QUONG KEE

As the years slipped by Quong was a picturesque fig-ure on the street of Tombstone. This aged Chinese had a small, faithful dog always trotting at his heels. When he rested, the dog rested. The pioneers of Tombstone loved and respected Quong Kee. He was a link of the broken chain of the old days. The fast onrushing machine age bewildered him. Once Jack Meadlock took Quong to Tucson for an outing in his automobile. As they spun over the beautiful paved high-way Quong related his experiences of the early days, and told of his first ride to Tombstone in the old rickety stage-coach over a country where the drivers didn't have much use for roads, always looking for a short cut, and to stay out of the way of Apaches. When Quong looked at the speedometer which had reached the 60 m.p.h. he scratched his head and said, "Too damn fast for Quong Kee." Feeble and more feeble grew his footsteps. His tooth-less smile always radiant. His voice calling his dog in a failing tone. Quong felt the end of his days approaching, and he was ready to go. He once said to a friend, "Quong, waiting for the bell." He spent his last days on county charity, and the kind-ness and help from friends who couldn't forget the old Chi-nese who did so much good. Often when a friend clasped his hand as a friendly gesture Quong would feel a silver coin or a dollar bill in his palm. He loved children, and he was his happiest when making individual pies for them, or giving them a sack of candy. Quong's one unpolished habit was his swearing; he felt he never could express his feeling Feeble and more feeble grew his footsteps. His tooth-less smile always radiant. His voice calling his dog in a failing tone. Quong felt the end of his days approaching, and he was ready to go. He once said to a friend, "Quong, waiting for the bell." He spent his last days on county charity, and the kind-ness and help from friends who couldn't forget the old Chi-nese who did so much good. Often when a friend clasped his hand as a friendly gesture Quong would feel a silver coin or a dollar bill in his palm. He loved children, and he was his happiest when making individual pies for them, or giving them a sack of candy. Quong's one unpolished habit was his swearing; he felt he never could express his feeling without the use of a swear word, learned as part of the Eng-lish language in the rough and ready mining camps. One morning Hal Smith, the town's marshall, noticed that the aged Quong did not take his usual morning saunter. Smith, with a few other friends investigated, and found Quong unconscious on the floor of his small room near Tough Nut street. He was sent to the County Hospital, where death followed a few hours later.

During that day his friends waited for information of his condition. Impatient, and anxious, Hal Smith tele-phoned the hospital. When the message that Quong Kee had died, and had been buried that afternoon in Bisbee, struck the ears of Smith, a spark of the old fighting spirit that prevailed in the 80's flamed among the listeners, gath-ered to hear the news. Quick, fiery words, not often used in print, sizzled the wires. Fury and indignation that Quong Kee, an in-stitution in Tombstone, was considered so friendless that he was buried in a pauper's grave made the town of Tomb-stone ring with bitterness. Word was soon passed from lip to lip of the injustice dealt to Quong, and in a very short time donations were received to bring him back home. Quong Kee's body was disinterred, and taken back to Tombstone. His second burial was made fitting to him who treated everyone as his friend. With dignity, with respect, with benevolence and tenderness, Quong Kee was laid to rest. Could he have spoken, he would with his radiant smile have said, "Quong Kee's funeral, plitty damn nice."

Oh! hello... I didn't hear you come up in back of me. I was just sitting here looking over a map and sort of dreamin'. Dreamin' about canyons mostly I guess. I love canyons. There are all kinds of canyons and I consider all of them my friends. They range from deep dark mysterious ones in a shadow shroud of foreboding silence to gay pixy-like settings, frilly with bright little flowers and sunny glens chaperoned by magnificant, dignified old trees. I love each one, depending on the mood I'm in... but when you came up I was thinking of Sycamore Canyon in particular... it's one of my favorites. It's right here on the map near the upper right hand corner. While I was studying this map I was sort of visualizing the road in there. Please sit down for a moment and study the map closely with me and see if you too can visualize the places I point out... we'll sort of go there together. I can practically see that little road now just how it looks where it hits the canyon. Picture a little winding road, nothingmuch more than a couple of tracks. They were wagon tracks half a century ago but now some of the hardier cars and more venturesome drivers try it out. Just before you get to the place marked Packard's Ranch you can see the Verde River glistening in the sun where it is joined by Sycamore Creek, and to the left a bit the sun would be gleaming on the rails of that little train that goes up the Verde from Clarkdale to Drake every day, and off to the right is Sycamore Canyon. I'll tell you about it.