The Stranger by Ambrose Beis

A man stepped out of the darkness into the little illuminated circle about our failing

campfire and seated himself upon a rock.

You're not the first to explore this region, he said gravely.

Nobody controverted his statement.

He was himself proof of its truth, for he was not of our party and must have been somewhere near when we camped.

Moreover, he must have companions not far away.

It was not a place where one would be living or traveling alone.

For more than a week we had seen besides ourselves and our animals only such living things as

rattlesnakes and horned toads. In an Arizona desert one does not long coexist with only such creatures as these.

One must have pack animals, supplies, arms, and outfit.

All of these imply comrades.

It was perhaps a doubt as to what manner of men this unceremonious strangers comrades might be, together with something in his words,

interpretable as a challenge, that caused every man of our half dozen gentleman adventurers to rise to a sitting posture and lay his hand upon a weapon,

an act signifying in that time and place a policy of expectation. The stranger gave the matter no attention and began again to speak

in the same deliberate, uninflected monotone in which he had delivered his first sentence.

30 years ago, Ramongayyegos, William Shaw, George W Kent, and Barry Davis all of Tucson

crossed the Santa Catalina Mountains and traveled due west

as nearly as the configuration of the country permitted.

We were prospecting and it was our intention if we found nothing to push through to the Gila River at some point near Big Bend where we understood there was a settlement. We had a good outfit but no guide, just Ramon Gallegos, William Shaw, George W Kent, and Barry Davis.

The man repeated the name slowly and distinctly as if to fix them in the memories of his audience,

every member of which was now attentively observing him, but with a slackened apprehension regarding

...