Gambel's Quail

AN ENCOUNTER WITH a covey of Gambel's the Gambel's Quail. If they are hunters they Quail on the desert has been an unforpursue them the several weeks of hunting gettable experience for many hikers. The season and find them a pretty good match even startling "whir" of those short wings makes the for a man with a shotgun. The bird lover, heart skip a beat, followed by relief and then picnickers, and motorists have them the readmiration as they glide to cover under a bush mainder of the year. or tree some fifty yards away. Most people In early spring we admire the male as he who get out in the desert areas of Arizona know calls for a mate from the top of a bush and later as he and his wife escort a brood of small quail across the road, she in front of the procession and he bringing up in the rear. This procession may include as many as twenty young and they start out so soon that the egg shell may be hanging on the chick. As the young are growing, they are not seen so much for they are kept under cover for protection but their tracks are evident where they cross the washes. Later, when the young are grown, they gather in groups when feeding and are more approachable, but "whir" away if startled. Gambel's Quail is found throughout Arizona on the deserts and in warm valleys up to the mountains. They are beautiful birds. The cock with a striking plume of five or six jet-black feathers carried high sometimes forward and sometimes backward, but carried together except on occasion when opened for display. His crown is reddish-brown bordered with a narrow band of white; his forehead is a gray-black and is made up mostly of hair-like feathers; breast, dull gray; belly, ivory with black band below. The flanks are chestnut color streaked with pure white. The female is without striking coloration. The black seen on forehead, throat, and belly of the male is absent in the female. Her crest is somewhat smaller with the crown gray or dull chestnut.

The nest is a hollow scratched in the ground under suitable cover of a small bush, at the base of a tree, or beside a bunch of grass. The nest is lined with grass and leaves. The eggs are ten to twenty in number, white or buffy, spotted and blotched with brown and reddish-brown, presenting a purple cast. These are incubated for a period of three weeks. A clutch of eggs usually hatches within a couple of hours, and in a like period the young chicks are able to follow the parents and are taken away from the nest site and do not return.

The Gambel's Quail raises only one brood a year. They make very good parents, the mother supervising and leading in the eating, while the father is ever on the alert for any danger. When the family group is approached he tries to lead the enemy off by appearing to be crippled. The young are taught to hide under these circumstances with the mother, and if the emergency is great enough she too can attract attention from the young. This parental training extends over several months when they are able to take care of themselves. The hen does the incubation of the eggs and is rarely relieved by the cock, although if she should meet with an accident during the period of incubation, he will take over and become a steady incubator.

Generally considered wary and able to take care of themselves in the open they soon become accustomed to people and when offered food and water without molestation become very friendly. In the refuges, people attract them about their homes and enjoy their company. On many of the cattle ranches in Southern Arizona they appear at the corrals early in the morning, then come to the doorstep for what may be offered and disappear for the day, returning in the evening for a drink of water at the watering trough.

Gambel's Quail have been hunted in Arizona for many years. Some of the early bags, of course, have had an effect on our present crop. In the fall of 1894, 1,300 dozen were shipped to San Francisco from Mohawk Valley, Yuma County. Records show that 3,000 dozen quail were shipped from Salt River Valley, 18891890. The present day limit is ten per day.

Long may that balance last where there are enough for some to be taken by the hunters during season and plenty left for the picnickers and motorists to enjoy. We all thrill at that startling "whir" and the long glide to cover.

The ultimate aim of the Navy Aviation Cadet's aerial schooling, which begins at War Training Service centers, is to qualify him to fly a combat aircraft against the enemy. Here is a Navy "Dauntless" dive bomber swooping low over an aircraft carrier's flight deck to drop a message. At sea, ships' radios must usually remain speechless.

First Flight For The Navy

call it. It's helpful in more difficult acrobatics, which come easier to the man who has this advantage of having learned to think in advance -to plan."

That is Reason No. 3 why the Navy men are gaining skills they might never learn in the quick-elimination system employed in the old days.

"Confidence can be gained in bigger ships," said Chief Pilot Ellis, "we know that. But some men acquire it more slowly than others. We are dealing with some here every day. Some men are awed by the power of a larger plane in their initial training. They don't have so much original respect for the small planes. The embryo pilot discovers soon enough that a small ship is no push-over, but he has the idea first that he can lick the plane. That helps in his approach to learning to fly."

When the Navy flyer, who has gained confidence in his small-plane days, graduates to a larger ship, he knows it is a matter of adjustment, knows that he can fly the new ship nearly as well as he could the elementary trainer. That's the claim of Chief Pilots of the WTS at Prescott. They tell of former CPT students who soloed in the heavier, military-type trainers in three hours or less.

It's reason No. 4 why the War Training Service is helping the Navy train better pilots and why fewer are washing out as the days roll by and as victory gets a day closer every 24 hours.

These four reasons justify to the folks of Prescott the part they are playing in the war effort. They have always felt the CPT was important. They know now it was, and that the WTS is.

PAGE THIRTY Before the Civilian Pilot Training program and its successor, the War Training Service plan came into being for Navy Aviation Cadets, the failure of just one pilot in primary flight school meant a loss of from 10 to 100 hours )of pilot and plane time. Naval air officers put their heads together, agreed the solution was to be found in a pre-primary flying and ground school program.

They decided: (1) many Navy Aviation Cadets were idle while awaiting call to active duty under instruction; (2) that valuable time in more advanced flying was lost by a disproportionate amount of failures; (3) and that many students lacked the necessary basic knowledge to master navigation, gunnery and other skills requiring a mathematical and scientific background.

The CPT, under the administration of the Civil Aeronautics Administration took on the job. Hampered by obstacles, which varied from lack of faith in its ability to produce, to failure to obtain priority ratings for materials, parts, and planes it needed desperately, the CPT launched into the arduous task with high hopes.

After more than six months the Navy evinced satisfaction, and on December 15, 1942 changed the CPT to the WTS, and put the cadets undergoing training on active duty with $75 a month pay, exactly the same monthly stipend their more advanced shipmates were drawing. It was the Navy's first step in giving the new WTS organization the "green light."

Naval officers will be at the helm of many of these WTS centers, the Aviation Cadets are donning Navy-issue uniforms, and there are now so few failures that the Navy isn't acutely concerned. Not even the most optimistic everexpected 100 per cent success. Some pilot candidates will always falter in more advanced training, but not in the numbers of the preCPT era.

Biggest problem of the CPT flying schools at Prescott was the procurement of planes toreplace those which were disintegrating under the constant wear of every-day flight. CPT was not a military organization-the armed forces were naturally reluctant to relinquish their hold on aircraft materials necessary for their expanded training and tactical operations.

Some CPT schools even shut down. But these cases were rare. Flight school managers hope the Navy can solve their problem, because these men realize their planes will not last forever.

This is the program which Prescott is aiding, as are the cities of Nogales, Phoenix, Tempe, St. Johns, Cottonwood, Williams, and Thatcher. New WTS centers in Arizona are contemplated. Everywhere the Navy has met with enthusiastic response by Arizonans. Theirs is a totality of effort for and until victory.

My Trail To HELLANGONE

(Continued from Page Seven) St. George, Utah, and showed the rough draft to Maurine Whipple, author of "The Giant Joshua." "Take it to the Writers' Conference at Boulder, Colorado," she said, with a prophetic light in her big brown eyes.

I typed the forty-eight pages out on clean paper, sent them off to Boulder. I sold my last three cows, took the hundred and fifty dollars and followed the manuscript.

At the conference Hudson Strode was lecturing on the novel. He had read my forty-eight pages. He met me with a sparkle in his eye. He used my work in his lectures on the novel. His magnificent reading of my lines brought A queer tightness to my throat and telegraphed offers from two great publishing houses.

Now deep purple haze settled about me, and

I knew no more, until it came time to write

ARIZONA HIGHWAYS

He Stayed With 'Em While He Lasted

(Continued from Page Nine) And spattered beans all over the room. Without a word, he stalked through the door and banged it behind him. The others merely grunted as the game broke up. They were stuffed to the ears with waiting for spring round-up to begin. Smith's lips were thin with discontent. For a moment, he stared after Harvick. Presently, he got up and followed. Not a word passed as the two men watched the sun blaze down behind Sunset Pass. The sky faded from gold to purple and a dull, depressing gray. Then Smith began to speak His tone was guarded, inaudible a few feet away, but Harvick paid close attention to what Smith had on his mind, and when Stiren and Halford came out and joined, they too, listened closely to the fat that sizzled in the fire. Next day, Harvick drew time and headed for the Chevelon hills. Sleet gnawed his face and the wind seemed to have cut to his bone when he finally dismounted at the spot where he meant to camp. But it took more than weather to dismay a puncher of the Hashknife pattern. Harvick threw down his bedroll, and soon was fast asleep. Next morning, he hud-dled over his fire until he heard the clump of a horse's hoofs approaching through the ce-dars. He looked up from the fire, expectant. There was an instant's silence as a horseman appeared, reined up, and waved. It was Smith. During the next couple of days, Stiren and Halford appeared in precisely the same man-ner, alone, but expected by Harvick and Smith, waiting among the cedars. "Anybody git hep?" Smith asked as Halford rode up.

"They'd have three days start by the time a posse got going. Likely out of the county right now." "Likely." The word was harsh and metallic. It had the ring of a challenge in the way Buckey said it, but more, it was the unyielding accept-ance of a challenge thrown down to him. The agent's jaw sagged at the size of the job that Buckey seemed ready to tackle. Tracking outlaws in the rugged badlands to the north was job enough when the trail was hot, but taking a cold trail in that forbidding country seemed little short of madness. "You can't I mean, you ain't you don't mean you're going to?" "Yes, I do mean I'm going to," Buckey said flatly, and went out the door, leaving the agent agape, his shoulders shrugged. A few minutes later, Buckey sought author"Naw. Startin' out different days and headin' all directions, they was thinkin' us four had just caught the itch. They ain't no idee." ☆ Buckey relaxed in his office at Prescott, his number nine brogan at ease on top of his desk. The telegraph agent had scurried from view, but suddenly burst through the door. His eyes were bulging wide.

ity to take the trail of the fleeing outlaws. He faced Chairman of the Board of Supervisors Behan and District Attorney H. D. Ross, and was making no progress whatever. That made no difference. Buckey's Irish was up. "You fellows are quibbling!" he charged. "Supposing they have left the countryThis is a capital offense! I tell you, this crime was committed in Yavapai county. I'm Sheriff here, and come hell or high water, it's my job to bring them in." His eyes were bright with the heat of battle. One foot was plunked on the seat of a chair. An accusing finger pointed at Ross. "See here, Ross, do you mean to say we should allow men to commit a crime equal to murder, and then because they hop over an imaginary line, let them escape? Do you hold with that? Is that justice?" "I'm not a Judge, and am not saying whether I hold with it as justice," the District Attorney replied, "but under the law, you have no authority, Buckey. You cannot pursue a fugitive beyond your own county line. Once he crosses that line, he is outside your jurisdiction." "Therefore," Behan interposed, "I can't authorize deputies to assist you outside the county." "Jurisdiction be damned! And damn your deputies, too. I'm going to capture those men." "The railroad might pay for their capture," Ross observed, noncommittal, and knowingly, nevertheless. "And the railroads be damned!" Buckey snorted. "I'll pay it myself if I have to. But I'm going to take those men!" Without further debate, he stormed out the door. By the very next morning, less than twentyfour hours after word had come in, Buckey was ready to lead a posse on a quest that could mean a full month in the saddle. He went out of Prescott like a whirlwind, alone. A few miles away at the Junction, Buckey picked up Cal Holton, Special Agent of the Atlantic and Pacific road, and in Flagstaff was joined by Special Deputies Ed St. Clair and James L. Black. All were veteran bloodhounds of the range. As trackers, they stood without peer, and each knew from experience that the odds against them were huge. A four man posse attempting to capture an equal number of outlaws was a tremendous task in itself. But a rockbound wilderness added to that, and two days of intermittent snow, thenwell, you had your work cut out for you. None knew it better than Buckey. He was perpetual motion on horseback. He took his men straight to Canyon Diablo, and found the trail cold as a corpse. The station agent vol"They robbed it!" he cried. "Number 2last night-eastbound." Buckey thumped feet to the floor. "The Express? Whereabouts?" "Canyon Diablo. Here," the agent thrust forward the message. Buckey read it, reached for his hat. The agent said, "Worst kind of country. Ain't nothing a man can do." "He could bring them in."

