Arizona Nights | Page 3

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ARIZONA NIGHTS by STEWART EDWARD WHITE
CHAPTER ONE
THE OLE VIRGINIA
The ring around the sun had thickened all day long, and the turquoise
blue of the Arizona sky had filmed. Storms in the dry countries are
infrequent, but heavy; and this surely meant storm.
We had ridden since sun-up over broad mesas, down and out of deep
canons, along the base of the mountain in the wildest parts of the
territory. The cattle were winding leisurely toward the high country; the
jack rabbits had disappeared; the quail lacked; we did not see a single
antelope in the open. "It's a case of hole up," the Cattleman ventured his
opinion. "I have a ranch over in the Double R. Charley and Windy Bill
hold it down. We'll tackle it. What do you think?" The four cowboys
agreed. We dropped into a low, broad watercourse, ascended its bed to
big cottonwoods and flowing water, followed it into box canons
between rim-rock carved fantastically and painted like a Moorish
facade, until at last in a widening below a rounded hill, we came upon

an adobe house, a fruit tree, and a round corral. This was the Double R.
Charley and Windy Bill welcomed us with soda biscuits. We turned our
horses out, spread our beds on the floor, filled our pipes, and squatted
on our heels. Various dogs of various breeds investigated us. It was
very pleasant, and we did not mind the ring around the sun.
"Somebody else coming," announced the Cattleman finally.
"Uncle Jim," said Charley, after a glance.
A hawk-faced old man with a long white beard and long white hair
rode out from the cottonwoods. He had on a battered broad hat
abnormally high of crown, carried across his saddle a heavy "eight
square" rifle, and was followed by a half-dozen lolloping hounds.
The largest and fiercest of the latter, catching sight of our group,
launched himself with lightning rapidity at the biggest of the ranch
dogs, promptly nailed that canine by the back of the neck, shook him
violently a score of times, flung him aside, and pounced on the next.
During the ensuing few moments that hound was the busiest thing in
the West. He satisfactorily whipped four dogs, pursued two cats up a
tree, upset the Dutch oven and the rest of the soda biscuits, stampeded
the horses, and raised a cloud of dust adequate to represent the smoke
of battle. We others were too paralysed to move. Uncle Jim sat placidly
on his white horse, his thin knees bent to the ox-bow stirrups, smoking.
In ten seconds the trouble was over, principally because there was no
more trouble to make. The hound returned leisurely, licking from his
chops the hair of his victims. Uncle Jim shook his head. "Trailer," said
he sadly, "is a little severe." We greed heartily, and turned in to
welcome Uncle Jim with a fresh batch of soda biscuits. The old man
was ne of the typical"long hairs." He had come to the Galiuro
Mountains in '69, and since '69 he had remained in the Galiuro
Mountains, spite of man or the devil. At present he possessed some
hundreds of cattle, which he was reputed to water, in a dry season, from
an ordinary dishpan. In times past he had prospected. That evening, the
severe Trailer having dropped to slumber, he held forth on big-game
hunting and dogs, quartz claims and Apaches. "Did you ever have any

very close calls?" I asked.
He ruminated a few moments, refilled his pipe with some awful
tobacco, and told the following experience:
In the time of Geronimo I was living just about where I do now; and
that was just about in line with the raiding. You see, Geronimo, and Ju
[1], and old Loco used to pile out of the reservation at Camp Apache,
raid south to the line, slip over into Mexico when the soldiers got too
promiscuous, and raid there until they got ready to come back.