A final over-shoulder glance as I struck the curving roadway out of Burro Tanks revealed riders climbing into saddles on either side of the long dusty roadway. A posse had got started a hell of a lot quicker than I'd figured on, and this time they were close behind. I gained on 'em for a couple of miles, until my pony went lame, but managed to stay ahead.
A couple of miles farther on a long line of buttes followed the curve of a river and that's where I was heading, hoping there'd be canyons there where I could lose the pursuit.
Well, as I said before, I ended up, wet and shivering, beneath a wide spreading clump of prickly pear cactus, with men and baying hounds doing their damndest to smoke me out of hiding, until Miguel Serrano arrived to pull me out of a mean jam.
Two days later, steering a wide course around El Paso, I crossed the Texas line, hoping to find safety in Onyxton, farther to the west—Onyxton, the place so tough that even lawmen stayed clear of it.
VIII
It REQUIRED longer to arrive there than I'd figured on, but now I felt a greater degree of safety when passing through an occasional small town. No one asked me any questions, and I offered no explanations. I'd pick up such food as I needed and ride on. I began to like the look of this new country I'd entered. There were grasslands and various trees. The mountains seemed to mount higher, the air was clear.
I still didn't know what I intended. The only thing I had clear in mind was to land someplace where I could think things out, free of some lawman on my trail, until I could map out something that would clear off the all-too-many charges against me.
I rode through some passes in the mountains and found myself descending into a wide valley with more mountains, a great ridge of serrated peaks, which I later learned were called the Doladera Mountains, and crossing the Mexican Border in a series of crazily-tumbled rock buttes, known as Buzzard Buttes. It was almost in the shadow of that western range that Onyxton was situated. Now, I began to see a sort of trail leading to the town. Here and there it swerved to one side to curve around a big cottonwood tree or screw-bean mesquite. The grama grass looked full and juicy; it all looked like good grazing country to me, though as yet I'd spied no cows. Which, after all, was rather strange when I came to think of it. For the moment I just came to the conclusion that the country was as yet unsettled. Overhead, the sky was so blue it was nearly black.
Right soon I commenced to see some small houses and adobe huts along the way, and almost before I realized it I was following the trail into Onyxton. I rode through to the far end of the town and then turned back. It was larger than I'd expected: a long main street with four or five cross streets. Tough-looking? That was hard to see to a newcomer. There did seem to be an unusual number of men about, just lounging. All wore guns. I caught sharp glances from some of them as I walked my pony down the middle of the street. From one end of the town to the other, I saw only three older women, making their way along the sidewalk.
Saloons were more frequent than usual. There was an Onyx General Store and another general store, on opposite sides of the street, which was lined almost solidly with hitch-racks and ponies. I passed an Onyxton Bank, and Onyxton Livery Stable. Situated at the middle of the town was a two-storied frame building with a high false-front with painted wide letters across the top: ONYX SALOON & GAMBLING PARLORS. They sure overplayed that word, Onyx. Probably mined the stuff in the nearby mountains.
I swung down a cross street and saw railroad tracks. A block farther on, on a piled dirt foundation was a frame building, painted red, which bore a sign: T.N. & A.S. R.R. There were loading pens a mite farther on, so I figured somebody must ship cows from here. I turned my pony back toward the Main Street, and passed a small building and jail. There was a sign there too, bearing two words: TOWN MARSHAL. They looked freshly painted.
I finally pulled up before a barber shop, tossed reins over the hitchrail, between two other mounts, and entered the place, not knowing whether I'd get my throat cut or not. The barber was a skinny geek, just waiting for a customer. He nodded and I nodded and dropped into a chair. "Shave and crop the mattress a mite," I told him.
He said "Yessir," and got to work with his scissors and comb, working faster than I expected. Finally he lowered me back in the chair, and started to lather my face. I didn't go for all the silence. Usually barbers are talky. This one didn't have a word to say.
He'd lathered one side of my face when I said, "Onyxton doesn't look as tough to me as I've heard. I thought—"
Swush! A brushful of lather filled my mouth. The barber said, "Sorry sir," and with a towel started to swab out my mouth. I sputtered some but didn't say anything. I could take a hint.
The razor blade commenced to ring across my bristles. The barber finally broke the silence. "This used to be a nice little town, sir."
"It did? What happened?"
His voice was low when he replied, "Somehow, I don't feel much like talking today, sir."
So, that was that. He'd said too much or too little. Not knowing where I stood, I don't suppose I could blame him. He gave me the usual bay-rum treatment and after paying him two-bits, I stepped out of the chair. He said, "Thank you, and drop in again—if you stay."
I didn't miss that, either. It sounded like he was giving me some sort of warning, if I were running on the straight side of the trail.
I stepped outside, half expecting to find my pony, saddle and rifle had disappeared. The sun was hot along the street. I glanced up against the blinding rays a moment. It must be close to eleven o'clock. I mounted and cut diagonally across the street to a livery stable, then dismounted. A man in overalls showed up. "Rub-down, feed and water," I told him. "I'll be back later."
On foot I started a saunter along the sidewalk, choosing the shady side. A few people nodded as I passed; the rest just looked me over. I could fairly feel the sharp glances that followed my progress. After a time I crossed over and entered one of the cleaner restaurants I'd noticed. Just a small place, with a few tables and a counter along one wall. I was, apparently, the only customer. I dropped down on a counter stool and a tired-looking individual took an order for steak, fried potatoes, tomatoes, pie and coffee, with various fixings.
While I ate he lounged wearily against his back counter and gazed out the window.
I ventured cautiously, "Mite too early for business, I suppose."
He looked at me a long minute, then, "It's always too early for business in my place—nowdays," he said sourly.
"Yeah? Your fodder's good. I don't see why—"
"It needs more than good fodder to stay in business in this town, mister. I'd sell out if I could, but I keep hangin' on at a loss. I won't sell at a thievin' price."
"I don't get that."
His resentment burst forth. "A pack of wolves is runnin' this town—driving all decent people out. That goddam Sheldon Webster—and he should be called Shell-game Webster —won't be satisfied until every business in this town is run by his men, and—" He stopped suddenly, grew wary. "Some-times I talk too much for my own good. Forget I said anything, will you?"
I nodded. "If you want it that way. But if this town is being run by crooks—"
"Crooks?" he burst out. "Hell, mister, step out on the sidewalk, spit in any direction and you're almost certain to hit one." He paused, "You just ridin' through?"
"Could be. Maybe not."
"The more fool you, if you stay," he said bitterly. Then, cautiously, "There's a hell of a lot of strangers arrive hereto stay. They all take Shel Webster's orders, if they remain."
"Who is this Webster?"