"Not much of a metropolis about this," said Tom as they looked around.
"Hardly," agreed Dick. "The principal thing here is space. You can cross
the street without the help of a traffic cop."
"And only one street to cross, at that," added Bert.
It was the typical small town of the Western plains. The one crooked
street parallel with the track stretched on either side of the station
for perhaps half a mile, lined with houses at irregular intervals. There
was no pretence of a sidewalk and even fences were conspicuous by their
absence. The business part of the town consisted of a general store that
served also as a post office, a blacksmith shop and three saloons, to one
of which a dance hall was attached. Business seemed brisk in these,
judging from the many mustangs that were tied to rails outside, patiently
waiting for their masters who were "tanking up" within and accumulating
their daily quota of "nose paint." A Mexican in a tattered serape was
sitting on the steps of the store rolling a cigarette, while an Indian,
huddled in a greasy blanket and evidently much the worse for fire water,
sat crouched against the shack that served as baggage-room at the left
end of the station.
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