrolling the shore. But aside from an
Indian fishing, there was no one to be seen. We walked out to the
custom-house, gave a list of the few things which we had, assured them
that we carried no guns, paid our duty, and departed. We had imagined
that our boat would be inspected, but no one came near.
The border line makes a jog here at the river and the Arizona-Mexico
line was still a few miles down the stream. We had passed the mouth of
the old silt-dammed Colorado channel, which flowed a little west of
south; and we turned instead to the west into the spreading delta or
moraine. About this time I remarked that I had seen no store at the
custom-house and that I must not neglect to get provisions at the next
one or we would be rather short.
"We passed our last custom-house back there." Al replied, "That's
likely the last place we will see until we get to the ranch by the
Gulf."
No custom-house! No store! This was a surprise. What was a border for
if not to have custom-houses and inspectors? With all the talk of
smuggling I had not thought of anything else. And I could tell by Al's
tone that his estimation of my foresight had dropped several degrees.
This was only natural, for his disappointment and the jibes still
rankled.
At last we were wholly in Mexican territory. With the States behind,
all of our swiftly running water had departed, and we now travelled on
a stream that was nearly stagnant.
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