Hot furnace air swept across the open desert, gathering fine dust. An error in timing, Roy Folsom glanced up at an inopportune moment. Instantly pelted, Roy slammed his eyes shut, held his breath, and waited for the hell-storm to abate. As quickly as it appeared, the desert's fiery breath disappeared. While squinting, he fumbled for his canteen and unscrewed the cap. Cool, clear liquid splashed over his tanned face as he drained the contents to wash the dirt from his stinging eyes. Opening his mouth wide, he caught the last vestiges of water and moistened his dry tongue.
Roy bent at the waist and plunged his dirt streaked face into the horse's tough. Shaking his head violently, Roy jerked his head from the slimy green water and roared. Closing his eyes, he looked at the hot sun as tiny water droplets clung to the whiskers of his stubble. In the arid Arizona desert, this momentary reprieve would evaporate quickly. Seeking relief, Roy walked toward his cabin.
Behind the simple log homestead, as a protective barrier stood a wind-scraped, medium-sized hill covered with cactus and sagebrush. Inside the cabin and behind the fireplace, the builder of the homestead created a tunnel leading into the hill crafting two things simultaneously. First, the tunnel was his mining claim and cleverly hidden for protection. Second, cool air from the tunnel kept the cabin temperature twenty degrees lower than the outside air, making the cabin an excellent retreat from the hell surrounding it. Waiting millennia for someone to uncover her, a natural artesian spring existed deep within the hill, and this was Roy's destination.
After refilling his canteen at the spring, Roy ambled back to the small cabin. He was instantly startled by an eerie sound. Something resembling what one would imagine was a hoard of Italian tenors being butchered, accompanied by shrieking alto women, began to reverberate in the small canyon of Roy's homestead. Walking onto the porch, Roy looked at the corral and saw Sally and Molly. With their heads pointing in the air, hooves prancing in the dirt, the mules repeated their performance. Scanning the horizon, Roy could not see anything out of the ordinary. Better than a watchdog, the mules were excellent sentries alarming Roy of any intruders.
Standing on the front porch of his log cabin, Roy Folsom leaned against the supporting post blankly gazing at the dusty valley floor below. It was a mere five hours after sunrise and already the desert heat bedeviled its occupants. Rugged, treeless peaks scattered across the barren horizon stood in solemn testimony of the harsh environment known as the Arizona Territory. Like many settlers heading west in search of fortunes, the adventurous Folsom men worked hard against the harsh elements to eke out a meager living.