While working our way along the trail through almost impassable brush we entered a small glade and came upon the stolen stock quietly grazing. On the opposite side of them a Mexican with a Winchester stood guard while his horse grazed nearby. The guard fired on us as he ran to his horse and we were compelled to run around the cattle to get to the thief. We fired our guns as we ran and this sudden noise frightened the loose pony so the fugitive was unable to mount. He was then forced to dive into the brush on foot. Knowing we could make no headway through the heavy tornilla bosque we dismounted and charged it on foot. The fleeing Mexican undertook to run through a muddy slough formed by back water from the Rio Grande. Here he bogged but, extracting himself, he backed out the way he had entered and found safety in the friendly brush. In running to where he was last seen we found his gun abandoned in the mud. Some twenty or thirty shots were fired at him and while none found the mark we captured his Winchester, his pony and thirty-six head of stolen cattle and gave him a scare that he will remember so long as he lives. The cattle were returned to Mr. King, who kindly presented us with $200 for their recovery. We learned later that Frank Stevenson, a notorious rustler, whose rendezvous was in this Canutillo brush, had stolen these cattle and had left the Mexican in charge of them while he had gone into El Paso to effect their sale. As described in a previous chapter, I finally captured Stevenson and he was sent to the penitentiary for fifteen years for horse stealing. His capture and imprisonment broke up the Canutillo gang, and today, forty years after his arrest, the upper Rio Grande Valley is almost an Eden on earth with its fine apple and peach orchards, its alfalfa fields, big dairy herds and elegant homes. It is one of the beauty spots adjacent to the now fine city of El Paso. The Santa Fe Railroad traverses this valley, and I sometimes travel over it. As I sit in an easy seat in the Pullman and look out over the country I always reflect on the past and wonder how many of its present inhabitants know what a wilderness and what a rendezvous it once was for all kinds of cutthroats, cattle thieves and murderers.