The (Remains of the) Hole in the Wall Gang

We headed into those rocks up ahead, Jake?
Yep. This here's gonna be our new hideout, Clem. That posse will never find us in these canyons.
Hope not. They're pretty good trackers, I hear.
We ain't a-gonna leave no hoof prints on these rocks, so let 'em try. We'll camp out in here for the night, make our getaway in the morning. Sound good?
Ok by me.
One thing, though, pardner I been meanin' to ask: what's that there fancy-lookin' gadget you got hanging off your saddle?
This here? Why it's a GPS device.
A what?
GPS. Global Positioning System. A veritable miracle of modern science and ingenuity!
What's it do?
Well, you see, this here little fella sends a signal to the low-orbit satellite, on account of which it always knows exactly where I am, anywhere on Earth. Yessir, it's positively foolproof and means I cain't never get lost.
You don't say.
Moreover, if someone needs to find me, well then,. . . uh, needs to. . . uh. . .find. . . me. . .
Are you sayin' what I think you're sayin', Clem?
Dammit, Jake! I reckon this ain't such a great hideout after all.
You know something, Clem? I miss the 19th century. I surely do.
Me too, pardner. Me too.