Once more into the valley, and into Globe as the lights came out. Globe runs up-hill at the base of a huge, dark mountain, full of gold and copper and other precious metals. Cowboys and bright-robed Apaches still walk the streets. We knew the town was busy and prosperous, but as usual the Arizonans had forgotten to mention its scenic value, which any hotel proprietor back home would have envied. The air, too, blows bracing and keen, and the town’s whole atmosphere is brisk,--except at the drug-store, where I dropped in to shop for a cake of soap, and spent an hour,--a delicious, gossipy hour. The druggist evidently had a weakness for high-priced soaps which he had indulged lavishly in the seclusion of Globe, more for esthetic pleasure than hope of commercial gain. We were kindred souls, for Toby and I had developed a mania for soap-collecting, and at each new hotel pilfered soap with joy. We discussed the relative merits of French and domestic soaps, of violet and sandalwood, of scented and unscented. He told me the kind his wife used, and as an indirect compliment I bought a cake of it. And so, to bed, and to dream I had driven the car to the third floor of our hotel, when the proprietor discovered it, and ordered me to take it away. They refused us the elevator and I was forced to bump the great leviathan downstairs, one step at a time. How I labored to keep the unwieldy bulk from getting beyond control! I awoke to find both feet pressed hard against the footboard of the bed. At the garage next morning we heard more of the dangers of the Apache Trail. Considering nobody had thought the dangers of the Winkleman road important enough to mention, I became extremely dubious that we would reach Roosevelt Dam alive. Still, the weather was charming, blue sky and hot sun. I could not believe the Lord would let anyone die on such a day. As if the sun were not bright enough, fields of golden stubble made the scene dance with light. A herd of Holsteins lent a dash of black and white, and the far hills across the Gila were pink, mauve, orange, lemon,--any preposterous color but those a normal hill should be. We were following the trail over which Coronado and his army rode when, incidentally to their search for gold, they made history in 1540. Over this same road, for thousands of years, native Americans, Toltecs, cliff-dwellers, Apaches, friars, and forty-niners, have traveled to satisfy blood-lust and gold-lust, religion, fanaticism, and empire building. Until the Roosevelt Dam let in a flood of tourists, few traveled it except on grim business. The romance of a thousand years of tense emotions experienced by resolute men haunts that lovely sun-flooded valley.