they done business before He come
along. He 'ain't done any work around that spot at all, He 'ain't. Mix
up a barrel of sand and ashes and thorns, and jam scorpions and
rattlesnakes along in, and dump the outfit on stones, and heat yer
stones red-hot, and set the United States army loose over the place
chasin' Apaches, and you've got San Carlos."

Cumnor was silent for a moment. "I don't care," he said. "I want to
chase Apaches."

"Did you see that man Ephraim found by the canon?" Jones inquired.

"Didn't get here in time."

"Well, there was a hole in his chest made by an arrow. But there's no
harm in that if you die at wunst. That chap didn't, y'u see. You heard
Ephraim tell about it. They'd done a number of things to the man before
he could die. Roastin' was only one of 'em. Now your road takes you
through the mountains where these Injuns hev gone. Kid, come along to
Tucson with me," urged Jones, suddenly.

Again Cumnor was silent. "Is my road different from other people's?" he
said, finally.

"Not to Grant, it ain't. These Mexicans are hauling freight to Grant.
But what's the matter with your coming to Tucson with me?"

"I started to go to San Carlos, and I'm going," said Cumnor.

"You're a poor chuckle-headed fool!" burst out Jones, in a rage. "And
y'u can go, for all I care--you and your Christmas-tree pistol. Like as
not you won't find your cavalry friend at San Carlos. They've killed a
lot of them soldiers huntin' Injuns this season. Good-night."

Specimen Jones was gone. Cumnor walked to his blanket-roll, where his
saddle was slung under the shed. The various doings of the evening had
bruised his nerves. He spread his blankets among the dry cattle-dung,
and sat down, taking off a few clothes slowly. He lumped his coat and
overalls under his head for a pillow, and, putting the despised pistol
alongside, lay between the blankets. No object showed in the night but
the tall freight-wagon. The tenderfoot thought he had made altogether a
fool of himself upon the first trial trip of his manhood, alone on the
open sea of Arizona. No man, not even Jones now, was his friend. A
stranger, who could have had nothing against him but his inexperience,
had taken the trouble to direct him on the wrong road. He did not mind
definite enemies. He had punched the heads of those in Pennsylvania, and
would not object to shooting them here; but this impersonal, surrounding
hostility of the unknown was new and bitter: the cru