The
aroma of coffee came from a pot on the stove. As I steadied myself at
the bow I touched a crumpled flag,--Mexican, I thought,--but I could
not see. Both figures sat facing us, with rifles in their hands, alert
and ready for a surprise. Smugglers! I thought; guns, I imagined. They
could not see our faces in the dark, neither could we distinguish
theirs. Judging by their voices they were young men. I thought from
the first that they were Mexicans, but they talked without accent.
They could see that we carried no arms, but their vigilance was not
relaxed. They asked what our trouble was and we told them of the
beached boat, what we had been doing, and why we were there. They said
they were out for a little sight-seeing trip down in the Gulf. They
might go to Tiburone Island. One of them wondered if it was true that
the natives were cannibals. He said he would not care about being
shot, but he would hate to be put in their stew-pot. We asked them how
much water they carried. A fifteen-gallon keg was all They hoped to
get more along the coast. It is quite well known there is none. They
professed to be uninformed about the country, did not know there was a
ranch or a tidal bore, and thanked us for our information about the
tides, and the advice to fill their keg when the water was lowest,
which would be in half an hour. They could not sell any provisions,
but gave us a quart of flour.
As we talked an undermined bank toppled over, sounding like shots from
a gun.
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