13
The dust is blowing so thick and fast that visibility is almost nil, but on the one main street of the town we see a sign, scruggs pool Hall. This establishment will offer protection from the wind.
Mr. Scruggs’ pool emporium is a rendezvous for many. He has the usual barber shop along with soft drinks and cigarettes and cigars, and chairs lining the sides of the room where pool and billiard tables are running full blast.
The boss is a nice guy, very friendly, with a good word for everyone, and on a day like this a friendly word is appreciated. From Scruggs we learn that Mexicali, the adjoining town, which is separated from Calexico by an imaginary line, is wide open with hard drinks and gambling going full out, while in Calexico it is a sin to take a hard drink. So the town of Mexicali is doing real good. There is no passport or anything needed to visit Mexicali. All one needs is the strength to walk two blocks across the imaginary line, and the world is different.
Carter and I are enjoying watching a billiard game, waiting for a break in the wind, at which time we intend to visit the bright lights of Mexicali, when we are approached by an individual about my weight and height and a very few years older, inquiring if either of us wants a job. He introduces himself as Clint Wylie, with the statement he has a ranch about four miles out of Calexico and is looking for someone to break four colts to ride and at the same time help on the ranch.
He has a wonderful personality, an infectious smile and a cheerful greeting which remind me of my brother Bud. I am completely won over. He should have been a greeter in the White House, only people would have believed him. There is nothing phoney about this boy. Why he chose us, we don’t know — we are in no hurry to go back to work, as we both have money burning our pockets — but it finally ends with me taking the job with his assurance that my pal will have no trouble getting all the work he wants.
With a promise to meet a week from Saturday at Mr. Scruggs’ pool hall, I leave for the Wylie ranch. Wylie is driving a Pope Hartford, one of the few cars in the entire valley. As of 1912, horse transportation is still the main way to travel in Imperial Valley. I find on our way to his ranch that the Wylie family is from Montana, and they have several ranches and have moved their horses and sheep here. Sheep I don’t want any part of, but I am quickly assured the sheep are taken care of by someone hired for that purpose.
Life with the Wylie family was always interesting. The foreman, or boss, of the Wylie ranch was Sam Jones. He and his wife Bonnie, together with Clint and his wife May, were the life of the surrounding vicinity. Clint Wylie took on the Cadillac agency, the first car agency in Imperial Valley, only there were not many buyers. Everyone was using their money to develop their land, especially those who were just getting started. Sure, we were the only two-car ranch in the valley, and from Saturday noon to Monday morning there was always someplace to go.
With these lovely people I stayed through Christmas and until July, when I was offered a job with more money bossing a crew of Mexican labor for the California Development Company under the supervision of Mr. Peck. This job, without any effort on my part, was the life of Riley We started work at eight, were through at five. All I had to do was hire my own crew, keep their time, while we worked six days a week on a big canal well away from civilization.
My problem was to keep my crew happy and a full crew on the job. With a very limited knowledge of Spanish, this was not always easy. But it was a lazy man’s paradise, and I enjoyed every minute working under the supervision of Mr. Peck. I liked the Mexican people. They were never in a hurry in this land of mañana. Life was free and easy, and the town of Mexicali was no exception.
On weekends people came from all parts of the valley to enjoy the freedom of Mexicali, where they could drink or gamble until from their money they did depart, then it would be back to work for a fresh supply. Mexicali would always be there waiting. If your luck was good, there were always friends. If it was bad, there were still friends, as in this warmth and sunshine there was a pioneer spirit where friendship seemed to thrive.
My pal Berry went to work punching cows for an outfit below the line in Mexico. So every other Saturday night we would meet at Mr. Scruggs’ pool hall. From here, after the usual barber treatment, we would see the town of Mexicali where we made many good friends, both on the American and Mexican side of the line.
One of the finest pioneer families of Imperial Valley was the Lyons boys. They were hard working, hard drinking, and the most regular good fellows in the entire valley. These fellows became my good friends, particularly Frank, the younger of the clan. With Frank, Chuck Stanton, the Litzenberg boys, Berry and me, we made quite a group with a spirit of all for one and one for all. We were young and the world was our oyster. Here I had a home forever if I wished to stay with my pal Chuck and his parents, Mother and Dad Stanton, two of nature’s noblest people.
Why I ever left this wonderful valley to travel I know not, but the urge was on me to move, so my pal Berry and I had a session and agreed to both quit our jobs on a given day, meet in Calexico on a Saturday night, say goodbye to our friends and take the stage to San Diego. From San Diego we would decide our future.
