“I reckon, stranger, you won’t find much of a to-own this side of Phoenix—and that’s a mighty long ways from he-ar!” By this time Brainard and the pony had come sufficiently near together so that he could make out the small straight figure. The girl could not be over fourteen, he judged; she was thin and slight, with dark skin and small features concealed beneath the flap of an old felt hat. She wore a faded khaki skirt and leather leggings. In her small bony hand dangled a heavy man’s quirt with which she swished the ground, and at times she looked up shyly at the “stranger.” “Where you from?” she inquired. “New York,” Brainard replied. “New York!” she repeated with an accent of wonder and surprise. “That must be a mighty big ta-own.” “Rather more populous than this—what do you call it?” “They call the siding back there by the tank Phantom.” “Phantom—is that because it’s only a mirage?” “I can’t say. . . . Where be you going?” “Mexico!” Brainard hazarded at a venture. “Mexico!” the girl drawled. “That must be a sight farther off than Phoenix.” “I guess it is.” “What are you going to Mexico for, stranger?” the girl persisted. “Mining business,” Brainard fabricated glibly. “Copper or gold?” “All kinds, my child,” Brainard replied flippantly. The girl drew herself up with considerable dignity, and remarking,—“I’m agoin’ to see what they all be doin’ down yonder,” stirred up the yellow pony and rode off in the direction of the _arroyo_. She drew up a few rods from the center of activity and stood there in the twilight. Brainard was sorry for his foolish answer that had apparently frightened her away. He went back to his compartment, and after a few moments’ thought grasped his valise and got off the car. “If she can live in this country, I guess I can,” he muttered to himself.