thrilling in all this new life. He liked it. The romance was real; it
was not an imitation. People answered his few questions and asked none
in return.

In this frontier village at a late hour one night young Wells
overheard this conversation: "Hello, Bill," said the case-keeper in
a faro game, as he turned his head halfway round to see who was the
owner of the monster hand which had just reached over his shoulder and
placed a stack of silver dollars on a card, marking it to win, "I've
missed you the last few days. Where have you been so long?"

"Oh, I've just been out to El Paso on a little pasear guarding the
stage," was the reply. Now the little pasear was a continuous night
and day round-trip of twelve hundred miles. Bill had slept and eaten
as he could. When mounted, he scouted every possible point of ambush
for lurking Indian or bandit. Crossing open stretches of country, he
climbed up on the stage and slept. Now having returned, he was anxious
to get his wages into circulation. Here were characters worthy of a
passing glance.

Interesting as this frontier life was to the young man, he prepared
for his final destination. He had no trouble in locating his father's
property, for it was less than twenty miles from San Antonio. Securing
an American who spoke Spanish, the two set out on horseback. There
were several small ranchitos on the tract, where five or six Mexican
families lived. Each family had a field and raised corn for bread. A
flock of goats furnished them milk and meat. The same class of people
in older States were called squatters, making no claim to ownership
of the land. They needed little clothing, the climate being in their
favor.