We laid his crushed form under a cedar tree near by, while Jack and I went out to find a place to dig a grave. About half a mile from camp was a big black rock that stood up on end in the prairie as if it had been dropped from the clouds. Some prehistoric race of people had carved deep into its smooth face dozens and scores of queer hieroglyphics which no man today can decipher or understand. Snakes, lizards, deer, and antelope, turtles, rude imitations of human figures, great suns with streaming rays, human hands and feet, and odd geometrical designs, all drawn in a rude, rough way as if the rock had been the gigantic slate of some Aztec schoolboy which hundreds of years of storm and weather had not rubbed out. This rock was called the "Aztec Rock." It was a landmark for miles around, and as Jack remarked: "It was a blamed sight better headstone than they'd give him if we put him in the little Campo Santo,[C] in the sand at the foot of the mesa, back of town." [C] Campo Santo, the Mexican term for graveyard. So here we dug his grave, and then we wrapped him in a gorgeous Navajo Indian blanket, and laid poor Tom Flowers away as carefully and tenderly as in our rough way we knew how. The day-herders had grazed the herd up close to the rock, so that they could be at the grave, the cattle were scattered all around us, and the cook had taken out the mess-box and used the mess-wagon to bring the body over in. When the last sods were placed on the mound, Jack with tears running down his sunburned face, which he vainly tried to stay with the back of his glove, looked around and said: "Boys, it seems pow'ful hard to plant poor Tom and not say a word of Gospel over him. Can't some of ye say a little prayer, or repeat a few lines of Scripter?" We all looked at one another in a hopeless sort of way, and no one spoke a word until the youngest there, the "horse-wrangler," a boy from Indiana, whom we had named the "Hoosier Kid," spoke up and said: "I kin say the Lord's Prayer, ef that'll be any good." "Kneel down, fellers, and take off your hats," said Jack; and there in the bright sunshine of an Arizona day, with a thousand long-horned steers tossing their heads and looking at us with wondering and suspicious eyes, with no sound save the occasional hoarse "caw, caw" of a solitary desert raven idly circling above, that dozen of rough cowboys knelt down, their heads reverently bared, while the "Hoosier Kid" with streaming eyes, slowly recited that divinely simple prayer which we had all learned at our mother's knee, "Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name." As we rode slowly back to camp the words of the last song that poor Tom ever sang would come to me again in spite of all I could do.