So cunningly hidden are these sky parlors that we drove by them without seeing them, and had to inquire their whereabouts at the local postoffice. At Monte Cristo they show you the very window from which the Count did not leap; at Salem any citizen will proudly stop work to point out the hill where the witches were not burned, but the postmistress in a Georgette waist knew of the cliff-dwellings only as a fad of crazy tourists, although she could have walked to them in the time she took to remove her chewing gum before answering us. Out West they have not learned the art of making their ancestors earn an honest penny. We lunched at the Tonto ruins, and that lunch marks the beginning of Toby’s mania for hoarding bits of broken pottery, charred sticks and other relics of the past. She learned to distinguish between the red and black of the middle ages, the black and white of an earlier era, and the plain thumb-nail of remotest antiquity. She never could resist adding just one more bit of painted clay or obsidian to her knobby collection, and the blue bandana in which she tied them grew steadily larger, until it overflowed into the pockets of the car, and the food box, and after awhile she clinked as she walked, and said “Ouch” when she sat down absent-mindedly. Leaving the ruins and following the shelf high above the blue lake, we came quite unexpectedly on the dam, not five miles further. It was a surprise to reach our first night’s stop with half the dread Trail behind us, and no thrilling escapes from destruction. We learned at the Inn that the worst sixteen miles lay ahead on the road to Fish Creek. Indeed, the Apache Trail, although narrow, full of turns and fairly precipitous in places, proved a far simpler matter than the unadvertised “highway” out of Winkleman, while the scenery itself was hardly lovelier.