Arizona

Across the wide, sun-swept mesas the steel trail of the railroad runs east and west, diminishing at either end to a shimmering blur of silver.  South of the railroad these level immensities, rich in their season with ripe bunch-grass and grama-grass roll up to the barrier of the far blue hills of spruce and pine.  The red, ragged shoulders of buttes blot the sky-line here and there; wind-worn and grotesque silhouettes of gigantic fortifications, castles and villages wrought by some volcanic Cyclops who grew tired of his labors, abandoning his unfinished task to the weird ravages of wind and weather.

In the southern hills the swart Apache hunts along historic trails o’er which red cavalcades once swept to the plundering of Sonora’s herds.  His sires and their flashing pintos have vanished to other hunting-grounds, and he rides the boundaries of his scant heritage, wrapped in sullen imaginings.

The canons and the hills of this broad land are of heroic mould as are its men.  Sons of the open, deep-chested, tall and straight, they ride like conquerors and walk—­like bears.  Slow to anger and quick to act, they carry their strength and health easily and with a dignity which no worn trappings, faded shirt, or flop-brimmed hat may obscure.  Speak to one of them and his level gaze will travel to your feet and back again to your eyes.  He may not know what you are, but he assuredly knows what you are not.  He will answer you quietly and to the point.  If you have been fortunate enough to have ridden range, hunted or camped with him or his kind, ask him, as he stands with thumb in belt and wide Stetson tilted back, the trail to heaven.  He will smile and point toward the mesas and the mountains of his home.  Ask him the trail to that other place with which he so frequently garnishes his conversation, and he will gravely point to the mesas and the hills again.  And there you have Arizona.

SUNDOWN SLIM

CHAPTER I

SUNDOWN IN ANTELOPE

Sundown Slim, who had enjoyed the un-upholstered privacy of a box-car on his journey west from Albuquerque, awakened to realize that his conveyance was no longer an integral part of the local freight which had stopped at the town of Antelope, and which was now rumbling and grumbling across the Arizona mesas.  He was mildly irritated by a management that gave its passengers such negligent service.  He complained to himself as he rolled and corded his blankets.  However, he would disembark and leave the car to those base uses for which corporate greed, and a shipper of baled hay, intended it.  He was further annoyed to find that the door of the car had been locked since he had taken possession.  Hearing voices, he hammered on the door.  After an exchange of compliments with an unseen rescuer, the door was pushed back and he leaped to the ground.  He was a bit surprised to find, not the usual bucolic agent of a water-plug station, but a belted and booted rider of the mesas; a cowboy in all the glory of wide Stetson, wing chaps, and Mexican spurs.