“With my pony saddled, I mounted and was off on the path of adventure again. All that night I followed the trail, and by morning found myself over the Border and in Mexico. It was here that I decided to execute a bit of strategy. In my kit I had, in accordance with a half–formed scheme which had come into my mind before I set out, placed some Mexican–looking garments. As I spoke the language well and was dark enough to be taken for a Mexican anyhow, I didn’t think I’d have much difficulty in making myself out a native of the country in which I then was. “You can readily see why I adopted this precaution. Mexicans always have, and always will, hate the Gringoes. They can’t help it any more than they can help their skins being dark. It’s bred in them, I suppose. So ‘into the enemy’s country’ as it were, I proceeded, feeling much more secure in my disguise. “I soon had a chance to learn how nearly I approached to the character I had assumed. About noon that same day, after crossing a rather barren stretch of country covered with giant yuccas and stunted trees, I came in sight of a clump of willows, amidst which smoke was rising. At first my heart gave a bound. I knew I was still on Alvarez’s trail and for an instant I thought that he and his band were right ahead of me. “But I was speedily undeceived. As I drew closer I saw that there was an adobe hut amidst the willows, and leaning on a gate in a tumble–down barb wire fence was a wild, unkempt figure, evidently that of the proprietor of the small, lonely ranch. Beards are rare among Mexicans, therefore I was somewhat surprised to see that the man I was approaching had one that almost reached his waist. “On his face it reached his eyes, forming a little mask of hair, from amid which a pair of cunning, deep–set eyes scrutinized me closely. I bid the fellow good–day in Mexican and asked if I could rest and eat there, as well as obtain hay and water for my pony. He appeared to hesitate an instant, but then came to a sudden resolution. He swung the gate open with surly hospitality, and with a wave of his hand invited me to come in. “I was not slow to accept the invitation. While he led the pony to an adobe barn in the rear of the place I entered the house. It was just like any other Mexican residence. Dark, cool and bare, except for chairs and a rough table. On the porch, roofed with willow boughs, was the inevitable water–cooler, or ‘olla,’ of porous earthenware. My host soon returned from his task of stabling the horse and informed me that he was keeping bachelor’s hall. His wife, he said, was away visiting friends in another part of the province.