“This is certainly an odd sort of place––quite different from a New England town,” was Dave’s comment, as he and his chum went from one shop to another in San Antonio in quest of the things they wished to buy.
“Seems to me that it has quite a Mexican flavor to it,” remarked Roger. “Just see all the big hats and the fringed trousers.”
Now that they had come so far the chums were eager to get to the camp, and they could scarcely wait until the following morning. They found a comfortable hotel, had an early breakfast, and by seven o’clock were on their way westward.
“Now we are almost on the border,” remarked Roger, as they stopped at a place called Del Rio. He was studying a railroad map. “At the next place, called Viaduct, we will be on the Rio Grande, with Mexico just across from us.”
“It isn’t such a very grand river after all,” remarked Dave, when they came in sight of the stream. “It looks more like a great big overgrown creek to me.”
“You can’t compare these rivers with the Hudson or the St. Lawrence, Dave. But I suppose at certain seasons of the year this river gets to be pretty big.”
Soon their train rolled into Molona and the youths alighted. The station was a primitive affair, 223 consisting of a small platform and a building not over ten feet square.
Word had been sent ahead that they were coming, and among the several Texans and Mexicans who had gathered to watch the train come in, they found a middle-aged man on a burro with two other burros standing behind.
“Are you the young fellows for the Mentor camp?” he questioned, as Dave and Roger approached him.
“We are,” returned our hero, quickly. “Did you come for us?”