It was while they were working along the first mile of the line, where it ran from the Pinas River along the base of a hill to the low ridge that bore out upon the mesa, that they received their first interruption.

The worst and most expensive part of the canal to build would be this section, and the engineer was therefore taking especial care in its surveying; near the river the line traversed several fenced tracts of ground extending part way up the hillside, fields owned by natives; and it was one of these Mexicans who slouched forward to the spot where Bryant and Dave worked and ordered them to get out of his field.
Bryant straightened up from sighting through his transit, and asked, "What's on your mind?
What's disturbing your brain, _hombre_ ?" "You get off," was the unkempt fellow's answer.
"Why ?" "You can't come on my ranch; get off." The engineer pulled a map from his hip pocket--a copy made from one filed in the land commissioner's office thirty years previous.

He spread it open before the Mexican.
"See this?
Here is Bartolo, here is the river, here is your field," he said, pointing with a finger.

"Now look at that line; it runs across this field right where we stand.

That's the Perro Creek Canal, extending down to Perro Creek." The man stared at the earth under his feet.
"No, I see no canal," he stated, now looking right and left as if to make sure.