"A man? Oh. Well, it _is_ kind o' difficult, I admit, for an Arizonan not to lie to a stranger. But I think I'd have told you to go by Tres Alamos and Point of Mountain. It's the road the man that told you would choose himself every time. Do you like Injuns, kid?" Cumnor snapped eagerly. "Of course y'u do. And you've never saw one in the whole minute-and-a-half you've been alive. I know all about it." "I'm not afraid," said the boy. "Not afraid? Of course y'u ain't. What's your idea in going to Carlos? Got town lots there?" "No," said the literal youth, to the huge internal diversion of Jones. "There's a man there I used to know back home. He's in the cavalry. What sort of a town is it for sport?" asked Cumnor, in a gay Lothario tone. "_Town_?" Specimen Jones caught hold of the top rail of the corral. "_Sport?_ Now I'll tell y'u what sort of a town it is. There ain't no streets. There ain't no houses. There ain't any land and water in the usual meaning of them words. There's Mount Turnbull. It's pretty near a usual mountain, but y'u don't want to go there. The Creator didn't make San Carlos. It's a heap older than Him. When He got around to it after slickin' up Paradise and them fruit-trees, He just left it to be as He found it, as a sample of the way they done business before He come along. He 'ain't done any work around that spot at all, He 'ain't. Mix up a barrel of sand and ashes and thorns, and jam scorpions and rattlesnakes along in, and dump the outfit on stones, and heat yer stones red-hot, and set the United States army loose over the place chasin' Apaches, and you've got San Carlos." Cumnor was silent for a moment. "I don't care," he said. "I want to chase Apaches." "Did you see that man Ephraim found by the canon?" Jones inquired. "Didn't get here in time." "Well, there was a hole in his chest made by an arrow. But there's no harm in that if you die at wunst. That chap didn't, y'u see. You heard Ephraim tell about it. They'd done a number of things to the man before he could die. Roastin' was only one of 'em. Now your road takes you through the mountains where these Injuns hev gone. Kid, come along to Tucson with me," urged Jones, suddenly. Again Cumnor was silent. "Is my road different from other people's?" he said, finally. "Not to Grant, it ain't. These Mexicans are hauling freight to Grant. But what's the matter with your coming to Tucson with me?" "I started to go to San Carlos, and I'm going," said Cumnor. "You're a poor chuckle-headed fool!" burst out Jones, in a rage. "And y'u can go, for all I care--you and your Christmas-tree pistol. Like as not you won't find your cavalry friend at San Carlos. They've killed a lot of them soldiers huntin' Injuns this season. Good-night."