what she does for the next few days. You can get in touch with me at the”—I gave him the name of my hotel and my room number—“each night. Don’t give me a tumble anywhere else. I’ll most likely be in and out of the Golden Horseshoe often.”
We parted, and I went down to the plaza and sat on a bench under the palms for an hour. Then I went up to the corner and fought for a seat on a Tijuana stage.
Fifteen or more miles of dusty riding—packed five in a seat meant for three—a momentary halt at the Immigration Station on the line, and I was climbing out of the stage at the entrance to the race track. The ponies had been running for some time, but the turnstiles were still spinning a steady stream of customers into the track. I turned my back on the gate and went over to the