“Oh, there’s sunshine on the Concho where the little owls are cryin’,
    And red across the ‘dobe strings of chiles are a-dryin’;
  And if Arizona’s heaven, tell me what’s the use of dyin’? 
    Yes, it’s good enough down here, just breathin’ air;

  “For the posies are a-bloomin’ and the mockin’-birds are matin’,
    And somewhere in Arizona there’s a Chola girl a-waitin’
  For to cook them enchiladas while I do the irrigatin’
    On me little desert homestead over there.

  “While I’m ridin’ slow and easy . . .”

“Whoa!  Wonder what that is?  Never seen one of them things before.  ’T ain’t a lizard, but he looks like his pa was a lizard.  Mebby his ma was a toad.  Kind of a Mormon, I guess.”

He leaned forward and gravely inspected the horned toad that blinked at him from the edge of the grass.  The pinto realized that his rider’s attention was otherwise and thoroughly occupied.  With that unforgettable drop of head and arch of spine the horse bucked.  Sundown did an unpremeditated evolution that would have won him much applause and gold had he been connected with a circus.  He landed in a clump of brush and watched his hat sail gently down.  The pinto whirled and took the homeward road, snorting and bounding from side to side as the dust swirled behind him.  Sundown scratched his head.  “Lemme see.  ’We was ridin’, slow and easy . . .’  Huh!  Well, I ain’t cussin’ because I don’ know how.  Lemme see . . .  I was facin’ east when I started.  Now I’m lit, and I’m facin’ south.  Me hat’s there, and that there toad-lizard oughter be over there, if he ain’t scared to death.  Reckon I’ll quit writin’ po’try jest at present and finish gettin’ acquainted with that there toad-lizard.  Wonder how far I got to walk?  Anyhow, I was gettin’ tired of ridin’.  By gum! me eats is tied to the saddle!  It’s mighty queer how a fella gets set back to beginnin’ all over ag’in every onct in a while.  Now, this mornin’ I was settin’ up ridin’ a good hoss and thinkin’ poetical.  Now I’m settin’ down restin’.  The sun is shinin’ yet, and them jiggers in the brush is chirpin’ and the air is fine, but I ain’t thinkin’ poetical.  I’d sure hate to have a real lady read what I’m thinkin’, if it was in a book.  ’Them that sets on the eggs of untruth,’ as the parson says, ‘sure hatches lies.’  Jest yesterday I was tellin’ in Usher how me bronc piled me when I’d been ridin’ the baggage, which was kind of a hoss-lie.  I must ‘a’ had it comin’.”

He rose and stalked to the roadway.  The horned toad, undisturbed, squatted in the grass and eyed him with bright, expressionless eyes.