Unteered aid, but it was soon apparent that he knew very little. The rock terrain was frozen and hard. Sleet had done its worst work, and not a hoof print was left on the mottled ground. So Buckey started from scratch. The ashes of a burned out fire beside the right of way were no help. But an ocasional scar made on a stone by the shoe of a horse, a fractured twig, horsehair in the brush, an overturned stick-all pointed south. Buckey yanked out his Bull Durham. South. It didn't seem right. That would be riding into the teeth of the law. "Seems to me, I would have gone north." he mused. "Can't take no chances," Holton observed. "This trail's a dead injun already." "Nothing to do but stick with it," Buckey conceded, and gave Sandy head toward the south. The powerful roan was considerably

in the van of the others when Buckey drew up and leaped to the ground.

"Ho! Take a look here!" he shouted, scouring the spot where the outlaws had split up their loot. The others rode up and dismounted. "Look at that. Pried the stones right out of those ear rings. Take that bandana along. Good evidence in court. And by the Lord Harry, look at the direction they rode off in!"

Black studied the robbers' outbound trail for a moment. The ground was softer here, and protected by trees. The trail was exceptionally clear.

"Looks like they split two and two from here out. They was headin' due north, sure enough."

"Had a hunch we were riding a chase. They're heading for Utah! O. K., Sandy, let's go. Cut straight for Black Falls!" Buckey was off in the lead.

(The chase began, northward into the wild-erness of southern Utah. A hard chase it was, too, but the riding-fool of a sheriff from Yavapai county was not to be denied. The punchers from the Hashknife outfit, who held up the train, were captured. Buckey and his deputies brought them back to Prescott by train via Salt Lake City and Denver. The capture became front page news throughout the nation and in his own town Buckey was hailed as a hero. One of the four train robbers jumped the train in New Mexico but was rounded up later in Texas. Buckey finally brought 'em back alive.) Presses rattled. Wires hummed. Even before Buckey prodded his captives aboard the train at Milford, editors were draping heroic adjectives all over his brow. Of course, Buckey knew nothing about it until the train pulled into Salt Lake. There, he suddenly found out. Train robbers in captivity were so great a curiosity that a crowd was on hand to see them, still unshackled, as they stepped from the train. Reporters descended on Buckey. Being one of the tribe himself, he knew what they wanted, but modestly stuck to the facts. However, Salt Lake reporters knew their stuff. They did the rest. San Francisco, Denver, and newspapers east soon related the spine tingling exploits of the heroic, intrepid, daring, gallant, bold, fearless, resolute, plucky and courageous young sheriff. "Handsome" and "dashing" were also tossed in for benefit of dainty subscriberes.

Home coming was a great day for Buckey. No celebration was planned, but everyone in town was on hand at the station. The crowd got a good look at the prisoners, both there and on the way to the jail.

"We'll have Smith again before long. Black and Holton are right on his trail," Buckey said with confidence, and with deep satisfaction, clanged the bars behind his captives. Couldn't take those babies, eh? By golly, he had done it!

Buckey's grin covered his face as he modestly received the approbation of the town. Telegrams had poured in from all over the West. Someone handed him a stack. One from Governor Wolfley typified the rest.

Phoenix, April 11, W. O. O'Neill, Prescott, Arizona: The undersigned most heartily congratulates you on your successful capture of the train robbers after so persistent and dangerous a trip. The people of Arizona and the country in general are proud of your achievement and are deeply grateful.

(Signed) Louis A. Wolfley, Governor.

N. O. Murphy, Secretary.

As sheriff, Buckey could easily have coasted through the balance of the term upon his performance at Canyon Diablo. More than one six-gun reputation flourished on the strength of a single less illustrious exploit. But that stuff didn't go with Buckey. He was no oneshot hero, and numerous episodes proved it.

There was the murder of cowboy George Johnson, shotgunned from ambush on the outskirts of Prescott. The killer was seen-a treacherous, deadly man. It was two o'clock in the morning when Buckey marched into the murderer's room. The killer feigned sleep, wrapped in blankets. There was no light, and neither man could see.

"Start shooting when you're ready," Buckey invited, then jerked the man from bed. He was fully dressed, six-gun in his hand. With the advantage in his favor, he had determined to shoot it out, but the tone of Buckey's voice had made him lose nerve. He suddenly changed his mind.

There was the double killing near Oro Fino over disputed mining claims. Before sundown, Buckey brought in his man. He covered eighty-five miles aboard Sandy that day, and had a prisoner half of the way. It was no idle boast that he could ride the magnificent roan one hundred miles in a day.

There was the affair in Cavanaugh's saloon. Western bad men maintained reputationsin each of two separate ways. First, by crimes committed. Second, by number and quality of Sheriffs at which they thumbed their noses and managed to make it stick. Once failing this latter essential, they were quick to depart for some place where they could bulldoze the law.

Prescott had her share of such boys until Buckey was elected to office. Thereafter, hurrahing the Sheriff was discouraging sport. Few toughs were willing to risk it, but finally one leader of a band of long riders concluded that he was the boy to do it. He braced himself with liquid courage and led his men into Prescott. Citizens leaped for cover as they shot up the town. They swept Whiskey Row and hitched to the rack in front of Cavanaugh's saloon. They stared brazenly around. It was as simple as that. No one remained in sight to complain.

They kicked open the doors and took over command of Cavanaugh's saloon. The party was on the house. Patrons were forced to join the fun and rudely made to like it.

Outside, few men dared venture along the street. None cared to go near the saloon. Nobody sent for Buckey because there was nothing he could do. This was a task that even he would be foolish to tackle. These hombres were really notorious. They would shoot him down on sight.

Buckey, however, had ears. He knew of these fellows, and had expected a display such as this. He got up from his desk and hitched his six-gun low. Men turned to watch as he strode through the Plaza. He seemed a bit annoyed as he marched toward Cavanaugh's saloon.

Inside, the party grew warm. Entertainers were mauled; glassware smashed to the floor. The renegade leader strode to the bar, bellowing for drink. The barkeeper trembled in haste, but froze as Buckey walked in the door. "Fill 'em up!" the renegade bellowed. "I'm a-runnin' this show!"

"That's all that I wanted to know," he heard a mild-mannered voice, scarcely audible through the roar.

He twisted heavily, elbows on the bar. He didn't like the tone of that voice. It grated on his nerves. He scowled as Buckey moved toward him. The intruder wasn't much for size.

"And who in hell are you?" the outlaw bawled out before he saw the badge. "Oh," he sneered, expanding, "the law. Hey, boys, the Great Siezer! Whatdya think of that?"

The sudden hush was measured by the thump of boots as men strode up to heel the boss. Feet shuffled as patrons vanished through a door in the rear. The barkeep disappeared. Buckey didn't move. His eyes were on the boss. Both men stood taut, legs wide, weight forward. Hands were near guns.

The big man glowered at Buckey, then snorted to cover a squirm. Buckey spoke. His tone was soft but tough, like a blackjack bound with plush.

"That's right, boys. The law."

The boys glanced at the boss. The boss glanced at them. There was nothing else to do. He went for his gun. It fairly leaped into his hand as he drew, and only one thing was wrong. Buckey's was in his face.

Others had not even moved.

"Loosen your belts. Let 'em drop," Buckey ordered, forcing them to comply. Then suddenly, he grinned. "Tough guys, eh? Open the doors, there, Jake!" he called, and prodded the prisoners forward.

The barkeep appeared from under the bar and gladly threw open the doors. Buckey marched the renegades into the street. A chattering crowd quickly gathered. "Well, boys," Buckey said, "we've a nice calaboose. But that road you came in happens to be the road out. Make up your minds in a hurry." Meekly, the renegades mounted, and then somebody started to laugh. Hats low, they dug in their spurs and fled from the roaring laughter.

Happily, Buckey observed, "The hoosegow is good for an inflated ego, but the horselaugh chastises the soul!" As sheriff, editor, and peerless goodfellow, Buckey won his place in the hearts of the people. But he really became a man of the people when he went into action as, of all things, tax assessor. It was in this capacity, well after the Canyon Diablo affair, that he tangled with the Atlantic and Pacific railroad. And when Buckey tangled, he tangled.

The question of railroad taxation through-out the Territory was a highly debatable sub-ject-one which the railroads refused to debate. They sat back on their haunches and declared that they weren't subject to taxation at all. Then, with great condescension, they paid what ever they felt like paying, and accounts were supposed to be squared.

The County had always taken what it could get, pleased to get any at all. Buckey, how-ever, didn't savvy the system. He was asses-sor, and as such, proposed to assess. He eval-uated Atlantic and Pacific land at a dollar and a quarter per acre, and sent them a bill based on $892,260.38.

The railroad screamed like the five o'clock whistle. They never heard of such a thing, although they were getting off easy at that. Private landowners were socked a dollar and fifty-two cents against their dollar twenty-five. But that chipped no ice at all.

"How about a reduction?" the railroad countered. "We'll be good fellows and contribute -say thirty cents an acre."

Buckey wouldn't budge. "One dollar and a quarter."

"We'll see," said the railroad.

That spitfire O'Neill was a tough one to buck, but the nabobs were an old hand at this game. Never cross a bridge unless you can't go around it, they maintained, preparing to illustrate the point.

Gentlemen, they complained to their old-time friends, the County Board of Equalization, we are trying to be nice and pay taxes on a valuation of thirty cents an acre. But this Republican, O'Neill, insists upon an assessment of one dollar and a quarter per acre. We appeal to you as reasonable men for relief from such oppression! The Board was composed of the men who, as Supervisors, had saved the County two thous-and dollars by refusing to pay Buckey's Canyon Diablo expense. But of course they were reasonable men. They reasoned that elections were around the corner, and that the railroad should have relief. They reduced the assessment to thirty cents.

The nabobs relaxed. It was Buckey's move.

Buckey had but one board of appeal the Territorial Board of Equalization. Its majority, like the County Board's, was Democratic as hell. Buckey snorted. Big-wigs grinned. Both knew he didn't have a chance.

Nevertheless, Buckey wrote an appeal. He addressed it to the Territorial Board, but as he wrote, he got an idea. He wrote not so much an appeal to the Board as a resounding indictment carried straight to the people. The The railroad won on its thirty-cent plea, but found itself in a ten-year fight that went through the Supreme Court of the United States and right into the halls of Congress. As county assessor, there was little more he could do about it, but he wasn't the sort to stay put. Sheriff and county assessor were merely a stop on Buckey's way up. Just ahead, opportunity beckoned. There was a spot from which he could continue the fight, and he looked forward to the elections of 1894 with growing anticipation.

Buckey was now thirty-four, unscathed by fifteen dynamic years in Arizona. Rigorous frontier life had attended to that. No bulges marred his silhouette. Muscles were tough and hard. Gray left his crisp, black hair untouched, and the cigarette remained, a perma-nent fixture in his mouth. Temperamentally, he was still the fireball, a perpetual opportunist. Consistently inconsistent he resembled nothing so much as the man on the flying trapeze. He sailed through the air from one swinging bar to the next, reaching out for the one that held most promise of sweeping him upward to ever increasing heights. In only one thing did he appear to have mellowed-in devotion to Arizona. His deep-rooted affection for its mountains and desert, its whirlwind mode of life, was now tempered with honest desire to serve her true interests, to further the welfare of her people.

