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There is a place in southern Arizona called Stansville. It's not really a genuine town -- just a couple of old, weathered dwellings that you can see from the road and one of them is a part time business. (If there is any.)
It goes by that name because some of the few locals still remember Stan. Stan was a wandering man and every village has a tale to tell about the nature of its origin. The history of Stansville could have been written on a dried up tortilla. -- STAN'S HORSE DIED HERE!
Here -- then, was just a wagon trail but has since then become county highway 1042. Stan left Mexico, Missouri because he couldn't hack it in the crowded big town environment. If the truth were known there was a paternity matter and the fact the horse really didn't belong to him was also a factor in his hasty decision to travel.
Stan was only thirty-seven when he left Missouri. His wife and child died during childbirth. A drought wiped out his small farm. He wasn't smart enough to figure, and he sure couldn't figure out how to get any smarter. The only gift he had was with women and that made him a regular target for all the men. He was slow with a gun but quick when it came to losing his money.
Travelers heading west through Missouri all told tales about the gold and silver mines all over the Arizona bad lands. What ever you found was yours to keep, the story went. Driven by despair, Stan borrowed a horse and headed west with noble intentions and a few bucks left from selling his barren farm. He told himself that things couldn't get any worst.
He crawled through the most god-awful mountains. It was hot, dry and terribly lonely. What vegetation there was had been designed to tear your skin off. Snakes were the local pets, and vultures patrolled patiently overhead, waiting for some creature that could no longer endure the hostile environment. The only precious metal Stan extracted from the entire state of Arizona came from the teeth of a sun bleached skeleton left by some other poor loser.
He thought about California. Burnt out, he headed farther west until he was passing through what is now called Stansville. We already know what happened next. Faced with a dead horse, no money left and a sack of empty whisky bottles, he looked at a worn blanket, a nicked up, bent old shovel, and thirty feet of frayed hemp rope, and decided that the poor worn out horse was the lucky one. He found him a tall tree way off in the distance that he could heave that rope over and headed into the mesquite brush to meet his final destiny. There was a strong tree limb and a rocky ledge that would provide him with an easy path to a peaceful eternity.
It was then as he looped the rope over the limb that this dumb dirt farmer had some rapid, extraordinary activity inside his tired brain. A big tree in the middle of the desert? Water! Water! Water! He smiled for the first time in a long time.
His decision to depart this hard life was changed in an instant His re-awakened instincts were now directed toward finding the source of this rare liquid commodity. In a short period of time he discovered a small, ground fed spring. He laid his tired, dusty head in the small pool, opened his parched mouth and found out that it was pretty good drinking water. He filled up the eight empty whiskey bottles and his canteen and walked back to the trail. "God Dang!!!" He shouted to himself. Water might be worth more than precious metal in this poor excuse for real estate.
He buried the horse, but kept enough meat to make some horse jerky. He built a small primitive shack from the mesquite, some rocks and mud, which provided him with shelter. The water hole attracted fresh game, could feed a vegetable crop, and would be good for bartering if anyone else ever followed this pathetic trail. A skinny, abandoned, young coyote pup, with one ear almost chewed off was drawn to the water and these two outcasts became the best of friends.
Passing mining prospectors traded canned beans, some whiskey and sometimes in desperation even valuable nuggets to fill their canteens and water their horses.
One day a young, full-figured Mexican girl was passing through, abandoned by some bandits that were through with her. She was probably about seventeen and needed food and water. She suddenly supplied the one thing that Stan lacked and it was blissful relationship that bore them two boys and three girls. Their descendants are among the few residents in Stansville today.
They could have named it Hanging Tree, Desert Oasis, or such, but they call this place Stansville to remember the loser who never became a success until he gave up entirely.
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