We have both thought about going to South America if there was a boat going our direction. I give my good friend and boss Mr. Peck notice I am quitting to travel somewhere. Comes the eventful Saturday, I am in Mr. Scruggs’ pool palace when I am told my pal Berry has sent word for me that he can’t join me until Sunday night. This blows my plans. I am all set to get out of town and be in San Diego Sunday morning. So what to do for twenty-four hours? Nothing but to go across to Mexicali and gamble a little. Hell, I have enough dough. I can afford to lose a little and I might even win.
There are days and nights where a fellow can’t lay up a cent, and this was one of the nights. I lose a little, I lose a little more, then I lose the works. When I cross the line for the American side to go to bed, I am stone broke with the exception of a few loose silver half dollars. I have visions of calling Mr. Peck in the morning, telling him I’m still his boy, and tomorrow is another day. If that pal of mine hadn’t taken one extra day, we would be on our way. Evidently things weren’t supposed to work like that, for here I am broke.
Damn my ignorance. I sure need a guardian. I always shoot the works. Stopping in to my friend Big Foot, a Chinese boy who owns his own restaurant and is the smartest Chinese I know, to have a sandwich before hitting the hay, I find the place almost empty, so I have an opportunity to have a good visit. Big Foot is the only fat Chinaman I have ever seen. He evidently eats his own food. To kill time while waiting for my sandwich, I tell him what a chump I am. He says, “Mister Fred, you go back tomorrow, get all your money, all same bank, you put in now, you go take, I loan you some money, you savvy? I go get you hundred, you lose him, tomorrow I give you some more, you see?” Disappearing into the kitchen, he is back with a hundred dollars, so tomorrow maybe Lady Luck is better and will smile. If not, there is another tomorrow, so to sleep.
Taking my time in the morning, I have the day before me to regain my lost dough. It’s like Big Foot says, my money in a bank. All I have to do is go get it. That’s his opinion, not mine. But with a guy like my Chinese boy pulling for me, how can I lose with his money for a stake? I wander over across the line full of breakfast and feeling no pain over my loss of last evening.
Running into several of my pals, who are whooping it up, I decline all refreshments, as I am strictly for business, no monkey business. Ditching my pals, I slip down to the Owl, the most famous gambling house in Mexicali, where I had left my bank roll last night. Catching a half idle crap table, I have a feeling of confidence and away we go.
In less time than it took me to lose my stake last night, I have my lost fortune back with three hundred plus, and for once in my life I pass the dice, take my returned wealth and beat it to my friend Big Foot’s restaurant where I try to split my three hundred winnings with the guy. He takes his one hundred and says, “You savvy, I told you all same bank.” Leaving all my money with him for safekeeping except some spending money, I go back and join my pals, who haven’t even missed me. The world is good, our trip is on, thanks to my Chinese friend. When my pal Carter arrives we are on our way, for God knows where, but it is spring and time to move. Our only reason for staying so long in Imperial Valley is the marvelous climate and the nicest people on earth. They are hard to leave, even if a fellow is young and full of ideas. Someday I shall return to this beautiful valley that has been so kind to us and settle down for life.
When I tell my pal I lost all my dough waiting for him, the old boy promptly says, “Don’t worry, I have enough for us both.” There is no use trying to kid a boy like that, so I tell him I have recovered my loss, we can travel faster and farther, so are on our way to San Diego, the first leg of our journey somewhere.
Having visited the wharf to see what boats were running and where, for no reason at all we decide to take the Yale to Seattle, stopping at Los Angeles and San Francisco. This will be the first trip on water for either of us. I think we are going in the wrong direction, but my friend Berry says Canada is a land of opportunities, and Seattle is close to Canada, so it’s up the coast for us via a new mode of transportation.
Our last evening in San Diego, we go to Chinatown for dinner, where for the first time in our life we mark a Chinese lottery ticket known as a nine-spot ticket, for which we pay thirty-five cents each. The drawing is for nine o’clock and our boat leaves at midnight. We have worlds of time and can go to bed on board anywhere past ten. After killing as much time as necessary until the drawing, Berry jokingly says at nine-fifteen, “Let’s go pick up our loot.” The boy is a prophet. We have an unbelievable shock when the Chinese boy says my ticket has won one hundred and ten dollars. The boy is as happy as we are. We are paid in ten-dollar gold pieces. For his happiness we slip him a gold piece, and he shows us why we are being paid. I had accidently marked seven spots of the nine in the right place, which gives us each fifty bucks after giving our boy ten. It looks like a good beginning for our trip — at least a fellow can dream better with money in his pocket than he can when broke and hungry Truly, if one is lucky, brains don’t count.
Our trip was slow and easy, with nothing to do, just eat and sleep and enjoy the coastline, which was in view all the way to Seattle. With the two stops at Los Angeles and San Francisco to break the monotony, our trip was a real pleasure and came to an end much too soon.