This was Buckey as he came to the end of his term as Sheriff. Still the same old Buckey, burning with desire to further himself, but determined to do so by serving Arizona. He would give her his level best. In the distance, he could see the dim mantle of Statehood, waiting only for Arizona to grow. He ached in every fibre to help her grow, for with her, he knew, he, too, would grow.

There was vigorous agitation in Prescott for Buckey to serve a second term as Sheriff. Proof was ample that he had what it took. His popularity was so great that for the first time in Yavapai County's history, he doubtlessly would heve been unopposed. Buckey refused to accept. No one was more certain than he that he had what it took, but he wasn't a policeman at heart. He had bigger things on his mind, and re-election would scotch his plans.

Buckey felt that he had come of political age, and boldly determined to bid for the toughest trapeze to catapult upward, with Arizona's highest political office his immediate destination. From there, he could give The railroads a fight. He turned his full gaze upon the throne on which he had always had one eye cocked-Arizona's Delegate to Congress, in Washington, D. C. At this moment, in 1894, the country was in need of men like Buckey. Social unrest grew to appalling proportions. Business was prostrated, farms covered with liens. Labor writhed beneath the heel of oppression. Land concentrated in the hands of capital. Above all, demonitization of silver was crushing the West to its knees. Mines closed. Banks failed. A national panic was under way. Neither the Republican nor Democratic party seemed able to cope with the situation, and West of the Mississippi a new political party arose out of chaos and swept into power. It was known as the People's Party.

Party lines in the Territory had long since been drawn. You were either Democrat or Republican, or else nothing at all. If a man aspired to political office, party bosses had to be seen. It was a system that irked Buckey's soul, but any system that subordinates men's convictions to mere party allegiance would irk Buckey's soul. He couldn't stomach the imbecility of candidates who claimed to de-serve support of the people, not because of principles for which they fought, nor dogmas for which they pled, but solely because they were Republican or Democrat, as the case might be.

At the moment, Buckey's honest convictions and the avowed Republican platform happened to coincide. The Party proclaimed itself the Guardian Angel of Arizona, friend of farmer and labor, oppression's bitter foe. Above all, it was the "free silver" party. The Democrats claimed the very same things. As a party, their claim to the "free silver" sobriquet perhaps was more valid. Paradoxically, President Harrison had given sup-port to free silver in the face of opposition from the Republican machine, and during his ad-ministration the Sherman Silver Purchase Act was put into effect. Under Cleveland's Democratic regime, however, the President advocated repeal of the measure in spite of the party's espousal of the free silver cause.

With some trepidation, Buckey stuck with the Republican party. Basically, he regarded it a choice between evils, for experience had imbued him with innate distrust of either party when it came to subordinating political expedience to the fundamental good of the people. Nevertheless, he went into a huddle with Republican bosses. They looked down their noses at glowing icigars and admittedthrough a curtain of smoke that they had been "considering" Buckey as Republican nominee for Delegate to Congress. They chewed the cigars profoundly, and further revealed that Buckey was to be honored with the Party's nomination. He was, they intimated, a fortunate man.

PAGE THIRTY-THREE

Buckey throttled a snort. "Then everything's settled?" he finally asked.

The bosses chewed on their stogies. One's eyes grew narrow and hard, his expression veiled in smoke. His tone was calculating.

"There's only one requisite," he said.

Buckey went on guard. "What's that?"

"Lay off the railroad."

"I will not."

"You've got to. That's your end of the deal."

"Deal? Who made any deal?"

"Call it what you want. We've got to have railroad support. They're giving it. Publicly and otherwise. The condition is absolute. You've got to do it."

Buckey's tone was lethal. "Your politics stink. The whole party stinks. You can take your party and sell it for ice in hell. By God, I'll start my own party!"

Trembling with rage, Buckey turned and walked out. He closed the door with a resounding crack. He meant what he said. He would start his own party.

As it happened, he didn't have to. His party was ready-made.

By 1894, the People's Party had proven worthy of its name. Its protests grew louder, its demands were being heard. Its cry for restoration of government to the hands of "plain people" rose in crescendo. It fought the nation's tendency to "breed tramps and millionaires." Its platform was specific. It foresaw the need and demanded expansion of a national currency issued directly to the people, the establishment of postal savings banks, a graduated income tax. It proposed governmental control of railways and communications, the immediate restoration to the government of land held by railroads in excess of their needs. It declared for free and unlimited coinage of silver at the ratio of sixteen to one.

If the People's Party was ready-made for Buckey, then its platform was positively tailored. Each plank was vital to Arizona. Each an issue which Buckey deeply felt. He naturally turned to its banner.

The Party was quick to realize its good fortune. Buckey was instantly designated the Party's standard-bearer in Arizona, and nominated him for Delegate to Congress. Buckey was equally quick to accept.

Both old-line parties screamed, "Political rebel!" and Buckey proudly acknowledged the charge. It was a charge to which Buckey has not answered alone, for of such men this country is hewn.

Buckey launched what could scarcely be termed a campaign. It was a literal one-man crusade. He charged into battle with colors flying and lances set. He was still the cocksure marauder, but this time his jaw was stern. He was not only campaigning for Buckey O'Neill, but crusading for Arizona.

The Territory's future was plainly at stake, and he minced no words as he ran his opponents through. His challenge resounded throughout Arizona as he ripped into the oldline parties. He tore them apart with methodical denunciationTo N. O. Murphy and John C. Herndon, Nominees for Congress respectively of the Republican and Democratic Parties of Arizona.

Gentlemen for the creation of a new party there can be but one excuse the exist ence of corruption and evils in public affairs that older parties have either not the ability or desire to eradicate. When such evils become so intolerable and malignant as to threaten natinal life and liberty, political revolution is the highest patriotism. It is a duty to God and country.

Having stated his own position and purpose, Buckey now took a look a those of his opponents. To him, it was not a pleasant sight.

"If evils exist today that are consuming like cancer our national welfare, the Republican and Democratic parties are alone responsible and the People's Party is entitled to exist.

You and I know that the Democracy of Jefferson is dead. That the Republicanism of Lincoln has no longer a guiding hand in the destinies of our nation. That in their stead there is enthroned in Washington a power that is as autocratic and cruel in its dictates as any tyrant that ever wore a crown."

Buckey never could hold with the art of couching brick-bats in velvet. He let them fly, bald and unashamed.

"It is the power of organized money-a power that purchases senators, that buys governors, that bribes justice, that corrupts courts, that prostitutes every department of our national government. It is the power which dictates alike to the Republican and Democratic parties in national legislation. Your parties today do not represent the American people. They represent organized wealth."

Buckey's not too humble opinion of the then all-powerful corporate interests was another point on which he did not stand alone. His position was sustained by unimpeachable authority-authority which Buckey did not hesitate to bring to bear.

"They (the old-line parties) represent that power that Lincoln foresaw and feared when, at the close of the Civil War, he said: 'I see in the future a crisis arising which unnerves me and causes me to tremble for the safety of my country. As a result of the war, corporations have been enthroned, and an era of corruption in high places will follow; and then the money power of the nation will prolong its reign by working upon the prejudices of the people until all wealth is aggregated in a few hands and the republic may be destroyed. I feel at this time more anxiety for the safety of my country than ever, even in the midst of war.'"

"(This war against labor) has been accepted by your parties as proper and just, yet I ask you to compare it with the declaration of Abraham Lincoln, made within each of our lifetimes, and we are all young men, in a public message to Congress: 'Labor is prior to and independent of capital. Capital is only the fruit of labor, and could never have existed if labor had not existed first. Labor is the superior of capital and deserves much the higher consideration. No men living are more worthy to be trusted than those who toil out from poverty, none less inclined to take or touch aught which they have not honestly earned. Let them beware of surrendering a political trust which they already possess, and which, if surrendered, will be surely used to close the door of advancement against such as they, and to fix disabilities and burdens upon them till all of liberty shall be lost.' "

Buckey paused to let the words of Lincoln sink in. He well knew that they carried incalculable weight. Even in the 1890's the Great Emancipator represented the epitome of all that was good and right in the eyes of the American people. Buckey then proceeded to ram his point home.

"Regardless of all the dictates of patriotism and justice you have taught the men of Arizona that true patritoism is to vote the straight Republican or Democratic ticket You have appealed to their prejudices and not to their reasons. You have even refused to concede to them the right to think for themselves, by making the standard of good citizenship the blindness with which men would follow the dictates of party leaders While you preach, the political cars of Juggernaut crush the life out of our people, and you stand calmly by and proclaim that 'all is well.' I charge you with doing it knowingly and wilfully. I charge you with more. I charge you with doing it selfishly and to further your own political ends, while you know that it must and can only result in further evil to the men whom you so lovingly term 'fellow citizens.' You have taught the voters of Arizona to be Republicans or Democrats, but you have never taught them to be men."

To this arraignment, neither of Buckey's opponents made answer. He didn't expect them to. There was no answer. In lieu of an answer, the people of Arizona began to question which was precisely what Buckey hoped they would do. The immediate result was innumerable recruits to the cause of the People's Party He made speeches, wrote pamphlets, hired halls. He stumped Arizona from end to end.

As returns began to come in on election day, there were definite signs of results. First one party forged into the lead, then another stepped into its place. More than once Buckey surged to the fore; more than once was beaten back. Finally, the true picture took form, and the Democrats started to sweat. Buckey was matching them vote for vote and he was matching with their votes!

As a result, both lost the election.

As a result, both lost the election.

The Democratic vote split with a crack as supporters went over to Buckey, and for the first time in years, the Republicans forged into the lead and skinned through to victory.

And for the first time in his tempestuous career, Buckey went down to defeat. But scarcely so you could notice it. So hot was the contest that he officially finished third, yet little more than two thousand votes between him and victory. Nevertheless, Buckey showed that he could grin at defeat.

"By God!" he exclaimed as he mopped his brow. "I stayed with 'em while I lasted!"

And within that remark lay the spirit of Buckey O'Neill. He couldn't always be the winner, but when it came his turn at defeat, he went down with guns still blasting. His most bitter political enemies among the precious few still living-quickly point out that Buckey was minority leader. Had he led majority forces, they say, he would have been a great leader.

During this time, electioneering was by no means Buckey's sole occupation. He blossomed into "society editor" of Hoof and Horn' adding another to his almost unheard of number of editorial sobriquets. He reported: "The social hop given at the Opera House Wednesday evening was a delightful occasion. Aside from the mad plunging of Hoof and Horn's society editor, who bucked wildly about the hall, largely after the fashion of a locoed maverick in a china shop, the dancing was perfect and the joy of the occasion unsullied."

However, recent law had required the registration of all cattle brands with the Territorial government, and the fundamental purpose of Hoof and Horn abruptly ceased to exist. New and strenuous effort was becoming necessary to keep it up to snuff. Its value to Buckey as a political organ was slight, and he reluctantly concluded that it wasn't worth the candle. He disposed of his interest entirely to considerable financial advantage.

Buckey's intimate knowledge of Arizona was enlisted by the Smithsonian Institute in 1896. He acceded to persistent requests that he guide and assist a scientific exploration of the now famous Montezuma's Castle, then a little known Indian cliff-dwelling in the obscure reaches of the Verde Valley. Buckey had explored the Castle many times on his own and knew every nook and cranny of this magnificent archaeological relic. As a result of the Smithsonian's timely scientific work, accomplished before careless passers-by had wrought material damage, Montezuma's Castle has proven an open sesame to Indian historical lore, and remains the best preserved of any cliff-dwelling now known.

