MESSING AROUND IN MEXICO 



It was well on toward evening when we met 

 Macario and eight dust-coated desert mock- 

 ing-birds straggling through the cactus. With 

 them was a lean six-foot Maduro brigand, 

 wearing the mustache of a walrus and the 

 name of Angel. At sight of our pack animals, 

 his and Macario 's eyes protruded like those 

 of our unhappy water carrier; with exclama- 

 tions of wonderment and admiration they 

 unwrapped the animal as if he were a broken 

 leg and gently massaged his vital organs back 

 into place. Then they showed us how they 

 could secure a steel tank in place with a couple 

 of simple turns. 



They had brought with them a collection of 

 antique saddles, or the skeletons thereof, and, 

 selecting the stoutest animal in the group, 

 they indicated that I was to climb into the 

 middle of him. For a six-foot man to get on 

 a burro is about as perilous as mounting a 

 sawbuck; it strains nothing but the rider's 

 self-respect. I like burros; I had vowed that 

 I would rather walk across the peninsula than 

 inflict my avoirdupois upon a brute too small 

 to carry a tune, but after ten miles afoot in 

 that desert I would have sat on a ground- 

 squirrel. However, my relief was short-lived. 



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