Making a fire after a long day in the boat and not thinking there was
anyone else for miles; rather there was not, as the nearest place is
the line between two states where a number of "bad men" have settled.
When the soldiers from one state come for any of them (if they ever
do) the men can step over the line. Well, we were getting wood and
one of us came out of the night with a fellow walking behind, knife
in hand (such a foolish thing; why not in front?) A canoe slid out of
the fog with two muffled women astern, and three more men who got out
and stood round the fire. As they had their knives out, one of us left
fishing in the boat and passed guns round to our side. Then we talked
and ate. They were very free and easy villains but went off into the
fog again all right. After keeping watch awhile we went to sleep.
"THE WEARY PLOUGHBOY."
"The weary ploughboy homeward bound," and not knowing one day from
another here we were ploughing with bullocks when a man riding by
said: "Thought you English did not work Sundays." My brother was
wild; he threw the ear ropes down and wanted to know "If he'd lived
all these years and traveled all these miles to plough Sundays with
adjectived bullocks in a condemned country!" Bullocks are trying. The
Reverend--looking out of the train at Frayle Muerto saw an Englishman
swearing wonderfully at his bullocks. The Reverend told him to be
gentle; the man being angry threw his ropes down, telling the Reverend
to take them around himself. The Reverend did so; and it is said
that by the time he got around--well you can guess. We got a little
two-wheeled cart and with a broncho not used to driving. Some one
behind him with his leather belt and buckle; and a peon on a horse
in front to pull him along, and so across camp to a railway and my
brother went back to England. The rest of the outfit got home somehow.
[Illustration: Nineteen Miles to Go Across Camp and "The Day is
Departing, de-par-ar-ting."]