Life on the border had hit a dry spell for some unknown reason. Not a ---- thing had happened, was happening or seemed about to happen. For approximately four months the border patrolmen, of which, at times, I had the honor to be one, were slowly dying of dry-rot. We galloped up and down the frisky Rio Grande from Brownsville to San Diego, including waystations, with our customary eagerness to spot something of interest in connection with smuggling, rustling and other diversions of the Spigs and American renegades, but we were like a bunch of mosquitoes sucking on a piece of marble. The McMullen flight, which I decorated with my lanky presence, was composed of youths like “Sleepy” Spears, “…
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