Some two years later he was building a railway out of St. Luis Potosi, in Mexico. He had a strike amongst his men, and was advised to leave camp till the men quieted down. He started off, much against his will, and the men, seeing him go, started after him, calling him a coward, and daring him to come back and fight; at last one or two threw stones at him. He restrained himself as long as he could, but at this last insult he lost his head, jumped off his horse, drew his pistol, and ran back at the crowd. When he got close enough to shoot he found, to his horror and disgust, that his gun was jammed with rust. While he was looking at it and trying to cock it a Mexican made a stab at his throat. He saw the flash and ducked, and the knife took him in the cheek, the point passing out the other side, and loosening some of his teeth. Before the Mexican could use his knife again he was shot and dropped dead, and another Mexican who was in the act of stabbing Himan in the back was also shot. At this the rest of them ran, and Himan turned to find his rescuer was a little Spanish “cabo,” or foreman, who had followed with a Winchester to see that Himan got safely out of the camp. Himan and his cabo had the usual trouble with the Mexican authorities, and lay in jail for some time, but finally got clear. When I next met Himan he told me that he had learned his lesson, and would never be caught napping again, as he cleaned and oiled his gun every day. He wanted me to go back and work for him, but at that time I had no idea that I wanted anything to do with Mexico. CHAPTER XIII Swimming-holes—Hunting in West Texas—Fishing in Nueces River—Jim Conners—Foreman Betner—A runaway car. About a mile above the Cline mines there used to be a splendid swimming-hole, some 12 or 14 feet deep, with a sandy bottom, and a large flat rock on the bank to dress on. Many an exciting game of catch and water polo we had there during my first year at the mines. But I shall never forget my first swim in this hole. A week or so after I arrived, I asked where a man could get a swim, as the creek at the mines was shallow, with a muddy bottom. A young fellow offered to show me a good place, and, as no one else seemed to want to go, we started off together, and he took me to the hole I have mentioned. When we arrived, he “guessed” he would not go in, so I stripped and dived in by myself, while he sat on the rock and watched me. After I had been in some ten minutes he drawled out, “Say! do you know why I and the other boys do not want to go in swimming?” “No,” I said. “Why?” “Well,” he said, "we’re some scared of the alligators." I was out of the water in a flash, and then he began to laugh, and laughed all the way back to camp, where he told all the other boys, and they certainly had lots of fun at my expense. It turned out that there was not an alligator nearer than 100 miles of us.