writing this as an advertisement, and my readers can consult individual preference if they feel so disposed—which rises in a cloud of dry, irritating dust above the horse's houghs, and if agitated by the hot winds, excoriates the eyes, throat, nostrils, and ears of the unfortunate who may find himself there. Now and then one discerns in the dim distance such a deceiving body of water as the "Soda Lake," which tastes like soapsuds, and nourishes no living thing save the worthless ducks spoken of, whose flesh is uneatable except to save one from starvation.
Hutton had seen so much hardship that it was natural to expect him to be meek and modest in his ideas and demeanor, but he was, on the contrary, decidedly vain and conceited, and upon such a small matter that it ought not really to count against him. He had six toes on each foot, a fact to which he adverted with pride. "Bee gosh," he would say, "there hain't ennuther man 'n th' hull dog-goned outfit's got ez menny toes's me."
Then there was the excitement at Felmer's ranch, three miles above the post. Felmer was the post blacksmith, and lived in a little ranch in the fertile "bottom" of the San Pedro, where be raised a "patch" of barley and garden-truck for sale to the garrison. He was a Russian or a Polynesian or a Turk or a Theosophist or something—he had lived in so many portions of the world's surface that I never could keep track of him. I distinctly remember that he was born in Germany, had lived in Russia or in the German provinces close to Poland, and had thence travelled everywhere. He had married an Apache squaw, and from her learned the language of her people. She was now dead, but Joe was quite proud of his ability to cope with all the Apaches in Arizona, and in being a match for them in every wile. One hot day—all the days were comfortably warm, but this was a "scorcher"—there was a sale of condemned Government stock, and Joe bought a mule, which the auctioneer facetiously suggested should be called "Lazarus," he had so many sores all over his body. But Joe bought him, perfectly indifferent to the scoffs and sneers of the by-standers. "Don't you think the Apaches may get him?" I ventured to inquire. "That's jest what I'm keeping him fur; bait—unnerstan'? 'N Apache 'll come down 'n my alfalfy field 'n git thet mewel, 'n fust thing you know thar'll be a joke on somebody."
