The experience changed me. The way they looked at me meant more than the quarter, even as much as I wanted that. Little did those gringos realize that running in my veins was the blood of the fierce Yaqui. If there is a crazy, never-give-up, never-quit side of me, I believe that it comes from my Yaqui ancestors. Moreover, I have the blood of the very vaqueros who taught their ancestors to ride, rope, and work the wild stock of the rugged Southwest. Maybe if I had been born five hundred miles farther south I would have been a retired bullfighter by now. I might have fewer scars as well.
