And if it
were full of gold as the United States treasury, the burros took
up all their time so they couldn't do much. Between doggone stock
drinking or not drinking and the darn fool diary that had to be
kept, Bud opined that they needed an extra hand or two. Bud was
peevish, these days. Gila Bend had exasperated him because it was
not the town it called itself, but a huddle of adobe huts. He had
come away in the sour mood of a thirsty man who finds an alkali
spring sparkling deceptively under a rock. Furthermore, the
nights had been hot and the mosquitoes a humming torment. And as
a last affliction he was called upon to keep the diary going. He
did it, faithfully enough but in a fashion of his own.
First he read back a few pages to get the hang of the thing.
Then he shook down Cash's fountain pen, that dried quickly in
that heat. Then he read another page as a model, and wrote:
June 19.
Mosquitoes last night was worse than the heat and that was
worse than Gila Bend's great white way. Hunted up the burros.
Pete and Monte came in and drank. Monte had colic. We fed them
and turned them loose but the blamed fools hung around all day
and eat up some sour beans I throwed out. Cash was peeved and
swore they couldn't have another grain of feed.
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