In the little settlement on the Rio Grande, situated¹ at the terminus of the short line of railroad, the five encountered a Mexican, who, for a few coins, piloted them to a place along the river where the banks were so shelving that for a great part of the way horses could wade² across.

 

At a lonely, deserted³ spot the Americans set foot in Mexico—that land of revolution and turmoil—a land that may truthfully boast of the most wonderful resources, yet within the confines of which can be found the greatest of poverty and misery⁶.

 

After riding over a rough and rugged⁷ trail, nearly always in sight of a range of distant snow-clad mountains, the men and boys, hot, dusty and tired, reached the quaint⁸ little frontier town about four o’clock in the afternoon.

 

The action of the United States Government in sending war-ships to Vera Cruz and landing[90] marines and soldiers at that port was of a too recent occurrence for the hot-headed Mexicans to have forgotten their anger and resentment⁹. Therefore as the foam-flecked, steaming mustangs jogged slowly along the main street an occasional cry of “Gringo” generally uttered by some youthful voice rose above the sound of trampling¹⁰ hoofs¹¹.

 

Here and there picturesque¹² little towers rose against the sky. Then the characteristic Mexican balconies, over the railings of which many a gaudily-colored rug was thrown; the pots of flowers in bloom; the semi-tropical vegetation and the traces, still to be seen on many sides, of the days when the Spaniards held control, all combined to form scenes full of interest and color.

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