Yet in these comfortless abodes, which did not possess ten dollars’ worth of furniture, one met with charming courtesy from old and young. “Ah! happy the eyes that gaze upon thee,” was the form of salutation to friends who had been absent for a space--“Dichosos los ojos que ven a V.” “Go thou with God,” was the gentle mode of saying farewell, to which the American guest would respond, as he shifted the revolvers on his hip and adjusted the quid of tobacco in his mouth: “Wa-al, I reckon I’ll git.” But the Mexican would arrange the folds of his serape, bow most politely, and say: “Ladies, I throw myself at your feet--À los pies de VV., señoritas.” Thus far there has been no mention of that great lever of public opinion--the newspaper. There was one of which I will now say a word, and a few months later, in the spring of 1870, the town saw a second established, of which a word shall be said in its turn. The _Weekly Arizonian_ was a great public journal, an organ of public opinion, managed by Mr. P. W. Dooner, a very able editor. It was the custom in those days to order the acts and resolutions of Congress to be published in the press of the remoter Territories, thus enabling the settlers on the frontier to keep abreast of legislation, especially such as more immediately affected their interests. There may have been other matter in the _Weekly Arizonian_ besides the copies of legislative and executive documents referred to, but if so I never was fortunate enough to see it, excepting possibly once, on the occasion of my first visit to the town, when I saw announced in bold black and white that “Colonel” Bourke was paying a brief visit to his friend, Señor So-and-so. If there is one weak spot in the armor of a recently-graduated lieutenant, it is the desire to be called colonel before he dies, and here was the ambition of my youth gratified almost before the first lustre had faded from my shoulder-straps. It would serve no good purpose to tell how many hundred copies of that week’s issue found their way into the earliest outgoing mail, addressed to friends back in the States. I may be pardoned for alluding to the reckless profanity of the stage-driver upon observing the great bulk of the load his poor horses were to carry. The stage-drivers were an exceptionally profane set, and this one, Frank Francis, was an adept in the business. He has long since gone to his reward in the skies, killed, if I have not made a great mistake, by the Apaches in Sonora, in 1881. He was a good, “square” man, as I can aver from an acquaintance and friendship cemented in later days, when I had to take many and many a lonesome and dangerous ride with him in various sections and on various routes in that then savage-infested region. It was Frank’s boast that no “Injuns” should ever get either him or the mail under his care. “All you’ve got to do with ’n Injun’s to be smarter nor he is. Now, f’r instance, ’n Injun’ll allers lie in wait