Despite such extraneous exploits, Buckey never ceased concocting ideas to make money. The production line was running full blast, disgorging new schemes from its endless belt. Buckey teamed up with Mike Hickey and Dennis Burke, Prescott hotel men, to launch the Burke hotel, a Prescott hostelry. As usual, his interest was in promoting the deal. He provided the initial effort, put in some money, and strung along as silent partner, letting the experts attend to the work. Perpetual opportunist, he accepted the first profitable chance to get out. He had something else on his mind.

Buckey had always displayed a keen interest in mining, though he was never a miner at heart. It was the promotion of mining that interested him. In fact, promotion of anything was distinctly Buckey's meat. One of his often derided "brainstorm ideas" was the kernel from which sprang the Grand Canyon's development and Arizona's fame as the "Grand Canyon State."

But at the moment, he had yet to think that one up. He was enjoying an inspection tour of the mines on Big Bug creek. Big Bug divided the heart of the Mayer district, the most thoroughly exploited of any in Arizona. Every inch of its ground had felt the harsh tread of prospector's boots, and for twenty-five years it had been disgorging its silver and gold. With Buckey were three big-shot mining men who knew every claim in the district, and who owned a good many themselves. They pulled up for a rest at Mayer's station, and Buckey was immediately struck by the overwhelming splendor of a local phenomenon. Fifty feet from Mayer's station lay a stupendous deposit of onyx. Red, green, blue, gold, pink, black, white, variegated opaque and translucent two hundred and twenty acres of polychromatic stone. A worthless curiosity passed over un-heeded for more than a quarter-century in this land of silver and gold.

Buckey stared in admiration.

"Pretty stuff, ain't it?" a companion re-marked.

"Magnificent! Who owns that beautiful stone?"

"Never been filed on. Pretty to look at, but ain't worth a cent."

"I wonder," Buckey mused.

FEBRUARY, 1943 "Come on, now. That whole field won't assay a dime!"

"I know. It won't assay at all. But it seems to me that in Mexico there's sort of an onyx mine. A field of big boulders. Brings from eight to twenty dollars a foot."

"Eight to twenty dollars?"

"Exactly. Small pieces, cut from the boulders. Mostly imperfect." Buckey began to enthuse. "But take a look at this why, say! This is a regular quarry!"

"Sure it is, but why the excitement? What can we do?"

"File on it. Develop it. Sell it!"

"We're miners, Buckey, not stonecutters. We don't want any quarry."

"You fellows have got the money. Develop this thing on a commercial scale, and leave the rest to me. I'll sell the whole shebang! Are you on?"

The mining men looked at each other, then at Buckey. His enthusiasm was tough to refute.

"You're on," they agreed, and were in the onyx business.

Buckey's enthusiasm vaulted. He dispatched huge samples of onyx to Los Angeles and Chicago. Windy City experts were downright amazed. One hundred thousand dollars in Mexican onyx had gone into their new auditorium, and not a piece compared with this. It was in small pieces, full of flaws. This sample from Arizona was bigger than most pieces used!

They put Buckey's stone to test. Its beauty stood without question, and they found it had excellent texture at least one point harder than marble. They splattered it with inks and acids and let the fluids dry. They washed it, there wasn't a stain.

The stuff was real onyx, all right, but of course, O'Neill's claim that it lay in quarry formation was purely fantastic. Nothing of the sort had even been known.

Just the same, the experts were taking no chances. They hopped the first rain for Pres-cott.

Buckey wore a broad grin. "There she is, boys," he said, and stood by while the experts gaped at the massive deposit. It was not only an onyx quarry, but one of amazing extent.

"Now I've seen everything!" one expert sighed as Buckey returned them to Prescott.

Buckey wasted no time. He closeted the experts in a suite of the Burke Hotel, and when he finally emerged, a steady market for onyx was definitely assured. Marble mantles in expensive homes from New York to San Fran-cisco began to come down. Onyx went up in their place. Public buildings contained more and more onyx, and Buckey's partners grew joyful. They were convinced that he had sold them a really good thing.

Buckey plunged into completing the deal. He wrote letters, sent wires, drew pictures, and found out that selling a quarry by the mail order route was a pretty difficult job. Proper exploitation required unlimited funds, and Buckey discovered that selling the quarry would require unlimited time. Several years passed before he could swing it, but his partners weren't in a rush. The outfit was making money. Buckey's scheme was paying off.

Meanwhile, he had thought up another, mightiest of them all. He proposed to sell the Grand Canyon.

It wasn't a skin-game. Buckey was serious, and furthermore, he sold it.

In the early nineties, Buckey was one of few men who really knew the Grand Canyon and wilderness around it. Indian trails wereall that stabbed the implacable forests where white men had yet to penetrate and find a need for roads. Still, Buckey knew every hill-ock and gully that swept away from the spec-tacular San Franciscos to vanish abruptly at the Canyon's edge. He stood many times on the Canyon's rim, marveled at its beauty, but he marveled even more at the dazzling prom-ise of mineral wealth which it dangled before his eyes. It was almost unbelievable, and for the first time in his life, Buckey succumbed to the bite of the prospecting bug.

Undismayed by forbidding perpendicular walls, Buckey scaled the Canyon from brink to water's edge. Time and again he clawed along the perilous Havasupai Indian trail to Indian Gardens below, where he staked a claim on promising copper ore. As a result of his constant labor to improve the spidery pathway, it eventually became the principal thorough-fare to the floor of the Canyon, and later was christened with the sparkling appellation of Bright Angel Trail, by which it is known to this day. But until the advent of Buckey O'Neill, Bright Angel Trail was a pathway along which even its namesake feared to tread.

Armed with prospector's pick and shovel, Buckey staked a second claim directly below what is now Yaki Point. Nearby, a stone mountain rises five thousand feet from the Canyon's floor, although amid its stupendous surroundings it is referred to as merely a butte. Nevertheless, in face of constant re-version to Indian names for landmarks in Grand Canyon National Park, the name of this butte remains unchanged, honoring intrepid Buckey. Ever since he first scouted its mas-sive abuttments in search of mineral wealth, its official and popular name has remained O'Neill Butte.

Buckey's claims in the Canyon, however, were difficult problems to handle. It was sixty miles to a railroad, further to a smelter. Exploitation would require a railroad, and not even a wagon track knifed through the wilderness to reach the Canyon's edge. Further, a hoist would be needed to lift the ore to the rim. Buckey was none too enthused. He decided to think it over.

Packing his tools, he headed for Prescott. Three miles southwest, he paused at Rowe's Well to water Sandy, then set out through an outcropping of limestone through which he had ridden a number of times before. Suddenly, he halted, staring at the rocks.

"Good lord!" he exclaimed as he leaped from the saddle, "I must have been blind!" He drove his pick into the ground and examined the ore. Copper! the limestone was full of it!

Buckey had struck it rich-not in silver, or gold, but copper-Arizona's real claim to mineral wealth. Throughout his wanderings over the breadth of Arizona's mining districts, Buckey had yet to deem it worth while to actually prove up on a claim. He had never patented even those in the Canyon, but now, for the first time, was convinced that bucking the odds of nature proffered at least as good chance as bucking the odds of a faro bank.

He went to work on his find in typical fashion. But first, he broke all precedents by patenting the claim. It was gruelling, back-breaking labor-pick and shovel work-but Buckey pitched in and did it. He was never averse to the most difficult manual labor, pro-vided he figured that results would be worth it.

Finally, the requisite work was completed, and Buckey drove home his pick for the very last time. Sweating and grimy, he sat down to

PAGE THIRTY FIVE

rest and when Buckey sat down, he just naturally started to figure.

"Sixty miles to a railroad," he mused as he idly glanced over his work. "Wonder how I could sell it?"

Sixty miles from nowhere in the midst of wilderness, and Buckey wondered how he could sell it! Nevertheless, the mere thought was enough to smother the abortive desire to "dig it out" in an overwhelming urge to promote.

"Bet I could," Buckey figured. "If only some big-wig could see it!"See it. That was the answer!

Buckey's mind moved in straight lines; forceful, direct, like a sock on the jaw. If he couldn't take his claim out, he could bring customers in. And that was just what he'd do. Sixty miles of roadless forest meant nothing. It wouldn't be roadless by the time he was through.

Buckey threw down his pick and shovel for an axe. His fervor soared to new heights as he drove the blade home and tall pines crashed to earth. He whistled with joy as he squared the logs and mortised the ends together. Before long, he had a cabin, fireplace and all. A magnificent job, sturdy and solid. It still stands today at Rowe's Well.

Buckey's ideas increased with each stroke of the axe. One cabin wasn't enough. Show-manship, he figured that was what he needed! Mix it up with salesmanship and half the job was done. Where else in the world was a better spot for showmanship than right on the rim of the Canyon? Buckey didn't know.

With the cabin at Rowe's Well completed, he removed operations to the Canyon itself. He constructed a bunkhouse a short distance back in the trees. Then he built an office on the brink of the Canyon. He squared every log and chinked in the cracks with meticulous care. The whole project, of course, took considerable time, being interrupted time and again while Buckey attended to his other varied interests in Prescott. It was backbreaking work, but he was sure it was worth it. Pros-pective customers of Buckey O'Neill might find themselves in the wilderness, but they would find themselves put up in style doing business right on the rim of the most inspir-sight in the world!

When it came to magnificent views, there is no doubt but that Buckey could pick them. Today, the Bright Angel Lodge stands on that spot that Buckey selected. And when it came to building cabins, Buckey could really build them. Walk through the lobby of Bright Angel Lodge directly to the wall on the edge of the Canyon. It is scarcely fifteen yards away. Don't try to hold your breath, for you'll have no breath to hold. Just to the left of this breathtaking spot is the cabin that was Buckey's office. Still known as the Buckey O'Neill, it was large enough to divide into cabins number 1 and 2. Of all those since erected to compose the incomparable Bright Angel Lodge, Buckey's office remains the largest and finest-its win-dows still commanding the best of the Canyon's indescribable views.

A short distance back, Buckey's bunkhouse is still in use, its stolid, imposing construction easily identified amid newer, less permanent structures. Although fifty years old, it, too, commands top prices from guests, who, like those of Buckey, are treated to the best. Like his office, it is known as the Buckey O'Neill, divided into double quarters-numbers 325 and 327, in case you should care to see it.

The bullet-straight road that now leads into the Canyon was merely a dream in Buckey's mind when he started to work on his cabins. He would have been pleased with any road. In fact, his next project was to try to pound one through.

Sanford Rowe saved him the trouble. The fame of the Grand Canyon's splendor had spread to a minor extent, and transcontinental tourists on the Atlantic and Pacific were oc-casionally requesting to see it. Rowe, who had given name to Rowe's Well, conceived the idea of meeting each train at Flagstaff and transporting passengers to the Canyon by stage.

His business prospered in spite of the fact that his coaches ground out their own roads as they went, and the Canyon's first stageline was born. After one view of the Canyon, passen-gers forgot all about the sixty mile pounding they had taken in order to see it. Buckey's cabin was the Grand Canyon terminal, and almost before his office was finished, a road led up to its door.

Buckey quickly perceived what this meant. He might well forget about copper, put up a hotel and start selling the Canyon!

Not Buckey. He'd sell them both. His bunkhouse was already a small hotel, and any spot that could still make tourists rave after sixty miles in Rowe's jouncing stage was an honest-to-goodness attraction. You bet he could sell it, right along with his copper! All he needed were customers to see.

Buckey proceeded to get them. They had to be people with money, so he went straight to New York and laid his proposition before an old friend, Thurlow Weed Barnes. Barnes was President of the Standard Telephone company, a man of influential contacts, as well as means of his own. He was already financially interested in the Buckeye Irrigation project of Buckey's, but mining was not in his line.

"How about a resort hotel?" Buckey countered, as Barnes declined to exploit the copper claims.

"Good lord, Buckey, what now?" Barnes exclaimed. "Where do you have a hotel?"

"I don't, but you can build one."

"At the Grand Canyon? Nothing doing. I've never seen the place."

