"I'm kind of tired, my good sir," I said gratefully, "but—how—how far is the town."
The donor of Coxey blinked his eyes and felt of his goatee, then, straightening back, said, "Not fer, it's right here. Can't you see it all round ye? Ye didn't cal'luate ter find a New Yirk er New Orlins, did ye? This is jest plain unadulterated Stockton, and it's glad ter welcome ye. Now, if ye're trim ter go about a piece, I'll guide ye."
"Thanks, awfully," I replied, rising. "Take me to a smith the first thing; I want all my donks' feet examined and put in condition for the desert."
Then leaving an order for supplies at the store, I had Coonskin ride my new burro to the blacksmith.
After a two-and-a-half-hour sojourn in Stockton, my caravan was wending its way to the next and last town we would visit in Utah, St. Johns. The next after that would be one hundred and seventy-five miles away. Here and there along the trail a ranchman's shack stood alone, the glistening window panes flashing like a lighthouse tower in that sea of sage. An occasional horse or steer would loom above the brush; once or twice a jackrabbit bounded across the trail, or a weary buzzard careened in the air overhead, as though figuring for me a fatal horoscope.
I was silent a long time before Coonskin reminded me that I had neglected my weekly letter to the papers.
Said he, "It's a good time to cultivate the acquaintance of Samantha Jane, that typewriter you got at Salt Lake."
"Can't you suggest something more sensible?" I replied. "How can I manage the machine while riding a jackass?"
"Easy enough," said Coonskin. "Lash it on Damfino, and seat yourself as you would to play solitaire."
Great idea! The neglected typewriter was at once introduced to my party for the first time, and secured in a comfortable position on the broad-backed donkey. Then I seated myself vis-à-vis, and opened up a somewhat spirited conversation on the journey.