el, assassinating,
cowardly Southwest, where prospered those jail-birds whom the vigilantes
had driven from California. He thought of the nameless human carcass
that lay near, buried that day, and of the jokes about its mutilations.
Cumnor was not an innocent boy, either in principles or in practice, but
this laughter about a dead body had burned into his young, unhardened
soul. He lay watching with hot, dogged eyes the brilliant stars. A
passing wind turned the windmill, which creaked a forlorn minute, and
ceased. He must have gone to sleep and slept soundly, for the next he
knew it was the cold air of dawn that made him open his eyes. A numb
silence lay over all things, and the tenderfoot had that moment of
curiosity as to where he was now which comes to those who have journeyed
for many days. The Mexicans had already departed with their
freight-wagon. It was not entirely light, and the embers where these
early starters had cooked their breakfast lay glowing in the sand across
the road. The boy remembered seeing a wagon where now he saw only chill,
distant peaks, and while he lay quiet and warm, shunning full
consciousness, there was a stir in the cabin, and at Ephraim's voice
reality broke upon his drowsiness, and he recollected Arizona and the
keen stress of shifting for himself. He noted the gray paling round the
grave. Indians? He would catch up with the Mexicans, and travel in their
company to Grant. Freighters made but fifteen miles in the day, and he
could start after breakfast and be with them before they stopped to
noon. Six men need not worry about Apaches, Cumnor thought. The voice of
Specimen Jones came from the cabin, and sounds of lighting the stove,
and the growling conversation of men getting up. Cumnor, lying in his
blankets, tried to overhear what Jones was saying, for no better reason
than that this was the only man he had met lately who had seemed to care
whether he were alive or dead. There was the clink of Ephraim's
whiskey-bottles, and the cheerful tones of old Mr. Adams, saying, "It's
better 'n brushin' yer teeth"; and then further clinking, and an inquiry
from Specimen Jones.

"Whose spurs?" said he.

"Mine." This from Mr. Adams.

"How long have they been yourn?"

"Since I got 'em, I guess."

"Well, you've enjoyed them spurs long enough." The voice of Specimen
Jones now altered in quality. "And you'll give 'em back to that kid."

Muttering followed that the boy could not catch. "You'll