In the end, seeing
the futility of trying to reason with a man who only laughed, and
seeing further the disadvantage of being cut off from his source of
easy money, Roger gave in, growling. So when the train drew into
Indian Creek that afternoon there were three people who got down from
it.
CHAPTER II
Indian Creek stood lonely and isolated in the flat, treeless,
sun-smitten desert. Only in the south was the unbroken flatness
relieved by a low-lying ridge of barren brown hills, their sides cut
as by erosion into steep, stratified cliffs. Even these bleak hills
looked to be twenty miles away, and were in reality fifty. Beyond
them, softened and blurred by the distance, was a blue-gray line where
the mountains were.
"Of all the wretched holes in the world!" fumed Hapgood.
But Conniston didn't hear him. The girl had stepped down from the
train, and, without casting a glance behind her, walked swiftly across
the wriggling thing which stood for a street in Indian Creek. There
was a saloon with a long hitching-pole in front of it, to which a
couple of saddle-horses were tied, and a buckboard with two fretting
two-year-olds in dust-covered harness. A man, a swarthy half-breed,
with hair and eyes and long, pointed mustaches of inky blackness, was
on the seat, handling the jerking reins. He called a soft "_Adios,
compadre_" to the man lounging in the doorway, and swung his colts out
into the road, making a sweeping half-circle, bringing them to a
restless halt, pawing and fighting their bits, at the girl's side.
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