Then came the problem of the gun crews. Our Indians, slow, thick-headed, stubborn and stolid, were no fit material for such highly specialized work. Machine gun manipulation requires special qualifications in every man concerned. Three men compose the crew. One squats behind the shield and pulls the trigger. The second, prone, slides the clips of cartridges into the breach. The third passes up the supply of ammunition. At any moment the gun may heat and jam. Also, at any moment any one of the trio may fall, yet his work must be carried on. I have seen a gunner sit on the dying body of a comrade and coolly aim and fire, the action being so hot there was not time to drag the wounded man aside. You cannot take an Indian wild from the hills and in twenty-one days fit him to do such work as that by any course of training. My only resort was to get my gun crews ready made. A brigade not far away from ours possessed machine gun platoons which were the pride of its heart. I looked at them, and broke first the Tenth and then the Eight Commandment. To a wise old sergeant I gave a hundred pesos. “Juan,” I told him, “get the men of those machine gun crews drunk in this quarter of Torreon. And encourage them to be noisy.” Juan obeyed instructions. Once the beer and mezcal took hold, the men I wanted became boisterous enough to justify our provost guard in running them all in. The rest was simple. The breach of discipline was condoned by Gen. Rodriguez only on condition that the culprits were turned over to him for further discipline. So I got my gun crews. I was beginning to have hopes. The best saddler in the city was making holsters. When I first approached him with an order he had promptly thrown up his hands. “There is not a scrap of leather left in Torreon,” he said. I instantly thought of chair backs. In Spanish countries furniture upholstered in old carved Cordovan leather is an heirloom. In time of war ruthlessness is a useful quality. I soon presented my saddler with sufficient leather for my purpose and could turn my attention to pack saddles. Not even the sawbuck frames were procurable in Torreon, but wood was plenty. And there was a jail filled with idle prisoners. Ten days after the first sight of my guns I was able to report to Gen. Rodriguez that the platoons were coming along. “But I have no mules for them yet,” I hinted. He sent a hundred next day, beauties, fat, strong, in the pink of condition. But they had come straight down from the mesa. They could be trusted to kick saddles, guns, tripods, holsters and ammunition cases into nothing at the least provocation. Torreon was celebrating its new Constitutionalism with daily bull fights. Each afternoon, while the fight was on, the plaza before the entrance to the ring was crowded with public rigs in waiting, all drawn by sorry-looking mules, half fed and too worn out to have a single kick left in them.