Our stay in Seattle was limited, just a couple of days to see the town, then by train to Wenatchee, the apple country on the Columbia River. Here we did something I have always wanted to do. We took a trip on a side-wheeler up the Columbia to the town of Oroville, Washington. This boat trip was a joy. The boat stopped many times to unload passengers and freight. The scenery was beautiful along the banks, and everyone seemed to bubble with the joy of living. Oroville is a mining district with cattle, farming and always the Columbia River to draw from. It is a thriving community. Here we meet a Mr. Read, a cattleman whose ranch is on top of a mountain far back from Oroville in an isolated spot where he has trouble finding anyone to work for him. The gentleman batches, lives alone and has four colts he wants broken to ride.
I still have my saddle from Flagstaff, my boots and spurs, although I haven’t used them for some time and didn’t expect to use them again. For some reason I couldn’t part with them. Berry sold his outfit before leaving Mexico. He was through with cattle, but for some reason it just don’t last, and again we are talking to a fellow about breaking four colts to ride, which in itself is nothing. We don’t need the dough. The job would be easy and, after all, I would have a good time. I always was happiest when handling an unbroken horse.
Mr. Read is desperate. He has to return to his ranch and feels he must take someone with him. This fellow is a decent sort, so we agree if he takes us both we will break his colts. If he is satisfied, he pays us whatever he thinks it is worth, providing he will loan us a pack animal and some equipment for a prospecting trip after he is satisfied. This he is more than happy to do. It was something he hadn’t expected, though. It made him wonder a bit if we knew anything about horses or were a couple of four-flushers looking for a place to light.
The ranch on the mountain was forty miles by buckboard, where if we could have taken off across the mountain in a direct line it would be about ten, but once we were on the summit and Read’s property, there was a beautiful little valley where he had a small farm and raised feed for his horses in the event of a real bad winter. His four colts were not wild. They had been raised on a ranch, were gentle to start with and were like four tame old cows, so we finished it up real fast. We were both glad we hadn’t asked for any money. Mr. Read was such a decent person we enjoyed staying with him.
Berry and I were used to batching, so we did most of the cooking and helped build some fences and repair his house. Here we stayed a month where two weeks did the job. Making our headquarters at the ranch, we did some prospecting but then decided to cross over into Canada. When at last the day came for us to leave, we considered we had enjoyed a month’s vacation, something neither of us had ever had in our life, so it was “Mr. Read, you don’t owe us, we’re even.” This wasn’t the way the gentleman wanted it, and he insisted on giving us fifty dollars after all the grub we had eaten and the pleasure we had roaming the country with his horses.
Returning to Oroville, we caught a stage to the town of Pentic-ton at the end of Lake Okanagan, a beautiful, clear lake with boat transportation to Vernon, British Columbia, a small but picturesque town where many retired English people lived in an atmosphere of luxury. Here I sold my saddle and boots to a nice English chap who wanted them more than I, as he paid me more than their original cost. While they were not new, they were well broken in, and with a saddle and boots that is something to consider. Now I was really out of the riding business, and while I didn’t know it, I had ridden my last bucking horse. To make the gentleman happy, I threw in my rope. So my new English friend was a cowboy without a cow, and with a rope he didn’t know how to use, but he was happy.
From Vernon we traveled to Revelstoke, where we connected with the Canadian Pacific running from Vancouver, British Columbia, to Calgary, Alberta. Why we should go to Calgary rather than to Vancouver or Victoria was possibly the fault of our friend Mr. Read in Washington, who told us the wonders of Canada and the support the Canadian government would give a person who filed on the land, either for mining, ranching or any reason, just so the person was reliable and sincere. This appealed to us, for in our own country where you can file on one hundred and sixty acres, our government bets your land you can’t live five years without starving to death . . . and the government always wins. Here in Canada, you have more land and financial help.
With high hopes we grab the main line for Calgary, our land of opportunity. Our trip en route to Calgary via the Canadian Pacific was the most enjoyable train ride with the most wonderful scenery we had ever dreamed of seeing. Every mile was something different. To a couple of country boys raised on the flats, this was life at its best. Mountains in every direction for hundreds of miles, with their different formations and changes of color, were to us something wonderful and different.
Any resemblance between Calgary and our mountains there isn’t. Calgary is like our cattle country of Colorado, rolling hills with plenty of flat land, where the people are younger and more aggressive than the folks we left in Vernon, where things are much the same from day to day Here in Calgary everyone is busy, everyone is optimistic about whatever they may be doing. It looks as though we have hit the right place on the edge of a boom. A few days here and my pal and I are as full of optimism, or whatever it is that makes the Calgary boys and girls run, as they are.
It is certainly high time. This is the last of May 1914 and in July I will be a really old man of twenty-two. Carter has already passed twenty-three and he is about through. So if we don’t get rich soon, it’s over the hill for us both, and they keep building the poor house further and further away.