Fremont B Deering: 3 books

“Hold on there a minute! Don’t you think you’re being unnecessarily rough with that boy?” “Naw, I don’t. And if I am, it ain’t none of your business that I can see.” “Perhaps I mean to make it so.” “Aw run along and play, kid. Don’t bother me.” The brakeman glared angrily...

“Steady, Ralph, old fellow, the Galoups are right ahead.” “All right,” responded Ralph Stetson from his position at the steering wheel of the swift motor boat the River Swallow, “I saw them ten minutes ago, Hardware. Just give Persimmons down below a hail and tell him to slow up a bit. They’re wild waters and we don’t want to go through them too fast.”

The trainmen began hoarsely shouting the curious-sounding name of the small frontier town near the Mexican border, in the southwest part of New Mexico. Slowly the long dust-covered Southern Pacific express rolled imposingly into "Mag-gay," very slowly, in fact, as if it did not wish to tarry in that desolate, sun-bitten portion of the continent.