"You will. I tell you, Thurlow, this is really a deal. All I need is a railroad from the A. & P. into the Canyon. The copper alone justifies the investment. A hotel at the Canyon would do the same thing. One or the other would be nothing but gravy. Come out and see for yourself!"

"I believe you," Barnes replied, thinking it over. He knew Buckey too well to doubt what he said, but concluded, "I can't swing it myself at the present, but I know some people who might."

"Fair enough. Just give me their names." Barnes introduced Buckey to a number of influential concerns, among them Lombard, Goode, of Chicago. Buckey called on them all. If they didn't warm up to a mine, a hotel, or a railroad, he proposed an onyx quarry. Between the four propositions, he worked up considerable interest.

"Send out your man," he invariably said. "If we don't make a deal, the trip is on me."

Fair enough. He got plenty of takers, and headed for Arizona to play host to his customer-guests. As he boarded the train in New York, he picked up the Journal to read on the way.

It was 1895, and the Journal was the talk of New York. That young fellow Hearst, from California-remember him?-kicked out of Harvard a few years back-yeh, the same one-well, he just bought the Journal Sure enough.

What do you think of that yellow front page? Wow! He brags about it! Sure what a kick. He'll fold up in no time. Know what he says? He'll run the World off the streets! Pulitzer! Can you beat it? What does he think he is? I dunno, but the Journal's a circus!

Buckey agreed. It was really a circus. But a circus paid off at the box-office, and he read the Journal with care. That yellow front page had caught his eye, and those three-column headlines held it.

"What a paper!" he thought, little dreaming that his own thread of destiny was entwined in those blatant Journal headlines, which grew larger every day. He tossed them into the trash.

Back in Arizona, Buckey found that his scheme had worked. Numerous firms on which he had called in the east sent experts to look at his claims. Buckey knew only too well that a flock of other Arizona promoters were itching to talk to these men. He stuck with them like wallpaper, even taking the suite next to theirs in the Burke Hotel. Time and again the deals fell through, and Buckey footed the bills until he was worse than broke. But he finally got a bite. An outfit on which he had been working for years by the mail order route sent a man to look over the onyx. Buckey established his guest in the finest suite of the Burke Hotel, and stayed with him every minute. When the man finally en-trained for the east, he had bought an onyx quarry.

Buckey rushed home to Pauline. "Fifty thousand bucks!" he sang, dancing around the house. "Fifty thousand bucks!"

Pauline was just as excited as Buckey, but practical as all get out. She trailed him from room to room. "Don't you have to split it four ways?" she asked, as she got in step with Buckey.

"Oh, sure," he sang, "but what about that? Fifty thousand bucks!"

Buckey's joy was too contagious. Pauline shrugged and laughed as she really got into the dance.

"Fifty thousand bucks!" she sang. "Fifty thousand bucks!"

Buckey scarcely had time to pocket his share of the onyx deal before a group of mining men arrived. Buckey glowed with anticipation. They were from Lombard, Goode and Company, Buckey's best bet on the Grand Canyon deal. They wanted to see all this copper.

Buckey met them in Flagstaff. "Hop right in, boys," he directed, driving up in a carriage. "I'll show you all the copper I promised and more. But first, I'll show you a sight like nothing you've ever seen!"

The head of the delegation was obviously unimpressed. "Show me the copper" he growled, pulling his bowler down over his ears as they bounced over the road. "How much further?" he continued to complain, wiping dust from his eyes. "To hell with the sights -I've had enough of this country already!"

"You haven't seen the Canyon," Buckey rejoined brightly, but with growing apprehension.

"To hell with the Canyon. Get me out of this confounded carriage. Damn it, O'Neill, you listen to me. I've been all over the world seen all there is to see. I came here solely to look at some copper, and now I've lost interest in that!"

Buckey's spirits scraped bottom. His best chance for a sale was already scotched, almost before he had started! Ordinarily, he had a treatment for whiners, but this fellow was unusually sour. Still, there was nothing left but to try.

Buckey sighed with relief as the office came into view through the trees. From the road, it seemed to nestle on the crest of a hill in the midst of an endless forest. The sloping rim hid the Canyon until one came right upon it. Buckey snapped up the team with a flick of the whip, and the carriage bounded up to the rim. It careened in a swirl of dust as Buckey whipped around his office.

"Look!" he cried, as they slid to a halt at the cataclysmic brink.

The passengers gasped. Not one could speak as they beheld the spectacle that confronted them. Dubious, Buckey looked at the man in the bowler. Life seemed to have left him. His face was gray, his body tense. His lungs seemed to have ceased to work as he gaped into the chasm below. Then he suddenly came to life."My God!" he shrieked as he leaped to the ground and fled panic-stricken into the forest. Buckey's jaw dropped. "That's the end," he thought, and climbed disconsolately from the carriage.

In a moment, the man returned. His face was flushed and a look of wonder was in his eyes. He gazed out into the Canyon."I-I'm sorry," he stammered. "I-well I just never saw anything like it!"

That evening, Buckey's guests relaxed in the comfort of his office and glorified in the Canyon's soul-stirring drench of color, released by the setting sun. Next day, Buckey loaded them into the carriage for a look at his claim at Rowe's Well."Go ahead," the man who had seen everything said. "I'd rather stay here and look at the Canyon." He grinned warmly at Bucky. "I believe you. If you say you've good ore, then you-ve got it."

Buckey laughed. "Come along," he said. "In a couple of days I'll show you the Canyon clear down to the bottom. And you'll see some good ore on the way. But right now I want to show the richest stuff you've ever seen."

The man from Chicago climbed in. "All right, he laughed, "but don't say that I didn't believe you!"

After a day at Rowe's Well, the man from Chicago was sold. Buckey's copper was all that he claimed. The party returned to Chicago and sent their mining engineers. Their reports fairly glowed. Buckey knew that the company was ready to sign, and yet, something was holding them back.

"What's wrong?" Buckey wanted to know.

"The railroad in to the mine," the company replied. "It will cost far more than we thought."

That came as a jolt to Buckey, but fortunately, he sat down. The wheels began to turn, and a bright idea popped out. He immediately went to Flagstaff and coralled the village fathers.

"We're building a railroad to the Canyon," he said.

The Flagstaff men beamed. "That's great! It will mean a good deal to Flagstaff."

Buckey casually leaned back and propped his feet up. "Yes, it will. However, the junction will have to be established at Williams."

"Williams? Williams! Are you crazy? Flagstaff is the logical point!"

"Too far," Buckey asserted, then added blandly, "Perhaps we could run it to Flagstaff if we get additional help."

"Help? Certainly you'll get help. TheCity will vote a subsidy!"

"Excellent," Buckey agreed without change of expression. "However, you'll have to bid higher than Williams."

The city fathers snorted. "How much have those highbinders bid?"

"Can't tell you," Buckey returned with all honesty, but with no hint whatever that he actually didn't know. "Make your bid, and I'll let you know."

Next day, the scene was repeated in Williams. The town made a bid. Flagstaff bid more. Williams raised. Flagstaff went higher. Finally, when the chips were all down, it was apparent that Williams had won.

"Your railroad is practically paid for! Buckey informed Lombard, Goode with a satisfied grin. They returned congratulations and thanks, and hastily bought Buckey's mines for twenty thousand dollars.

Buckey hit the peak of elation. Once more he had done it! Within a very short time, the railroad was built and another of his dreams had come true.

Elections were held. Whatever else Buckey could do, he simply couldn't pass up an election, and the first day of January, 1898, found him installed as the Mayor of Prescott.

The violent epidemic of war fever which had swept the nation a few months before in protest against the heavy-handed rule of the Spanish in Cuba, had almost subsided, and the country was back to normal. The North still hated the South. The South doubled the feeling in spades, but it was all a matter of habit. Except for the Spaniards, there was no one else to hate. The rumble of the anchors of the battleship Maine as they plunged into the mud at Havana's harbor had, it was true, reverberated loudly through the nation. Even in Arizona, their thunder made people sit up and take notice. But the great man-of-war had ridden peacefully in the Spanish harbor since January 25, without precipitation of untoward events. Things were looking up.

The West was beginning to recover from the disastrous results of the panic of 1893 and the demonitization of silver. The bumper crops of 1897 had even convinced a few optimistic souls that prosperity was here to stay.

In New York, that delightful invention, the safety bicycle, was sweeping the heights as the country's latest fad. "Daisy Bell, was the tune with iron-hatted swains who pumped fair maidens around the park on racy, tandem wheels. Both "Daisy Bell" and the tandems which is romanticized were distined to be remembered by later generations not by their given names, but as "The Bicycle Built for Two." Along the Avenues, the popularity of "Daisy Bell" was challenged by the lilting strains of "My Gal's a High-born Lady," and in the dusk of an evening, lusty voices boomed "Down Went McGinty to the Bottom of the Sea!" to the plink of mandolins. Gibson Girls plastered innumerable walls, Gelett Burges immortalized the purple cow, and De Wolf Hopper recited "Casey at the Bat."

On the night of February fifteenth, Captain Sigsbee sat writing in his cabin on the battleship Maine as she peacefully swung to her moorings. The evening was singularly hot and oppressive, but the Captain went on with his work, completing a lengthy report. It had nothing to do with Cuba. It was a treatise on the advisability of equipping new capital Battleships with torpedo tubes a technical essay requested by Assistant Secretary of the Navy, Theodore Roosevelt.

The Captain put the completed report in his desk, and changed to a lighter coat. Outside, orange dots marked officers, smoking on the after turret deck. Below, the velvety drone of dynamo engines throbbed upward through the ship. Captain Sigsbee returned to his desk and commenced a letter home. He paused, and listened, as the bugler sounded "taps." The long, slow notes were beautiful in the stillness of the night. The Captain sighed as the melody returned upon the echo, then faded and died. Two bells. The crew turned into quarters below. The Captain resumed his pen.

It was a long letter home. Forty minutes passed before Captain Sigsbee finally slipped it into an envelope and was about to seal the flapSuddenly, he was smashed to the floor. There was a bursting, rending, crashing sound. The whole bow of the ship semed to lift, then settled back into the sea.

Instantly, the Captain knew what had happened. He groped to his feet in the darkness, peered out the starboard cabin ports. Debris seemed to be falling in torrents, but the passage to the superstructure was clear. Steadying himself by the bulkheads, Captain Sigsbee felt his way. The superstructure was choked with acrid smoke. A man crashed into the Captain. Both fell, confused, in the dark.

The man struggled to his feet, mumbled apologetically. He helped the Captain to his. It was Private William Anthony, the Captain's Marine orderly at the cabin door. Anthony snapped to attention, saluted, then made marine history as he dutifully made his report.

"Sir, I have the honor to report," said Private Anthony, "that the ship has been blown up and is sinking."

It had happened! War was here!

War wasn't here not yet. But it might as well have been. "Remember the Maine!" was the cry in every throat. "Remember the Maine!" consumed the nation from New York to California. It swept over the midwestern states like fire fed by oil, and in lusty, frontier Arizona, it burst into flame with a roar.

"Remember the Maine!" While others talked, Buckey went into action. He determined to raise a regiment cowboys, Indian fighters, scouts-rough riding, hard fighting men-men born to the sort of fighting required on Cuban soil. He offered the regiment's service to President McKinley, even before its enlistment had begun. He received no reply. With striking similarity to an Assistant Secretary of the Navy in Washington, D. C., Buckey ignored the fact that war had not been declared. He raised the regiment anyway.

He was swamped with volunteers. So great was the rush to join that enlistment in southern Arizona was detailed to Jim McClintock, old-time friend of Buckey's. Governor McCord appealed to Washington daily by wire, by letter and public press, urging acceptance of Arizona's "rough riding men." Arizona was rarin' to go!

