started till eleven
o'clock. At first I was so sore and stiff from the hard bed that I
rode a while on the wagon with Doyle. Many a mile I had ridden with
him, and many a story he had related. This time he told about sitting
on a jury at Prescott where they brought in as evidence bloody shirts,
overalls, guns, knives, until there was such a pile that the table
would not hold them. Doyle was a mine of memories of the early days.

Romer's mount was a little black, white-spotted horse named Rye. Lee
Doyle had scoured the ranches to get this pony for the youngster. Rye
was small for a horse, about the size of an Indian mustang, and he
was gentle, as well as strong and fast. Romer had been given riding
lessons all that summer in the east, and upon his arrival at Flagstaff
he informed me that he could ride. I predicted he would be in the
wagon before noon of the second day out. He offered to bet on it.
I told him I disapproved of betting. He seemed to me to be daring,
adaptable, self-willed; and I was divided between pride and anxiety as
to the outcome of this trip for him.

In the afternoon we reached Lake Mary, a long, ugly, muddy pond in a
valley between pine-slopes. Dead and ghastly trees stood in the water,
and the shores were cattle-tracked. Probably to the ranchers this
mud-hole was a pleasing picture, but to me, who loved the beauty of
the desert before its productiveness, it was hideous. When we passed
Lake Mary, and farther on the last of the cut-over timber-land, we
began to get into wonderful country. We traveled about sixteen miles,
rather a small day's ride. Romer stayed on his horse all through that
ride, and when we selected a camp site for the night he said to me:
"Well, you're lucky you wouldn't bet."

Camp that evening was in a valley with stately pines straggling down
to the level. On the other slope the pines came down in groups. The
rim of this opposite slope was high, rugged, iron-colored, with cracks
and holes. Before supper I walked up the slope back of our camp, to
come upon level, rocky ground for a mile, then pines again leading to
a low, green mountain with lighter patches of aspen. The level, open
strip was gray in color. Arizona color and Arizona country! Gray of
sage, rocks, pines, cedars, pinons, heights and depths and plains,
wild and open and lonely--that was Arizona.

That night I obtained some rest and sleep, lying awake only a few
hours, during which time I turned from side to side to