120 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 



would be more murders," quoth a sheriff to me 

 once. 



"How so?" 



"Because in this arid territory, with its wide ex- 

 panse of desert, criminals are forced to return to 

 civilization for water. More water holes, more 

 crime! See?" 



Gophers are a plague throughout the southwest. 

 Their tunnels are disastrous in orchards and al- 

 falfa, and under old adobe houses unprotected by 

 cement foundations. Bravo, the loyal guard dog of 

 early ranching years, a Mexican with the courage 

 of his opinions, was an expert on the gopher situa- 

 tion and a flood inspired him with joyous anticipa- 

 tions. When the rising tide drives the animals out 

 of their holes then arrives Bravo's hour. Silent 

 and zealous he speeds from hole to hole, and with 

 one snap of his strong white teeth breaks the back 

 of the emerging rodent. His successor, Hilda, the 

 huge St. Bernard, plays the craven before the for- 

 midable tusks of the gopher. Not so little Betsinda. 

 She is a true sport. The report of a gun sends her 

 into ecstasies, and the privilege of accompanying 

 a hunter is her idea of heaven. Cortes, on the con- 

 trary, goes into retreat if I even handle a revolver 

 in his presence. Betsinda retrieves with neatness 

 and despatch until her plump little body and short 

 legs give out. She can crack a gopher's back with 

 a dexterity equal to that of Bravo himself. 



One irrigating day Juan brings a slightly dis- 

 abled gopher into the garden. Betsinda hustles off 

 the porch in a hurry. 



