He would not risk losing his horse
in this desert land. At best a posse could not reach Showdown before
noon the next day, and rather than blunder into Showdown at night and
take unnecessary risks, he decided to rest, and ride in at sunup, when
he would be able to see what he was doing and better estimate the
possibilities of getting food for himself and his horse and of finding
refuge in some out-of-the-way ranch or homestead. In spite of his
vivid imaginings he slept well. At dawn he caught up his pony and rode
into town.
Showdown boasted some fifteen or eighteen low-roofed adobes, the most
pretentious being the saloon. These all faced a straggling road which
ran east and west, disappearing at either end of the town as though
anxious to obliterate itself in the clean sand of the desert. The
environs of Showdown were garnished with tin cans and trash, dirt and
desolation. Unlike the ordinary cow-town this place was not sprightly,
but morose, with an aspect of hating itself for existing. Even the
railroad swung many miles to the south as though anxious to leave the
town to its own pernicious isolation.
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