the weather could do to us now.

MOISTURE, A TRACE

Last fall I revisited Arizona for the first time in many years. My
ultimate destination lay one hundred and twenty-eight miles south of the
railroad. As I stepped off the Pullman I drew deep the crisp, thin air;
I looked across immeasurable distance to tiny, brittle, gilded buttes; I
glanced up and down a ramshackle row of wooden buildings with crazy
wooden awnings, and I sighed contentedly. Same good old Arizona.

The Overland pulled out, flirting its tail at me contemptuously. A
small, battered-looking car, grayed and caked with white alkali dust,
glided alongside, and from under its swaying and disreputable top
emerged someone I knew. Not individually. But by many campfires of the
past I had foregathered with him and his kind. Same old Arizona, I
repeated to myself.

This person bore down upon me and gently extracted my bag from my grasp.
He stood about six feet three; his face was long and brown and grave;
his figure was spare and strong. Atop his head he wore the sacred
Arizona high-crowned hat, around his neck a bright bandana; no coat, but
an unbuttoned vest; skinny trousers, and boots. Save for lack of spurs
and _chaps_ and revolver he might have been a moving-picture cowboy.
The spurs alone were lacking from the picture of a real one.

He deposited my bag in the tonneau, urged me into a front seat, and
crowded himself behind the wheel. The effect was that of a grown-up in a
go-cart. This particular brand of tin car had not been built for this
particular size of man. His knees were hunched up either side the
steering column; his huge, strong brown hands grasped most competently
that toy-like wheel. The peak of his sombrero missed the wrinkled top
only because he sat on his spine. I reflected that he must have been
drafted into this job, and I admired his courage in undertaking to
double up like that even for a short journey.

"Roads good?" I asked the usual question as I slammed shut the door.

"Fair, suh," he replied, soberly.

"What time should we get in?" I inquired.

"Long 'bout six o'clock, suh," he informed me.

It was then eight in the morning--one hundred and twenty-eight
miles--ten hours--roads good, eh?--hum.

He touched the starter. The motor exploded with a bang. We moved.

I looked her over. On the running board were strapped two big galvanized
tanks of water. It was almost distressingly evident that the muffler had
either bee