cken ranch a few miles up the
river. Coyotes and wolves killed my poultry, however, and sores
occasioned by ranch work broke out on my hands, so I sold the chicken
ranch and moved to Arizona City, opening a restaurant on the main
street. In this cafe I made a specialty of pickled feet--not pig's feet,
but bull's feet, for which delicacy I claim the original creation. It
was some dish, too! They sold like hot-cakes.

While I was in Lower California I witnessed a sight that is well worth
speaking of. It was a Mexican funeral, and the queerest one I ever saw
or expect to see, though I have read of Chinese funerals that perhaps
approach it in peculiarity. It was while on my way back to Sauxal from
La Paz that I met the cortege. The corpse was that of a wealthy
rancher's wife, and the coffin was strung on two long poles borne by
four men. Accompanying the coffin alongside of those carrying it were
about two hundred horsemen. The bearers kept up a jog-trot, never once
faltering on the way, each horseman taking his turn on the poles. When
it became a man's turn to act as bearer nobody told him, but he slipped
off his horse, letting it run wherever it pleased, ran to the coffin,
ducked under the pole and started with the others on the jog-trot, while
the man whose place he had taken caught his horse. Never once in a carry
of 150 miles did that coffin stop, and never once did that jog-trot
falter. The cortege followers ate at the various ranches they passed,
nobody thinking of refusing them food. The 150 mile journey to San Luis
was necessary in order to reach a priest who would bury the dead woman.
All the dead were treated in the same manner.

While I was in Yuma the railroad reached Dos Palmas, Southern
California, and one day I went there with a wagon and bought a load of
apples, which, with one man to accompany me, I hauled all the way to
Tucson. That wagon-load of apples was the first fruit to arrive in the
Territory and it was hailed with acclaim. I sold the lot for one
thousand dollars, making a profit well over fifty per cent. Then with
the wagon I returned to Yuma.

On the way, as I was nearing Yuma, I stopped at Canyon Station, which a
man named Ed. Lumley kept. Just as we drove up an old priest came out of
Lumley's house crying something aloud. We hastened up and he motioned
inside. Within we saw poor Lumley dead, with both his hands slashed off
and his body bearing other marks of mutilation. It turned out that two