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Boregas and Tanakas 
I.—A Mountain Sheep Hunt in Lower California 
—Getting Under Way 
By DOUBLE BARREL 
O N the morning of Oct. 22, J. G. M. and I 
swung off the train at Yuma, Arizona, 
thus completing the first stage of our 
journey to that far famed paradise of sheep- 
lumters, Lower California. For months we had 
been in correspondence with the Mexican Gov¬ 
ernment concerning the necessary permits. 
These had finally been given us, and now, 
burdened with rifles and baggage, we left the 
main line of the railway in order to take a little 
branch line to Calexico, Cal., where our outfit 
under Captain Funcke was to meet us. 
As we had at least five hours in Yuma, and 
it was early morning, we wandered up into the 
business quarter of that historic post. A cer¬ 
tain savor of the frontier still hung around the 
streets. The population was of every breed, 
white, Indian, negro, greaser and Chinese, with 
a liberal sprinkling of blends of all of these. 
There were a large number of cow ponies, a 
few of the typical cowboys of the magazine 
story, and also two or three Indians who still 
clung to long hair and a dash of paint for 
decoration. But, alas for romance, the blank 
walls of the historic town of Fort Yuma were 
gay with huge posters, which announced that in 
a short time Buffalo Bill’s Wild West would 
display its wonders and give the inhabitants 
their fill of Indians and stage robbers. When 
Buffalo Bill plays to crowds on the frontier of 
Arizona, the old West is gone indeed! 
Noon saw us off from Yuma in a combination 
freight and passenger train bound for Calexico. 
The road ran through Mexico and then re¬ 
turned into the United States at Calexico, and 
at the border we were stopped by the Mexican 
customs officials. It seemed that our permit 
was to cross the line at Mexica’i, near Calex¬ 
ico, and here we were crossing at another point 
with several firearms which were strictly for¬ 
bidden entry into Lower California. At last, 
after much discussion in Spanish between the 
Mexican officials and an officer of the railway 
company and much examination of permits, our 
guns were sealed and we were allowed to pro¬ 
ceed. For three hours the train chugged its 
way through the dust of the desert and finally 
drew into Mexicali. 
There we were greeted by a small wiry man 
with one eye, and that the brightest that ever 
shone in a human face. He introduced him¬ 
self as Captain Funcke, our guide, outfitter and 
friend for the next four weeks. He at once 
bundled our traps in a wagon, we all climbed in 
and drove to the Mexican custom house. A 
Mexican of much dignity was in charge, and 
A DECAPITATED BISNAGA. 
though he received us with cordiality, he finally 
told us that it was too late on Saturday to 
clear our guns that evening and we would 
have to wait until Monday. Sunday in Calexico 
and Mexicali failed to appeal to us; therefore 
I had the interpreter tell the senor to keep his 
clerks as late as necessary and we would pay 
them for their trouble. At once the impossible 
became possible. A couple of clerks began to 
bang like mad on American typewriters, and we 
were told to return after supper. 
We again mounted our wagon, and driving 
a couple of hundred yards through the adobe 
huts of Mexicali, we crossed the international 
boundary and drew up before a good sized brick 
building, the hotel in Calexico. There was not 
a little packing to be done before we could 
leave in the morning, and we determined to 
complete the clearing of the guns that evening. 
Captain Funcke and I met the customs officer 
at seven, I signed various mysterious Spanish 
documents, paid the duty on the cartridges, plus 
the promised bonus. Thereupon the senor and 
his retainers led us into an inner room where 
we were served refreshments. 
A start with a packtrain is a slow thing at 
best, and our start from Calexico next morning 
was particularly so, as Captain Funcke had nis 
packs and burros at a ranch five miles outside 
Calexico, and we had to ride to the ranch on 
our horses with our supplies accompanying 11s 
in a wagon, and then pack and start from there. 
The ranch is an irrigated farm of several hun¬ 
dred acres owned by some Americans. We 
lunched there, and started finally at one-thirty 
in good order, the guide and the two hunters 
leading, then five pack animals, of which four 
were burros with packs. The rear guard con¬ 
sisted of Elmo, a gaunt Mexican, nearly pure 
Indian, and Louis Jackson, the negro cook. 
We all looked prepared for the desert except 
Louis, who was clad in low tan shoes, green 
socks, light flannel trousers and a gay shirt. He 
was by far the most stylish member of the 
party. 
Our rifles Captain Funcke examined with 
much interest. I carried a new double hammer¬ 
less ejector rifle weighing* seven pounds, made 
in Strassburg. It takes a very powerful 8 m.m. 
cartridge loaded with 45 grains of high velocity 
smokeless powder and a 200-grain soft-nose 
bullet. I had previously killed much big game 
with a double rifle, but this was a new acquisi¬ 
tion built to meet all my ideas. In workman¬ 
ship, finish and engraving it is a thing of beauty, 
but owing to delays in the custom house, I had 
had no chance to try it. J. G. M.’s gun was 
more out of the ordinary. It was the original 
German game getter, having three barrels—a 
pair of rifle barrels above and a twelve-gauge 
shot barrel below. The rifle barrels take a .405 
cartridge, and the gun weighs oniy 8 T /2 pounds 
and is as pretty and handy a weapon as anyone 
could wish for. It was a present from a friend 
in Germany and had already proved itself a 
weapon of great reliability and accuracy. Be¬ 
sides these, we had my shotgun and a spare 
rifle. 
As I had already killed some good rams in 
the North, while J. G. M. had never hunted 
sheep, we planned that he should hunt with 
Captain Funcke, while I would hunt with Eleno. 
It appalled me to think that I could speak no 
Spanish, while Eleno was equally ignorant of 
