“Yo-to. Santa Fé, that is. I was in the penitentiary for seven years.” He seemed very cheerful about it.
“What?” Blake said, in a gasp.
“Yes. I was pretty mad then, but not any more. It is all right now.”
He put down the empty soda bottle and bit into a cracker, chatting with his friends in Navajo.
“Why did he go to jail?” Teddy asked Bush.
“I dunno. It was before my time. Probably he helped burn a witch; they always get seven years for that. One of you boys can ride over with me to the well, if you want.”
Madden went, and Blake wandered around the house to the back porch, where he was unwillingly drawn into conversation with Mrs. Bush. He had felt awkward with her; she was so silent. But this morning she seemed more talkative. He sat down on the step and listened vaguely, feeling drowsy in the heat. He felt like brooding over the decoration he had found on the wall of his room; a piece of burnt-leather with a picture enameled on it of a ruddy desert mathematically arrayed beneath a setting sun, rays outstretched in all directions. Underneath was a verse burnt in big dancing letters, and he had memorized it:
Welcome to Arizona
Where the beauteous cactus grows
And what was once the desert