Finally, on April 23, came the call for volunteers. Buckey nearly burst with excitement. He didn't offer an incipient regiment. By golly, he had one. Its men could ride anything with four legs and hair. They could shoot anything that could be made to explode. They had never heard of fear.

Remember the Maine! To hell with Spain! Half a regiment loosed an ear-splitting cheer

FEBRUARY, 1943

PAGE THIRTY-SEVEN In Prescott, and were echoed by comrades further south when, on April 26, 1898, Governor McCord received the formal call to arms.

The governor looked over the names of men proposed to officer the Arizona regiment. Alexander O. Brodie, ex-regular Army officer and first-line colonel of Arizona's National Guard, was proposed as the regiment's Major.

Buckey was greatly unpleased. There was a war going on, and he didn't intend to miss it. Everywhere else, the raising of troops had bogged in a morass of unpreparedness, but in Prescott, as a direct result of Buckey's farsighted work, muster in was about to take place. On the morning of April 28, Lieutenant Tupes of the regular army began the mustering in. He looked at the first man in line.

"What is this, Buckey?" he asked in surprise. "I thought you were commissioned as Captain."

"Not yet, and I'm not taking chances on getting left behind. Put me down as a private."

The Lieutenant put him down, and as far as is known, Buckey thereupon became the first volunteer mustered into the United States Army for the Spanish-American war. The bright thread of destiny hardened into steel and held Buckey in unbreakable bonds.

At length, commissions came through. A great banquet was held in the city of Phoenix, and patriotic zeal was rife. Cheers knew no bonds as commissions were handed to men, until finally ceremonies were over.

By May fourth, the troops were mustered in. The last man had scarcely completed his physical examination when Major Brodie gave the order to march. Buckey was at the head of his new command, Troop A, as the squadron moved through the streets of Prescott from Fort Whipple to the Plaza.

It might well have been the Fourth of July. Streets bulged with cheering crowds. Red, white and blue flew everywhere. The Plaza square was packed as the squadron halted before a ceremonial stand.

Buckey had not been asked to resign as Mayor of Prescott. He had been granted leave of absence. Now the acting Mayor, Judge Ling, stepped forward on the stand and made a short farewell speech to the men. He presented them with a young mountain lion to accompany them as mascot. Then he called upon Buckey.

"Mayor O'Neill," he said, "you are now in the cavalry service, and the City of Prescott wishes to give you a mount. It is not full grown, but merely a Colt. We tell you that it bucks, but in your hands we know that it will become a war-horse of renown.

"Take the bridle off each time that it bucks and head it toward a Spaniard, and we will rest assured that one more Spaniard will bid his father, the devil, good morning."

Ling handed Buckey a new Colt's revolver. Buckey carried it with him from the moment on. Tears were close to his eyes as he thanked his friends for this token, but it was time for the squadron to leave. He resumed command and led his men to the depot.

At the station, friends swarmed over Buckey to bid him good-bye. He had trouble holding on to Pauline.

"Take care of yourself! Don't get yourself hurt!" friends all advised, trying to shake Buckey's hand.

"The Spanish bullet isn't moulded that will kill me!" Buckey laughed in reply.

Bands played, flags waved. The crowd began to cheer as the moment of departure grew near. Buckey drew Pauline into his arms, bent low, and kissed her. For a moment, she clung to him tightly, tears welling in her eyes.

"Oh, Owen," she cried, "do take care!"

"I'll be back in a very short while," Buckey said, comforting her. "Don't cry. Just pray -and wait for me."

"That was all I could do just wait and pray." Pauline remembers now. "With hundreds of other sweethearts and wives, I waited, praying for the war to end."

With a cough, the train got under way.

"Take care of yourself, Buckey! Take care!"

"The Spanish bullet isn't moulded-!"

The harsh bark of the engine drowned out all words and in turn was lost in a last, tu-multous cheer.

They were off to San Antone!

Buckey's irrepressible initiative in raising his regiment even before war was declared with no knowledge whatever of its ultimate miltary destination, if any was the spectacular sort of leadership that was to carry the Rough Riders to glory on the heights of San Juan Hill to get them to Cuba in the first place indeed, it was the sort of leadership required to get them into the struggle at all!

Back in Washington, D. C., was another "irrepressible." His name was Theodore Roosevelt. Roosevelt's method of getting things done bore striking resemblance to Buckey's He just went ahead and did them.

Roosevelt secured commissions as Colonel for his close friend, Leonard Wood, and Lieutenant Colonel for himself. Then, like Buckey, he showed that he, too, could pick 'em. He accepted command, under Wood, of the First United States Volunteer Cavalry, and took the first, long step down the road to fame. Roosevelt had spent much time in the West. He had profound respect for the type of man it produced, and had long harbored an ambition to lead a band of "rough riding" men into battle. He knew what they could do.

On the frontier, "rough riding men" was common terminology. Buckey had used the phrase in describing his regiment to the President and the War Department. Roosevelt often used the expression as a result of western experience. Arizona correspondents, quick to sense the news value of the colorful troops, naturally called them "rough riders" in the reams of publicity pumped over the wires. George H. Smalley, veteran newsman and close friend of Buckey's, recalls having referred to the Arizona contingent as "rough riders" in almost every dispatch to eastern papers.

"Nothing was more natural," says Smalley.

"That is exactly what they were."

It was therefore natural for Roosevelt to tell friends that he was to join a command of "rough riders," and for the public press to snatch up the phrase and dub the First United States Volunteer Cavalry "Roosevelt Rough Riders." It was far and away more colorful, and a darned sight easier to say.

So it was that the regiment gained its name -without credit due to any one person or cause. It seems to have "just growed."

It was at San Antonio that the name was really earned. Immediately upon arrival, Buckey plunged into the task of moulding his troop into a unit with the rest of the regiment, which was pouring in from all over the nation. The men were given mounts, which turned out to be unbroken broncos, fresh off the Texas range. The Rough Riders lived up to advance billing by "riding the critters into the ground,"

but before the process was completed many a drill and parade was halted to wait for a yipping soldier who stuck in the saddle while his cayuse bucked him all over the lot.

No glory attached to the days in San Antonio. It was work, work, and more work. Every man in the outfit was determined that it was to be the best in the Army, and Buckey was determined that Troop A would outshine the regiment. He kept his men at it night and day until they didn't know whether they were coming or going. But there wasn't a man from Arizona who wouldn't break his neck, if it were Buckey who told him to do it. They knew everything to know about horses and needed no introduction to carbine or Colt. This naturally simplified training. Other details. however, were tough. Drill, for instance. A good many ex-cowhands verged on the ignorant when it came to using their feet as a means of locomotion. Walking became serious business the instant horse and saddle were yanked from under them. It left McGinty in pretty bad shape. He was not the McGinty of "Down Went McGinty to the Bottom of the Sea," but he might well have been when it came to the problem of keeping in step. He was having a time. After long and patient effort to get him to step, McGinty's Captain finally blew up.

"Hey, you, McGinty!" he barked, "can't you ever keep in step?"

McGinty snapped to attention, straight as elliptical legs would permit. "N-no, sir, Captain. These feet just won't do it. But I reckon they could on horseback!"

"Forward, march!" cried the captain, before dignity submerged in a guffaw.

It was during these heartbreaking hours of drill that the regiment came to know itself not as romantic "Rough Riders," but as the distinctly more heartfelt "Wood's Weary Walkers."

Resplendent in gray slouch hats, blue flannel shirts and brown trousers, the Rough Riders lacked but one detail of what the welldressed cavalryman should wear. They were utterly devoid of sabers. Perhaps Roosevelt divined that a band of ex-cowhands armed with sabers might well prove more dangerous to themselves than anyone else. At any rate, he insisted upon Colt's revolvers as side-arms for his men. It was happy inspiration. The whole regiment felt as one private did when he strapped on his Colt and sighed, "Man, that there is more like it. I was sure they was gonna make me fight plumb naked."

The weary monotony of hours at San Antonio was occasionally relieved by a serenade. The city was the proud possessor of a military band, its leader a rotund individual with a penchant for taking up station in front of the Colonel's tent and rendering warlike selections, usually at the moment when Wood and his officers were in serious consultation. It was hard on the Colonel's nerves, but the men seemed to like it, and the band repeatedly obliged with the favorite, "There'll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight." The regiment cooked up its own doggerel verse, and later the Spanish were to hear as much of that tune as they were to see of the fighting Rough Riders. They had more than enough of both. Before the war ended, they tagged it, "El Himno Nacional de los Yanquis," but it isn't polite conversation to mention what they called the Rough Riders.

In San Antonio, Buckey confined himself to making soldiers out of his men. He spent moments of relaxation in company of other officers, and constantly amazed Roosevelt with

ARIZONA HIGHWAYS

His many-sided character. No one knows what sort of man Roosevelt expected Buckey to be. A tobacco chewing, bullet slinging gunman, perhaps quick on the trigger and light on brains. If so, he was in for a shock. The Harvard graduate and future president was astonished when he paused for a chat with Buckey and the regiment's doctor. Buckey was deep in a discourse on Aryan word-roots. Roosevelt may not have known that Buckey was well on his way toward becoming an outstanding fictioneer of the day, and Buckey, of course, didn't tell him. But he gave the Lieutenant Colonel something to think about by reviewing the novel of Balzac, then launching a discussion of whether or not their author could be considered one of the founders of the realistic school of fiction. Roosevelt ended up with healthy respect for Buckey's intelligence. The conversation was the foundation of a brief but warm friendship between Buckey and Theodore Roosevelt. In many ways, they were two of a kind, and their mutual regard deepened immensely throughout the ensuing weeks. Both were "irrepressibles," and both were on their way up. But their paths were destined to part within little more than a month.

On May 29, the regiment finally entrained. Tampa, Florida, was the designated point of embarkation. "Finally" is how it seemed to the men, but actually it was near-record time. Three scant weeks had passed since arrival on the fair grounds at San Antonio, and in that brief time they had been fully equipped and hammered from a bunch of raw recruits into a first-class regiment. Men and horses were in excellent shape as a result of strenuous training, and it was a very good thing, for the struggle to get from San Antonio to the battlefields of Cuba seemed almost as hard as the war itself.

The railroad had promised but forty-eight hours of travel to Tampa, but seemed greatly unconcerned about time. After four nervewracking days of jumble and jolt, the locomotive stuttered to an uncertain halt, let out a wheeze, and died. Buckey leaped from the train to have a look around. They were near the end of a one-way track, on sand flats that were covered with pines. Ahead was a welter of trains, hopelessly snarled on the one-way line. In the distance was Tampa, which, if they stayed on the train, the regiment would obviously never see. Buckey unloaded his men on the spot. After considerable skirmishing combined with a brand of psychic divination, he located the camp ground allotted the regiment, and speedily got his tents down. The boundless confusion in Tampa made it apparent they were in for a lengthy delay. Arm-chair admirals crowded the verandas of the single hotel and fought a leisurely rocking-chair war, while Buckey and the Rough Riders camped out in the sand and fretted. All they asked was a chance to get through to the fight.

Five days later, they got it. A "chance" is exactly what it was. Thanks to Wood's foresight, the regiment was brigaded with regulars, and on the night of June seventh, orders suddenly came to embark at Port Tampa, nine miles distant, at dawn the next morning. If they weren't aboard transports by then, they just wouldn't get to go.

A mad scramble ensued. Orders failed to name the transport on which to embark, but a railroad track was designated where the Rough Riders should entrain for the port. Only eight troops, unmounted, were to go. By superhuman effort, they made it. The train did not. Buckey spent the ensuing three hours attempting to find it, but no train came into sight.

FEBRUARY, 1943 At three a. m. he returned, and found orders to report at a different track. He awakened his men, many of whom had fallen asleep on the ground, and double-quicked them to the designated location. No train appeared.

