After scampering through the rest of his mail, Roger promptly went to the little depot and asked for a ticket to Aragon. Leisurely the agent went about filling his request, then, looking at him with half-shut eyes, said, with the easy familiarity of the West:
"Folks down there?"
"No," said Roger shortly, "going down on government business."
The agent's eyes opened slightly with a gleam of amusement in them.
"Ain't you pretty young for the Pecos country, son?" he said.
"Why?" asked the boy, quickly.
"Wa'al, it's pretty wild down there yet. It's nothing like what it used to be in the days when the Apaches used it as a sort o' Tom Tiddler's ground for picking up scalps, but I wouldn't go so fur as to call it an abode of peace, right now."
"But the Indians are all in reservations now!" said Roger, surprised at the suggestion of danger.
"That's right, son, so they are. But the Greasers ain't all dead yet, more's the pity."
"What's a Greaser?"