Why, right over there in the cañon of the Concho there's a hull ruined
Injun village--stones piled up in little circles, and what was huts and
caves and the leavin's of a old irrigatin' ditch and busted ollas, and
bones and arrow-heads and picture-writin' on the rocks--bears and
eagles and mounting-lions and hosses--scratched right on the rocks.
Them cliffs there is covered with it."

"Them?" queried Sundown, pointing toward the cañon, "Do they charge
anything to see it?"

"Well, seein' they been dead about a thousand years, I reckon not."

"A thousand years! Huh! I ain't scared of no Injuns a thousand years
old. How far is it to them picture-things?"

"'Bout three mile. You can take a hoss and mosey over if you like.
Figure on gettin' back 'round noon."

"Any snakes over there?"

"Comf'table thick. You might get a pretty good mess of 'em, if you was
to take your time. I never bother to look for 'em."

Sundown gazed at his length of nether limb and sighed.

"Snakes won't bother you none," said Wingle, reassuringly. "They get
tired, same as anybody, and they'd have to climb too fur to see if you
was to home."

Sundown rose and saddled a horse. He mounted and rode slowly toward