It was in the depth of the ebony hour on Halloween Night. We had heard a banging on our front door. With wide eyes George asked if he could have the .22 rifle. My parents vetoed that so he rushed out to the porch and grabbed our baseball bat. Peering out into the inky blackness of the night he saw nothing. Then we heard the menacing words: “Stop or I’ll shoot!” Again this was repeated and now we all were peering over George’s shoulder.
Eventually we saw a massive figure with a sombrero atop his head. His face was waxed to match his Mexican facade. Slung part way down on his hips was an empty holster. The pistols were directly pointed at us. Gradually this Mexican figure got closer and closer. Why this Mexican Marauder was our friend Dave Hamilton. George however was still somewhat leary and fearful for he did not know Dave yet. So they were suitably introduced.
So—the Mexican Marauder was only Dave Hamilton—what a relief.
Or was it??