It was dawn, the hour set for the transports to sail. The troops were frantic with fear that they were being left behind. Suddenly a train rumbled up, going the wrong direction. Buckey eyed it as it slowly approached and was about to pass by. It consisted of empty coal cars, but it was good enough for him. The engineer backed down the nine miles to Port Tampa.

Transports were being brought up and loaded as the train backed onto the dock. Everything seethed. The Rough Riders were in a frenzy.

With some trepidation, he awaited Roosevelt and Wood. They soon reappeared with word that the Yucatan, number 8, was the Rough Rider's ship. "Provided we get there first," Roosevelt added in haste. He had discovered by accident that it was also assigned to the Second Regulars and the New York Volunteers, either of which would more than fill the ship.

Covered with coal dust, Buckey snapped his men into line. "She's also assigned to the New York Volunteers. First come, first served," he announced and started out for the Yucatan. New York volunteers! Huh!

Buckey had to sprint to keep ahead of the column.

Wood, by dint of superior rank, commandeered a launch and boarded the Yucatan in mid-stream, holding her against expostulations of other regimental officers. No officer outranking the Colonel had the initiative to board ship before she put into dock. Almost before she touched, the Rough Riders swarmed aboard. Buckey leaned over the rail and joined the cheer as the New York Volunteers marced up to embark.

"See you in Cuba!" he yelled with a laugh. They took aboard four companies of regulars, and the Yucatan slowly moved into the bay. As she passed the dozens of transports already loaded and swinging to anchor, regimental bands spontaneously snatched up horns and "played the regiment out""When you see our Yankee fighting line, And when you see Old Glory flying fine, There'll be a hot time in the old town tonight!"

As they sailed south and east toward the Southern Cross, Buckey frequently chatted with his Lieutenant Colonel, and Roosevelt grew constantly more amazed at the depth of Buckey's nature.

"Most of the men had simple souls," he afterwards wrote. "They could relate facts, but said very little about what they dimly felt. Buckey O'Neill, however, .alone among his comrades was a visionary, an articulate emotionalist. He was very quiet about it, but at night, when we leaned on the railing he was less apt to tell tales of his hard and stormy past then he was to speak of the mysteries which lie behind courage, and fear, and love.. But he was as far as possible from a mere dreamer of dreams."

The Lieutenant Colonel hit the nail on the head. Buckey was no dreamer of dreams, and was soon to prove the point.

The long line of troop ships moved around the eastern end of Cuba like a column of great black ants. They steamed past Guantanamo Bay and Santiago, where ships of the Navy lay drowsing, sullen in war paint, like huge cats awaiting mice of the Spanish fleet to make a dash for freedom. They sloshed to a halt off the squalid little village called Daiquiri. Gunboats blasted the shore line to dislodge the defenders, and with brilliant psychology, Roosevelt detailed a small party to take the flag ashore. Buckey stood on the deck and watched as the four men struggled up the bluffs toward a deserted Spanish blockhouse on the heights.

Back in Arizona, when Buckey was recruiting his regiment, the women of Phoenix were ashamed to see a contingent of volunteers leave to join up without an American flag. The women scoured the town for silks of the proper colors, and spent the whole night in making a flag, halting only when the last scissored star had been sewn firmly into place. No cord could be found, so they embellished the staff with satin ribbons and presented it to the regiment. It was a volunteer flag for a volunteer regiment, and the men took it to their hearts. At San Antonio, regimental flags were among items which never arrived from Washington, and the Arizona volunteer flag took its place at the head of the troops. By its side were handsome colors of the New Mexican contingent, but those remained in Tampa with the disappointed who had to be left behind. The homespun flag from Arizona was the flag that went to Cuba.

Somewhere in Washington are beautiful colors inscribed, "First United States Volunteer Cavalry," but they never saw service. In Santa Fe is the flag of the New Mexican troops. But in Phoenix, shot-through with holes from Spanish bullets, its colors run from drenching rain and bleached from scorching sun, is a patched and tattered flag. It led the Rough Riders on the day at Las Guasimas, up the heights of San Juan Hill, fluttered above trenches before Santiago the first flag raised on Cuban soil by American soldiers in the war with Spain.

Buckey watched with natural pride from the deck of the Yucatan as the little party wormed upward toward the blockhouse on the heights at Daiquiri. A lump swelled in his throat as he saw the flag lashed to the deserted Spanish flagstaff, and when it rolled out on the breeze, it was more than he could stand. He leaped to the bulwarks. "Howl, you Arizonans! That's our flag!"

An ex-cowhand let out a whoop that resoundeded across the water. A six-gun emptied into the air. The band swung out with "There'll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight." Someone on the hurricane deck lashed down the whistle cord, and fifty ships came back with throaty blasts. Warships boomed a deep salute, and twenty thousand men roared out a cheer. That homespun flag was theirs as it rolled in the Cuban breeze. No flag ever had a greater salute. Landing was accomplished like everything else every man for himself. Buckey was among the first ashore. As lighters came in, he was everywhere on the hazardous wharf. Surf pounded high, and boatloads of men heavy with rifles and belts of ammunition, smashed dangerously against pilings as soldiers leaped to the dock. Buckey raced back and forth, making fast the lines, yanking men from boats to wharf. Sweat trickled down his face in the prickly heat as he caught the lines cast by an incoming infantry lighter. It was

PAGE THIRTY-NINE

heavily laden with men. Muscles bulged as he strained to make lines fast, but the boat jerked away, turned broadside, and capsized in the surf. Men floundered, struggling in the breakers. Suddenly, the lighter, swept around. There was a scream of terror as two men, caught, were crushed against the wharf. They sank as the lighter swirled away.

Buckey plunged into the sea. Uniform and equipment weighed him into the foam as he struggled to reach the two men. The lighter started to smash around again. Without thought of the boat, Buckey dived. There was a thump overhead as he reached beneath the water. The men had disappeared.

Equipment was an anchor on Buckey's waist. Lungs burned as he fought to the surface, gulped air, and started to dive again.

Above, men grabbed his belt and jerked him onto the pier. There was a thump as the boat smashed into the pilings.

"Dead before they went down," someone said.

"Poor fellows," Buckey panted, exhausted on the wharf. "They didn't have a chance!"

That evening, encamped on a dusty, brush covered flat in the jungle at Daiquiri, Roose velt felt no need to revive his estimation of Buckey O'Neill. Indeed, he was soon adding to it"He would surely have won the eagle, if not the star."

The touch of Cuban soil produced a two-fold effect upon Buckey. It materially sobered his outlook upon the happy-go-lucky aspect of the expedition.. The catch-as-catch-can methods by which the Rough Riders had progressed to Cuba were at an end. War was serious busi ness, and Buckey regarded it such. The picnic was over. The fight was about to begin.

Nevertheless, Buckey's eagerness to plunge into battle heightened almost beyond endur ance. He was like a high strung colt, strain ing at the bit. To him, no one had more at stake in this war than he. He was certain that upon his shoulders rested Arizona's hope for early elevation to Statehood, and he moved into the approaching conflict with no other thought in mind.

Buckey always bore the deep rooted convic tion that the performance of fighting men depends entirely upon the gallantry with which they are led, and he was resolved to lead his men in a fashion that would inspire them to spectacular heights. Not that he had to sit down, think it over, and make such a resolu tion. It was as much a part of him as his fighting spirit. Natural. Inborn. It was Buckey, and when, on the afternoon after landing, the regiment was ordered to Siboney, Buckey was a human dynamo. He was every where up and down the spidery trail that threaded through the jungle to the squalid coastal hamlet twelve miles away. They were to go into action at dawn!

Buckey marched with his dismounted troop as they knifed through the jungle along the narrow trail. Dense undergrowth swallowed them up the moment they left Daiquiri. The screech of macaws floated on the moist tropic heat, and hideous land crabs scuttled into the brush as the men struggled single-file over the patch. Long fingers of jaguey and massas of copei networked the towering trees. Mosqui toes zoomed angrily as troops sloshed through their dark marshland hideouts. Buckey stalked up and down the trail, exhorting his men to maintain the feverish pace. He neither pitied nor coddled as he dropped back to aid the stragglers, and they responded with all they had as Buckey urged them forward. It was dark when the regiment trudged into Siboney, sweating and exhausted. Blankets were their only equipment except the arms they bore. A tropical cloudburst drenched them as they munched on pork and hardtack, but none complained. They dried as best they could around sputtering campfire flames, threw blankets down, and slept on the dank and soggy ground.

Buckey was eager, expectant, as he dis cussed with other officers plans for the battle expected in the morning. At dawn, he was up, relentlessly urging his troop up another jungle trail that angled sharply over a steep hill. "The Spanish are only four miles ahead," he reported to his men, egging them up the hill at terrific pace. "General Young's reg ulars are advancing along a road in a valley to our right. Down the other side of this hill the trail meets the road in the valley at a spot called Las Guasimas. The enemy is there, and on a ridge beyond. We have to strike at the moment the regulars strike. Keep moving, or we'll miss the fight!"

With gritted teeth, exhausted stragglers responded to Buckey's indomitable example and struggled forward to resume their place in the long, thin line. Ahead, Troop L set the grind ing pace. Troop A was next in column. Tro pic heat settled heavily through matted trees, and here and there a man collapsed. Buckey lost but few, and after an hour of relentless marching, brought his command to the hilltop virtually intact. There was no time now to waste on stragglers. Here, to the left of the trail, the jungle broke slightly into glades and rounded hill abutments. To the right, men could, with difficulty, penetrate the jungle as it sheered away into the valley. Stately palms rose skyward amid the mahagua and jique. The mournful coo of blue headed doves and the call of lizard cuckoos floated on the breezeless air.

Ahead, there was a brief, sharp skirmish. The regiment halted. The advance guard had encountered enemy outposts, and the troopers filled magazines.

"Deploy right of trail, extreme flank," Roosevelt ordered, and Buckey moved his men into the jungle, smashing downhill toward the valley. Near the bottom, he deployed at ten yard intervals, advancing slowly through the brush.

Above, on the hilltop, there was a brisk rattle of fire. The fight was on!

Buckey scoured the valley and ridge beyond through glasses, but the Spanish were not to be seen. Their positions were cleverly con cealed, and smokeless powder kept them indis tinguishable in the heavy growth. There was a spang, like the whirring of wires in wind, and a volley of shot swept above Buckey's head. Mausers. "Keep low!" he ordered, straining to locate the enemy lines. Almost over-eager to come to grips with the foe, he moved through the brush in front of his troop with complete dis regard for the increasingly accurate Spanish fire. The whirring, high velocity Mausers tore through palm trunks like paper. Buckey's troopers returned it as best they could, firing sporadically in direction of unseen trenches.

Above, noise and clatter told that the center was heavily engaged, bearing the brunt of the fight. Buckey stifled the urge to chargeup the hill into the thick of the battle. He was a fighter, but a soldier, too. No matter how strong his desire to plunge into the fight, he did what he was told. He remained, advanc ing slowly on the flank. He moved into high grass that blanketed the valley, and the Spanish got their range. Buckey peered through his glasses; men crouch ed low. A trooper stood up to fire, crumpled as a volley went through him. "Lie low, Captain! You'll surely be hit!" a sergeant pleaded as Buckey paced in front of his troop, but had no idea that he would. Disdainful. Buckey ignored the fire as he sought the enemy on the ridge. Admiration swept through the sergeant. Who could help but fight his best, with a Captain like that to lead him?

"There they are!" Buckey cried as a heavy burst from the regiment's center dislodged defenders on the ridge. The troop opened up with a blast, and Spaniards scurried over the crest.

Eager to charge, Buckey started to shout, "Let's go!" but a detachment of regulars ap peared over the ridge directly in line of fire. Buckey stifled the cry, fervently wishing he could be in the center. There, he heard sounds of victorious battle as Rough Riders poured up the ridge and overwhelmed Spanish positions. He hastily established connection with the regulars, and together they swarmed up the ridge. But the Spaniards had fled. The bat tle was over.

