It was reflection such as this, only more serious and perhaps somewhat desperate, that had brought Gale down to the border.  For some time the newspapers had been printing news of Mexican revolution, guerrilla warfare, United States cavalry patrolling the international line, American cowboys fighting with the rebels, and wild stories of bold raiders and bandits.  But as opportunity, and adventure, too, had apparently given him a wide berth in Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, he had struck southwest for the Arizona border, where he hoped to see some stirring life.  He did not care very much what happened.  Months of futile wandering in the hope of finding a place where he fitted had inclined Richard to his father’s opinion.

It was after dark one evening in early October when Richard arrived in Casita.  He was surprised to find that it was evidently a town of importance.  There was a jostling, jabbering, sombreroed crowd of Mexicans around the railroad station.  He felt as if he were in a foreign country.  After a while he saw several men of his nationality, one of whom he engaged to carry his luggage to a hotel.  They walked up a wide, well-lighted street lined with buildings in which were bright windows.  Of the many people encountered by Gale most were Mexicans.  His guide explained that the smaller half of Casita lay in Arizona, the other half in Mexico, and of several thousand inhabitants the majority belonged on the southern side of the street, which was the boundary line.  He also said that rebels had entered the town that day, causing a good deal of excitement.

Gale was almost at the end of his financial resources, which fact occasioned him to turn away from a pretentious hotel and to ask his guide for a cheaper lodging-house.  When this was found, a sight of the loungers in the office, and also a desire for comfort, persuaded Gale to change his traveling-clothes for rough outing garb and boots.

“Well, I’m almost broke,” he soliloquized, thoughtfully.  “The governor said I wouldn’t make any money.  He’s right—­so far.  And he said I’d be coming home beaten.  There he’s wrong.  I’ve got a hunch that something ’ll happen to me in this Greaser town.”

He went out into a wide, whitewashed, high-ceiled corridor, and from that into an immense room which, but for pool tables, bar, benches, would have been like a courtyard.  The floor was cobblestoned, the walls were of adobe, and the large windows opened like doors.  A blue cloud of smoke filled the place.  Gale heard the click of pool balls and the clink of glasses along the crowded bar.  Bare-legged, sandal-footed Mexicans in white rubbed shoulders with Mexicans mantled in black and red.  There were others in tight-fitting blue uniforms with gold fringe or tassels at the shoulders.  These men wore belts with heavy, bone-handled guns, and evidently were the rurales, or native policemen.  There were black-bearded, coarse-visaged Americans, some gambling round the little tables, others drinking.  The pool tables were the center of a noisy crowd of younger men, several of whom were unsteady on their feet.  There were khaki-clad cavalrymen strutting in and out.