The age of the garbage piles was distinctly defined by geological strata. In the lowest portion of all one could often find arrowheads and stone axes, indicative of a pre-Columbian origin; super-imposed conformably over these, as the geologists used to say, were skins of chile Colorado, great pieces of rusty spurs, and other reliquiæ of the “Conquistadores,” while high above all, stray cards, tomato cans, beer bottles, and similar evidences of a higher and nobler civilization told just how long the Anglo-Saxon had called the territory his own.
This filthy condition of the streets gave rise to a weird system of topographical designation. “You want to find the Governor’s? Wa’al, podner, jest keep right down this yere street past the Palace s’loon, till yer gets ter the second manure-pile on yer right; then keep to yer left past the post-office, ’n’ yer’ll see a dead burro in th’ middle of th’ road, ’n’ a mesquite tree ’n yer lef’, near a Mexican ‘tendajon’ (small store), ’n’ jes’ beyond that’s the Gov.’s outfit. Can’t miss it. Look out fur th’ dawg down ter Muñoz’s corral; he’s a salviated son ov a gun.”
It took some time for the ears of the “tenderfoot” just out from the States to become habituated to the chronology of that portion of our vast domain. One rarely heard months, days, or weeks mentioned. The narrator of a story had a far more convenient method of referring back to dates in which his auditory might be interested. “Jes’ about th’ time Pete Kitchen’s ranch was jumped”—which wasn’t very satisfactory, as Pete Kitchen’s ranch was always getting “jumped.” “Th’ night afore th’ Maricopa stage war tuck in.” “A week or two arter Winters made his last ’killin’’ in th’ Dragoons.” “Th’ last fight down to th’ Picach.” “Th’ year th’ Injuns run off Tully, Ochoa ’n’ DeLong bull teams.”
Or, under other aspects of the daily life of the place, there would be such references as, “Th’ night after Duffield drawed his gun on Jedge Titus”—a rather uncertain reference, since Duffield was always “drawin’ his gun” on somebody. “Th’ time of th’ feast (_i.e._, of Saint Augustine, the patron saint of the town), when Bob Crandall broke th’ ‘Chusas’ game fur six hundred dollars,” and other expressions of similar tenor, which replaced the recollections of “mowing time,” and “harvest,” and “sheep-shearing” of older communities.