the end of the shadder, take the right fork of the river, and in
another hour you'll strike the Concho. That's the quickest way." And
this bit of attenuated humor never failed to produce an effect.


One morning, about a week after Sundown's return to his duties as
assistant, while Wingle was drying his hands, preparatory to reading a
few pages of his favorite novel, Sundown ambled into camp with an
armful of greasewood, dumped it near the wagon, and, straightening up,
rolled a cigarette.

Wingle, immersed in the novel, read for a while and then glanced up
questioningly.

Sundown shook his head.

"Now this here story," said Wingle; "I read her forty-three times come
next round-up, and blamed if I sabe her yet. Now, take it where the
perfesser--a slim gent with large round eye-glasses behind which
twinkled a couple of deep-set studyus eyes--so the book says; now, take
it where he talks about them Hopi graves over there in the valley--"

"This here valley?" queried Sundown, immediately interested.

"Sure! Well, I can sabe all that. I seen 'em."

"Seen 'em?"

"Sure! Why Arizona's got more leavin's of history and dead Injuns and
such, right on top of the ground, than any other State in the Union.