there used to be volcanoes, before they laid off the job. To the west is
the petrified forest. I made a motion once, when the Legislature was in
session, to have that forest set aside as a buryin'-ground for
politicians,--State Senators and the like,--but they voted me down. They
said I didn't specify _dead_ politicians.

"South of my place is the Apache reservation. There's good huntin' in
that country. 'Course, Arizona ain't no Garden of Eden to some folks.
Two kinds of folks don't love this State a little bit'--homesteaders and
tourists. But when it comes to cattle and sheep and mines, you can't
beat her. She sure is the Tiger Lily of the West. But let's step over
and see Tom. Excuse me a minute. There's a constituent who has somethin'
on his chest. I'll meet you at the station."

The Senator stepped out and talked with his constituent. Meanwhile,
Bartley turned to gaze down the street. A string of empty freight
wagons, followed by a lazy cloud of dust, rolled slowly toward town.
Here and there a bit of red showed in the dun mass of riders that
accompanied the wagons. A gay-colored blanket flickered in the sun. The
mesas radiated keen dry heat.

Bartley turned and crossed over to the station. He blinked the effects
of the white light from his eyes as he entered the telegraph office. The
operator, in shirt-sleeves, and smoking a brown-paper cigarette, nodded
and handed Bartley a service message stating that his effects would be
carried to Los Angeles and held for further orders.

"It's sure hot," said the operator. "Did you want to send another wire?"

Bartley shook his head. "Who is that stout man I bumped into trying to