An old man with a goat's beard appeared at the door.
"A couple of gallons of gas, please," I shouted, and while he pumped it in I surveyed the surroundings; there was another little shack not far away and two dirty-looking Mexican women were sitting down outside. Here and there, round about, lay rubbish, pieces of timber, tin cans and other débris.
"Guess you get mighty lonesome here, dad?"
"Aw, dunno," he replied. "Bin here nigh on forty years. Guess I got purty well accustomed to it now."
"Forty years! I should say so!... Thanks. Say, how far's Peach Springs from here?"
"Peach Springs? This is Peach Springs. You're in it right here," and he pointed to his shack.
"This Peach Springs? I thought it was a big town with umpteen thousand people in it."
"And so it was, till they moved it."
"Moved it?" I stood aghast at the thought of such a horrible thing.