Sundown shook his head.
"Now this here story," said Wingle; "I read her forty-three times come next round-up, and blamed if I sabe her yet. Now, take it where the perfesser—a slim gent with large round eye-glasses behind which twinkled a couple of deep-set studyus eyes—so the book says; now, take it where he talks about them Hopi graves over there in the valley—"
"This here valley?" queried Sundown, immediately interested.
"Sure! Well, I can sabe all that. I seen 'em."
"Seen 'em?"
"Sure! Why Arizona's got more leavin's of history and dead Injuns and such, right on top of the ground, than any other State in the Union. Why, right over there in the cañon of the Concho there's a hull ruined Injun village—stones piled up in little circles, and what was huts and caves and the leavin's of a old irrigatin' ditch and busted ollas, and bones and arrow-heads and picture-writin' on the rocks—bears and eagles and mounting-lions and hosses—scratched right on the rocks. Them cliffs there is covered with it."
"Them?" queried Sundown, pointing toward the cañon, "Do they charge anything to see it?"
"Well, seein' they been dead about a thousand years, I reckon not."
"A thousand years! Huh! I ain't scared of no Injuns a thousand years old. How far is it to them picture-things?"
"'Bout three mile. You can take a hoss and mosey over if you like. Figure on gettin' back 'round noon."