NORTH SHORE BREEZE 
Stories of the Old Southwest 
Where Nothing Lives But Spiders, Snakes and Lizards 
By M. J. BROWN 
From Del Rio I started on a walk 
along tle Kio Grande one morning. 
I thought I might see some few 
signs, of present or past troubles; 
or a fierce-looking rurale riding along 
on the opposite shore, and some tan- 
ned face American guard on Uncle 
Sam’s side of the river. 
But everything was as quiet as a 
July day on a Kansas prarie, Noth- 
ing stirring. 
Farther along the road turned di- 
rectly toward the river, and I stayed 
with it. I saw a little tower with a 
watchman in it. I slowed up a little 
so he could come down and “frish” 
me, but he paid no attention, I didn’t 
know but he might think I had a can- 
non or two that I was taking over to 
Huerta. 
Beyond was a ferry boat for teams, 
but it was evidently on a minimum 
hour schedule. It wasn’t working. 
Beside it was a crude raft, and a 
Mexican asleep on the bank. 
I walked onto the raft, when he 
came to, picked up a long pole and 
shoved off. The river was so low 
and shallow that I could almost have 
forded it. He shoved the raft across, 
asked for ten cents and went back to 
sleep, 
On the Mexican side I walked up 
the river a short distance and looked 
at the little Mexican town of Las 
Vecas. I wanted to go over and take 
it in, but I had been told at the hotel 
it would not be safe, unless there was 
a bunch of Americans; that one alone 
would find trouble and not be able 
to report it; that Mexicans would 
purposely irritate the American until 
he started something, and then they 
would end it—and the “gringo,” 
American. With no help or wit- 
nesses, it is not safe in any Mexican 
town at this writing. 
So I contented myself walking 
along on Huerta’s bank of the yel- 
low stream wondering how much 
longer it would mark the dividing 
line of two countries, and looking 
south across the sun-baked cow land 
to where there were seventeen kinds 
of Mexican trouble. 
I roused the Mexican and went 
back to Woodrow Wilson’s country. 
The man in the box passed me by 
again, but I stopped and talked with 
him, and asked him what prevented 
wholesale smuggling over this river. 
“Nothing to smuggle,” he answer- 
ed. “Once in a while a Mex will 
sneak over with some mescal (whis- 
key) but it is of little Value when he 
gets it over, and not worth sticking a 
rurale for.” 
“There is not a city or town of 
any importance for miles. There is 
nothing to smuggle and no smuggl- 
ing.” 
And so it seemed to me—then, 
I walked along the American side 
for a long distance, and returning 
met as tough looking a plug-ugly as 
I had ever seen. 
He asked me for “the makings” 
and when I reached out the Durham 
and papers I got a toe hold ready for 
a quick get away. I figured if that 
fellow got my coin he would have to 
beat a record 200-yard dash, 
He lighted the cigarette, sat down 
and began to talk. I asked him what 
was to prevent smuggling across the 
river, and he said Huntsville state 
prison, that ‘the game was too poor 
pay for the risks (so he was told) 
and that there was little of it done. 
He then opened up on me with a 
fire of questions, and finally asked 
how long I had been in the business. 
He suspicioned I was a revenue ofh- 
cial—in disguise I guess. 
I showed him some letters address- 
ed to me in Oregon but two weeks 
back date, and told him I was a news- 
paper man looking for a living. 
For the next half hour there was 
an interesting conversation down on 
the Rio Grande. The man was a 
smuggler, was anything and every- 
thing, and he thought by my first 
question I was looking for someone 
to get the stuff across, and had been 
sent to him, 
And when I became wised, then I 
pretended not to be certain he was 
all right, and then we sparred, feint- 
ed and chased each other around the 
ring. 
And finaly he said he was all in, 
was sick and was open to anything 
to make a hundred dollars. He said 
he had come up from down the coast, 
knew that all kinds of opium and all 
kinds of pig tails were brought across 
the border, and that he was just in 
the frame of mind to do a night’s 
work for anyone, 
And when I did not reply, he said 
if it was anything to TAKE across 
(to the Mexican side) he thought he 
could arrange for that kind of a deal 
3 
—if I had any friends I could trust 
in Mexico. 
I finally told him I would meet 
him in the same place two days later 
—and he may be waiting yet. 
This fellow told me that it was a 
“pipe” to get the small stuff (opium 
and the like) across (so he had beeu 
told.. He said there were hundreds 
of miles of river that simply could 
not be patroled, all a fellow needed 
was a boat and a dark night. He said 
a friend would lend him the boat and 
God would let him have the darkness. 
The man had a face that would 
scare children. He was one of the 
typical toughs that live along the riv- 
er, open for any job from sneaking 
a Chinaman to sticking a knife into 
a Mexican rurale, 
I told a traveling man of my meet- 
ing and he said he knew that large 
quantities of opium and many China- 
men were smuggled across the river 
constantly, and that there was no 
way to prevent it—the river stretch 
of hundreds of miles simply couid 
not be protected, and the man who 
had a partner down on the coast 
could work up a very profitable bus- 
iness with no great risk. But he said 
the war game had practically put a 
stop to the business, 
I have been in most every country 
in Texas and New Mexico, and 
through much of Arizona, and I 
thought I had seen the most of the 
great American Desert, but in Sep- 
tember, 1913, I saw THE real desert, 
and the other wastes were almost al- 
falfa fields by comparison, 
If you want to find the real dead 
land, the country of thirst and the 
home of silence, start at about Need- 
les, Cal., and go west about fifty 
miles—not on a pullman, but on a 
pony or a camp wagon. 
I didn’t make the fifty miles. I 
intended to have, but a dozen miles 
showed my yellow streak and when 
a train stopped at a little desert de- 
pot (for orders or to cool off) I quit 
the outfit and got onto a cushion, 
I had met a rancher who was going 
across. I wanted the experience. He 
gave me a cordial invitation with free 
transportation and grub, and he said 
he would load me down with Indian 
relics at the end. 
Looks good to talk about, such a 
trip, but necessity, grim old have to, 
is all that will force a man to make 
it. I was only out about three hours, 
and in the early part of the day, but 
I would have given my last dollar 
if it had been necessary, to have got- 
ten a seat in the day coach of that 
train. 
But I will never forget the sights 
