He paused a moment and then continued: "It may be a myth, this tradition of the bigness of mountain men; or the impression may thrive because, out here, we are so few and so widely scattered that we are the only people who get a proper perspective on one another. That would be a comfortable thing to believe, wouldn't it? It would mean, possibly, that if we could only remove ourselves far enough from any community we would appreciate its virtues and be able to overlook its vices. I'd like to believe without qualification that a magnificent creation like this valley would lift us all to a higher level; but I can't. Some of your enthusiastic young men who come out from the East and write books about the West would have it that these specimens of humanity which thrive in the mountains and deserts are all supermen, with only enough rascals sprinkled about to serve the purposes of their plots. That, of course, is a fallacy and it may be due to the surprising point of view which we find ourselves able to adopt when we are removed far enough by distance or tradition from other people. We have some splendid men here, but the average man in the mountains won't measure up to where he will overshadow the average man of any other region ... I believe. We haven't so many opportunities, perhaps, to show our qualities of goodness and badness ... although some of us can be downright nasty on occasion!" He ended with an inflection which caused Ann to believe that he was thinking of some specific case of misconduct; she felt herself flush quickly and became suddenly fearful that he might refer directly to Ned. Last night she had poured her misery into a stranger's ears; to-day she could not bear the thought of further discussing her husband's life or condition; she shrank, even, from the idea of being associated with him in the minds of other people and in desperation she veered the subject by asking, "Is it populated much, the valley, I mean?" "Not yet. Cattle and horse and some sheep ranches are scattered about. One outfit will use up a lot of that country for grazing purposes, you know. Someday there'll be water and more people ... and less bigness!" He told her more of the valley, stopping now and then to indicate directions. "I came from over there yesterday," he said, facing about and pointing into the westward. "Had a funeral beyond those hills. Stopped for dinner with a young friend of mine whose ranch is just beyond that swell yonder.... Fine boy; Bayard, Bruce Bayard." Ann wanted to ask him more about the rancher, but somehow she could not trust herself; she felt that her voice would be uncertain, for one thing. Some unnamed shyness, too, held her from questioning him now. They stopped before the hotel and the man said: "My name is Weyl. I am the clergy of Yavapai. If you are to be here long, I'm sure Mrs. Weyl would like to see you. She is in Prescott for a week or two now."