Nogales international., 1946-06-07
BY MAYNARD DIXON
(FrOm Arizona Highways,
February, 1942)

SISdG pd1ICCIO pIOuuCSQ III CIO
west, was born in California, first
came to Arizona in 1900 and has
been coming back regularly since.
Having spent all but five of his
sixty-five years in western Ameri-
ca, few artists know the country
as he does. He spends his sum-
mers at Mt. Carmel, Utah. his
winters at his studio on Prince
Road in Tucson. No artist could
live in more beautiful surround
ings.)
Arizona-the magic name of a
land bright and mysterious, of sun
and sand, of tragedy and stark
endeavor. So long had l dreamed
of it that when l came there it was
not strange to me. It's sun was
my sun, its ground my ground.
That was in 19OO-only thirteen
years after Geronimo and his
Apaches had surrendered to our
ever-pursuing cavalry. Arizona
was still "Arizona." Cow ranches
still raised cattle, COW punchers
were not yet picturesque" and
worked steers instead of dudes. In
dins were still Injuns, and you
could read in the pitiless eyes of
Apaches the memory of burning
buildings in the gray dawn and
the long shuddering screams of tor
ture. The prickly silent desert was
still a place where you could get
lost and die the terrible death of
thirst; where 125-in-the-shade was
still 125-in-the-shade, and a red
earthen ola, swung under the ra-
mada, was more essential than the
most gadgety frigidaire can ever
hope to be.
Arizona was still "frontier" "
Yes-men were few and not well
thought of, and the citizens gen.
orally adhered to the precept: $50
live that you can look every damn
man in the eye and tell him to go
to hell"-which they frequently
did.
The business district of Prescott
had been burned flat and upon my
arrival the place was humming
with a new mining camp. Stores,
banks, saloons, and gambling
places were doing business under
pine boards and canvas. One cit
izen was pointed out to me as a
good man not to monkey with. He
was tall and wore a moustache,
had Respondent drOOp and he
sagged a little at the knees and
shoulders. He wore a deputy's
badge. 1t seemed that recently
some enthusiastic lad had done a
bank hold-up and was making a
galloping getaway when the sad
eyed man, at long range, nailed him
with one shot When compliment
ed, he remarked, 81 seldom miss. .
/ glanced down the long pine bar
A dazzle of glassware and bottles
showed you could buy any drink
to be had in the most rocco thirst
parlors of New York or San Fran
cisco. From behind it, spaced at
intervals in pairs, protruded the
butts of siXshooters.
In those days in Arizona being
an artist was something you just
had to endure-or be smart enough
to explain why. 1t was incompre-
hensible that you were just out
"seeing the country" If you were
not working for the railroad, con-
sidering real estate or scouting
for a mining company what the
hell were you? The drawings
made were no excuse; and l was
regarded as a wandering lunatic.
In Phoenix at the Hassayampa
Club l met some of the old timers
"Well, son." said one of them, "it
you want to see Arizona, just put
a box o'soda crackers and a jug
o'whiskey in the back O. the wagon
and you can travel from one end
of the place to the other and never
spend a dollar" Anyhow, it was
then safe manners in the Terri
tory to "set 'em up'-and ask nc
personal questions.
Torrid in it's irrigated valley
Phoenix was no great city. Many
of the buildings were adobe; wag-
ons, buggies and saddle horses were
tied before the wide awnings;
Pima, Papago and Maricopa
arrayed in gay silks and calicos
squatted along the sidewalks; anC
"Chihuahua Town" was sizeable
if not important.
The brown-skinned people fas-
cinated me. In Tempe, then nine
tenths Mexican, | made many
drawings of them; enjoyed THEN
simple hospitality, and in starlit
evenings learned to sing, in paisanC
style.
"Mujer, muper, mi corazon pier
desc,
Mi triste pecho Sc encuentra
apasiOnadO."
Something muy simpatrica in al
this and to be long treasured il
the memory.
My first desert camp was near
Sacaton on the Reservation, and
here / first met the saguaro. Close
to my bed stood the tall shaft OF
one devoid of branches. All that
long sleepless night it dominated
me, dark finger of doubt point
ing ominously forever upward into
an unknowable universe of stars
In the pale yellow light of sunrise
a saguaro is only n giant castus-
but through all my longer acquaint-
ance with them that night remains
my strongest memory. Nor shall
| ever forget a giant Pima whC
came at sunset riding a pony down
a little slope, gazing straight into
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