Buckey was rankled with disappointment. To be so near to the heat of a battle that could mean so much to Arizona, and yet not get into the fight, was almost more than he could stand. But he fought down emotion and took consola tion in the fact that Arizona's Troop B had gotten somewhat into the fight. They had bolstered Troop L in the brunt of attack, and acquitted themselves admirably in the charge on Spanish positions. Major Brodie and Cap tain McClintock were wounded in action, and the glory of their gallent performance would reflect brightly upon Arizona. Nevertheless, Buckey was irked. He should have been in that fight!

The encounter had been brisk, but short, and the Rough Riders suffered lightly. That afternoon, Buckey accompanied Roosevelt over the scene, searching for dead. They were guided by vultures that wheeled overhead, and as they came upon the torn body of the rooper who had fallen at Buckey's side, Buckey gazed up at the birds of prey. "Isn't it Whitman who says of vultures that 'they pluck the eyes of princes and tear the flesh of kings?'"

Roosevelt looked at Buckey, pensive. "I don't recall the quotation," he answered, search ing to fathom the profound depths of Buckey's nature. He found it difficult to reconcile such a fighting spirit as Buckey's with a man who somberly quoted poetry on the battlefield be side the dead. But there was little time for reflection. They covered the trooper's body to protect it until burial, and returned to their men.

Six days later, the Rough Riders had moved forward toward Santiago and were encamped on El Poso, facing strong Spanish positions on San Juan Hill. Buckey had chafed through days of inaction and was up before dawn, eager for the fight that the day was certain to bring. This time, he swore, he was going to be in it!

ARIZONA HIGHWAYS It was July 1, 1898. Far to the right, Gen-eral Lawton was about to begin the assault on El Caney. When Lawton fired, Rough Riders would move against the Spanish en-trenched on San Juan.

In the momentary coolness of dawn, Buckey studied the Spanish positions and thrilled to the thought that it would be a bitter fight. Between El Poso and San Juan Hill was the Juan river and valley. The rising sun out-lined the enemy hills, drenched the valley, and through dissolving mist Buckey saw that the Rough Riders would be cruelly exposed, both in crossing the valley and forcing the heights!

"It'll be a rip-snorting, stand-up fight!" he enthused, and snapped his troop into column as the first, dull boom of cannon at El Caney floated over the jungle. "Get ready, boys. Here we go!"

The artillery cut loose on Spanish emplace-ments, and the Rough Riders began to move. Shrapnel burst overhead as Buckey led his men into the unprotected valley. The sprung of Mausers from hidden snipers harassed every step.

Keep low in the grass!" Buckey ordered. "Hold fire and work toward that ford."

Gradually, the troop wormed across the grass covered valley to the shallow of the river. Here and there men crumpled, lifeless, as Spanish sharpshooters found their mark. Unconcernedly, Buckey trudged back and forth, laughing, joking, encouraging. He urged his troopers forward through the grass and got them across the river. They were jittery be-neath the insidious sniping, and were more so as it developed into steady volley fire. They were unable to return it because of danger of exposing themselves. It seemed that every man who ventured from cover slumped to the earth.

Nevertheless, Buckey stayed on his feet, moving the troop along the river bank until they came to a sunken lane. He ordered men to take cover as rapid-fire Spanish guns swept them from above. Two dropped in the wither-ing barrage. Others scurried to shelter be-neath the river bank and along the sunken lane. The angry whir of Mausers grew in-tense. Men shifted nervously, squirming into better cover.

Buckey paced to and fro along the edge of the lane.

"Get under cover, Captain!" a jittery trooper yelled.

"Don't let 'em scare you, soldier! Buck up, boy-we'll take those fellows soon!" Buckey called, and walked along the edge of the lane. Here and there he paused, encouraging embattled troopers. The hum of bullets grew louder from atop the hill. Buckey lit a cig-arette, blew smoke at the Spanish positions.

"Look at that big sugar kettle on top of the knoll," he remarked to Sergeant Green-wood lying in the lane below him. "We'll cook supper in that baby tonight!"

There was a sharp spung.

Greenwood glanced up, nervous. Sweat lined his face in the boiling sun.

"For God's sake, Captain, get under cover," he pleaded. "A bullet is sure to hit you."

Buckey grinned, puffed smoke, and moved on without concern.

"Don't worry, Sergeant," he called, waving his cigarette. "The Spanish bullet isn't molded that will kill me!"

Panting, Captain Howse, artillery, came up. "Locate those damned snipers?"

Buckey pointed. "In that screen of leafy trees, yonder on the right."

"They're tough," Howse said, leaving. "Got to run them out."

Calmly, Buckey gazed at Kettle Hill. "This is it," he must have thought, eager and restive. "Hope you boys aren't too nervous. Those devils are giving us hell. But when this fight's over, Arizona will be on the map!" He drew deeply, blew smoke out through his lips.

On the heights, a Spanish marksman steadied his rifle. Swarthy features hardened as he care-fully took aim. Lips drew back in devilish grin. He squinted; pulled the trigger.

Spung!

Below, in the sweltering lane, Sergeant Greenwood shook his head at Buckey's pluck and courage. "I'd follow that fellow anywhere," he thought.

Suddenly, he gasped.

There was a thump, and Buckey folded. He didn't make a sound as he slowly buckled to the ground.

Greenwood leaped, pulled him into the lane. He saw there was nothing he could do. The bullet had struck in the back of Buckey's throat. He never knew what hit him.

Tears welled up in Greenwood's eyes. Heads bowed all down the line as word passed that Buckey O'Neill was gone.

In a moment, Rough Riders swept up the heights of Kettle and San Juan Hills. Spanish defenders fled, bewildered. There was something in that charge that could not be denied. It was irresistible. Inspired.

It couldn't have been otherwise. There was a lump in every charging throat, drive in every step. Every shot that rang was, "One for Buckey O'Neill!"

It was a rip-snorting, stand-up fight. How Buckey would have loved to have been there!

EPILOGUE

It was July 3, 1907. A great crowd filled the Plaza in Prescott. Here, on the spot from which Rough Riders had marched to war, a massive monument was about to be unveiled.

A cord was pulled. The drapery fell away.

There was a gasp as people caught their breath. In their midst sat a dashing horseman, bronzed and sturdy, aboard a rearing mount. He seemed for all the world to have slid to a halt that very moment to peer across the hills, ready to charge the foe.

There was silence, tense and over-awed. No one recognized the horseman's features, but the spirit was one they knew.

The spirit. A cheer burst tightened throats and echoed on the hills. That was Buckey O'Neill.

It was true. The horseman's features were those of no one man, but the spirit was Buckey O'Neill's. And somehow, that was as it should be, for Buckey was more than a son of Arizona. He was Arizona for nearly twenty years.

The mark which Buckey left behind-the schools; the newspapers;-law and order, and a thousand lesser things seem commonplace today. But they are the marks of civilization, commonplace only because it is hard to conceive that little more than fifty years ago, when Buckey rode into Arizona, they scarcely existed at all. Credit for their having come into being belongs to no one man, but the spirit that gave them life the young, the lusty, the indomitable spirit of Arizona was the spirit of Buckey O'Neill.

There could have been no greater hero's grave than Buckey's at San Juan Hill. Nevertheless, breveted Major for gallentry in action, he was brought from the battlefields of Cuba and buried in Arlington National Cemetery on May 1, 1899, with full military honors. There, besides his father, he lies beneath a headstone inscribed:

William O. O'Neill

Mayor of Prescott, Arizona Captain Troop A, First U. S. Volunteer Cavalry, Rough Riders Brevet Major Born Feb. 2, 1860. Killed July 1, 1898.

At San Juan Hill, Cuba "Who Would Not Die for a New Star on the Flag?"

If personal military distinction were, in truth, what Buckey sought, then it is no small tribute to record that he won the oak leaf, if not the star.

Buckey would have been prouder to note that the bullet which ended his life, did, in reality, put Arizona "on the map." His final dream came true when, on February 12, 1912, Arizona was admitted to Statehood.

It was not long after Buckey's death that Mike Hickey, old-time friend of Buckey's, went to Robert E. Morrison and Morris Gold-water, two of Buckey's most bitter political foes. He proposed that a memorial be erected to Arizona's Rough Riders, and to Buckey O'Neill.

The Territory contributed ten thousand dollars to the purpose, and popular subscription swelled the fund beyond the committee's fond-est dreams.

A representative of the memorial committee went to New York, told sculptors what he wanted, and hopefully received their bids. The cost of a monument such as he had in mind was rudely brought home with a jolt. His spirit sagged as he looked over the bids. He had nowhere near the price.

Discouraged, he returned to his room. Shortly there was a rap on the door.

"I am Solon Borglum, the sculptor," said a man at the door.

The Arizonan stepped back, surprised, "Yes, indeed. Come in," he said, perplexed.

"I understand you wish to erect a memorial to the Rough Riders and Buckey O'Neill. I knew Buckey. I would like to do it for you."

"You?" the committee representative exclaimed, and caught his breath. "We haven't the money to even hope that you might do it. We haven't even enough to-"

"You shall have your monument," the sculptor said.

And so it was. The devotion of Buckey's friends and enemies alike captured his gallant spirit in that dashing bronze horseman in Prescott.

Years later, I paused and wondered, "Who in hell is that?"

Now I know. Buckey O'Neill he gambled for a star. By God, he stayed with 'em while he lasted!

Guardians of the Highways (Continued from Page Five)

The eldest members of the Highway Commission in point of service are Commissioners Marley and McEachren, both prominent citizens of the state, who have rendered and are rendering valuable service to their fellow citizens in their capacity as members of the state road body.

The duties and responsibilities of this board are not to be considered lightly. They have the management of an investment of $100,000,000 for that, roughly, is what the highway system of the state has cost the people.

As this commission is formed, the members find themselves in a particularly trying position. The monies available to former commissions will not be available to this commission, yet the system must be rigidly maintained to the highest standards possible. A good road saves tires and gasoline for those engaged in crucial driving. A good road saves time and time is the important element now.

Further, a highway, however new and modern, will quickly depreciate if it is neglected. Mother Nature has a way of moving in on a highway that will fool the unsuspecting. The average motorist thinks a highway is built and then let to go its merry way, never realizing what the sun and the elements can do in a short time.

The policy laid down by the present commission is to maintain the highways at all times. Maintenance is expensive, but economies have been inaugurated and will be carried out in such a way that the present highways will not suffer from neglect.

Few people realize the tremendous load carried by the highway system of the state at this time. The war industries that have practically leaped into existence have put a greater responsibility on the highway managers than ever before. Then, too, the vast personnel brought into this state, not only by the war industries but by the army air fields, has added a stress not only on the railroad but the highway, and the highway is doing a magnificent job in carrying its part of the vital load.

Such is the state of the road system in Arizona as the administration of Governor Osborn takes over the guardianship of the highways. If the war lasts one year, two years or five years, the highways will serve their purpose and the people can rest content with the knowledge that after the war the state will not have a system of rundown and wornout roads but fine roads ready to serve in days of peace to come as they did before. You readers of ARIZONA HIGHWAYS who are planning that trip to Arizona after the war will find the best highways on earth at your disposal.

Several changes have been announced in the personnell of the highway department. Bernard Touhey, who has been chief engineer for the Works Progress Administration in Arizona, has been named state engineer, replacing W. R. Hutchins who returns to his old job of district engineer. Mr. Touhey brings to the highway department a wide engineering experience and a thorough knowledge of road problems all over Arizona. During his service with the federal agency and under his jurisdiction he supervised street and building projects in every county and every city of the state.

Gene Eagles, a pioneer resident of Apache County, has been named secretary to the commission succeeding M. C. Hankins. A former member of the board of supervisors of Apache County, Mr. Eagles is well-known throughout Arizona, and has a wide knowledge of the state and its problems.. R. C.