’longside the road, tryin’ to ketch th’ mail. Wa’al, I never don’ go ’long no derned road, savey? I jest cut right ’cross lots, ’n’ dern my skin ef all th’ Injuns this side o’ Bitter Creek kin tell whar to lay fur _me_.” This and similar bits of wisdom often served to soothe the frightened fancy of the weary “tenderfoot” making his first trip into that wild region, especially if the trip was to be by night, as it generally was. Whipping up his team, Frank would take a shoot off to one side or the other of the road, and never return to it until the faint tinge of light in the east, or the gladsome crow of chanticleer announced that the dawn was at hand and Tucson in sight. How long they had both been in coming! Through it all, however, Frank remained the same kind, entertaining host; he always seemed to consider it part of his duties to entertain each one who travelled with him, and there was no lack of conversation, such as it was. The establishment of the rival paper, the _Citizen_, was the signal for a war of words, waxing in bitterness from week to week, and ceasing only with the death of the _Arizonian_, which took place not long after. One of the editors of the _Citizen_ was Joe Wasson, a very capable journalist, with whom I was afterward associated intimately in the Black Hills and Yellowstone country during the troubles with the Sioux and Cheyennes. He was a well-informed man, who had travelled much and seen life in many phases. He was conscientious in his ideas of duty, and full of the energy and “snap” supposed to be typically American. He approached every duty with the alertness and earnestness of a Scotch terrier. The telegraph was still unknown to Arizona, and for that reason the _Citizen_ contained an unusually large amount of editorial matter upon affairs purely local. Almost the very first columns of the paper demanded the sweeping away of garbage-piles, the lighting of the streets by night, the establishment of schools, and the imposition of a tax upon the gin-mills and gambling-saloons. Devout Mexicans crossed themselves as they passed this fanatic, whom nothing would seem to satisfy but the subversion of every ancient institution. Even the more progressive among the Americans realized that Joe was going a trifle too far, and felt that it was time to put the brakes upon a visionary theorist whose war-cry was “Reform!” But no remonstrance availed, and editorial succeeded editorial, each more pungent and aggressive than its predecessors. What was that dead burro doing on the main street? Why did not the town authorities remove it?