“The desert?” exclaimed Roy.
“The same,” answered his companion, “an’ a good deal o’ that.”
“What’s the blue wall, then?” added the boy, pointing toward the south.
“Wal, sir, ef it want fur that, ye’d see yaller thar, too. That’s the Mesa Grande, twenty-five miles from hyar. Mesa is Spanish fur a tableland o’ rock. That’s whar the ole Aztecs built thar homes. Take the Mesa away an’ ye’ll see New Mexico from hear.”
“And that?” continued Roy, pointing to the southwest where a gray, pink-tipped spire rose cloudward.
“Ute Mountain,” answered the westerner, as he urged his pony forward again. “And frum it ye’ll likely see thieving Utes and murderin’ Navajos a-plenty.”
While old Doolin’s brakes were creaking against the wheels of the big wagon, Mr. Weston and Roy gave their animals rein, and were off for the village on the plain below, twelve miles away.
“Kid,” exclaimed his companion, after a time, “we might as well agree on this. Ain’t no one we’re goin’ to meet ’at’ll call me ‘Mister’ nur ‘Colonel.’ And ain’t no reason why yo’ should. Over thar,” and he pointed to the Utah alkali—“it’ll be ‘Sink’ Weston. Make her ‘Sink’ an’ let it go at that. Don’t be skeered I’m goin’ to think less o’ you fur it.”
“All right, I will, if you’ll tell me why they call you ‘Sink.’”