keep himself clear of the blue-bellied skunks that had got themselves put in charge of this country.
He thought of Bunny again. He plain couldn't help it, but that didn't mean he didn't know better. There was things about a diamondback a feller could admire, but that didn't signify he figured to get in bed with one! If she hadn't been a Yankee—but she was, no getting around it.
He followed the line of the ridge due north till he arrived at an outcrop thatched with juniper and, through the branches, saw the town's roofs spread out below him. Didn't look too much. Wasn't even built around a plaza. Just a single dirt street with some lanes straggling off it; hardly bigger, he thought, than Flat Rock, Kentucky, even if it was a county seat town—he could take her word for that, anyhow. If he ever was to get reunited with his folks, county seat towns was the likeliest to hear of them.
So he had to go in, no matter what Pike had got up his sleeve. Today was a Saturday, best time of all. Be some risky asking questions but at least, this being a market day, he wasn't so like to be the only stray cat.
He eased Bathsheba onto the grade, letting her pick her own way. She'd been raised in the mountains and could wheel on a dime and, though she mightn't look it, she had a heap of speed. Her pappy had been a Billy horse, according to what that breed had told him, and everybody knew Billy horses was fast. Short coupled, long underneath, plenty of muscles inside and out. Hadn't been for all that hair on her legs and that broomy tail with the burrs matted into it some Yank would have stole her long before this.
Dry Bottom, seen up close when he got into it, was even less impressive than it had been from the ridge. Marple's Mercantile, aside from the courthouse, took up more room than anything else. It was housed in a huge rambling barn of a place, and next on the right was the Bon Ton Cafe, then a harness shop, gunsmith, a pool hall and barber. On the other side was the courthouse, two-storied, all the second floor windows having bars across them. The next lot was vacant, grown to tin cans and weeds. On the far side of this was what had all the earmarks of being a honky-tonk. Foot high letters across its front said: COW PALACE—Jack Dahl, Prop.
This Bathsheba was a real knowing mare, ever alert to Rafe's best interests. She'd spotted this joint even quicker than he had and, ears cocked, stopped short, one eye rolling back to see how he was taking it.
As a matter of fact he was still peering round. The next structure beyond housed a hat shop and baker, and after that was the bank, double-storied and brick as befitted so established a place in the community. The whole last block on that side was taken up with a feed yard and livery, the poorer homes spreading out to the south, tiny islands of junk among the cholla and greasewood topped by an occasional flowering saguaro. The more affluent had their residences on the lanes feeding off the main drag.
Bathsheba pawed impatiently. Thus reminded, Rafe hitched up a leg and got down. He sure didn't like to spoil her this way but there wasn't much choice if you were hunting information. Her last owner must have been a sure- enough scholar because if a man didn't take a firm hand with her she'd haul up in front of every grog shop in sight.
Rasping his jaw with a wistful look in the direction of the barber's pole Rafe reached around to catch hold of the reins, only then recollecting the loss of his bridle. 'Well, hell,' he said and, ducking under the rail, pushed through the bat wings into Jack Dahl's.
If mirrors and mahogany and naked females on canvas was any measure of prosperity this Cow Palace, Rafe decided, must be a mighty source of comfort to all who had a stake in it. Though it wasn't precisely packed right now it was doing all right for the middle of the day. The faro layout, cage and wheel, and even the blackjack table had customers, and a mob three deep was bellied up to the bar. Evidently, and plainly not too far away, there were mines in production to judge by the Cousin Jacks jostling elbows with the teamsters and cowhands milling about a roped-off twenty-foot square of dance floor perspiring and noisy as a sackful of frogs.
Tobacco smoke swirled in blue layers below the bright flare of the Rochester lamps which apparently were worked day and night in this dive. In constant circulation a bevy of cuties in spangles were hustling to separate the boys from their wages. There was a sudden scramble for the arena as a three-piece band swung into the rollicking strains of
Near as sudden as it started, and before Rafe had latched hold of someone he could talk to, the music went sour and splintered off into dischord. Following the startled sweep of eyes doorward Rafe saw framed in the bat wings the longnosed freckled face of Bathsheba. With her lip peeling back she threw her head up and nickered.
The cowhands guffawed hilariously, clouting each other and hooting and hollering. A heavy-set gent in gray derby and striped leg-clutching pants got red-faced out of his chair at the poker game, went stomping past Rafe with his mouth whitely clamped about a stump of black cheroot. Like a prodded bull with his eye on the muleta came a beetle-browed bouncer and a third burly specimen, getting shed of his apron, came hotfooting out from the bar with a bung starter just as Bathsheba pushed in through the doors.
Rafe stuck out a leg. Beetle Brow, loping into it, hit the floor spraddled out and cleaned a swath through the sawdust three foot long with his chin. The cowpunchers, hooting, liked to laugh their fool heads off. Bathsheba, after the fashion of one not entirely sure of her welcome, came timidly in. The guy in the derby waved his arms, started swearing. The barman ran up waving his bung starter. Bathsheba rolled her eyes and whinnied. The bartender said, 'She's slipped her headstall—'
'Never mind that—get her out!' shouted Dahl, brandishing his derby and sure enough seeming about fit to be tied.
The bouncer, a little glazed in his expression, with a knee drawn under him appeared to be trying to get himself up. The feller who had took off his apron was sidling around with one arm stuck out, it being difficult to tell if he were trying to catch the mare or only keep from being stepped on. There wasn't much doubt what Bathsheba thought about it. Stretching out her neck she showed him both sets of teeth.
The barkeep jumped back. The crowd roared and hooted. Dahl cried furiously, 'Who's the owner of this monstrosity?' and Rafe didn't know whether to speak out or not. He figured a lot could be said on both sides of the question; but when the beetle-browed bouncer, still on one knee, commenced to fumble a hip pocket, Rafe didn't have much choice. He sent the bugger sliding with a well directed boot.
Dahl and the barkeep both of them livid, converged on him threateningly. From someplace Dahl produced a sock filled with shot. The barkeep, glowering, lifted his bung starter.
'Now, just a minute—' Rafe said, nervous.
'Get her out,' Dahl said, 'and get 'er out quick!'
Rafe said uncomfortably, 'Bathsheba's kind of notional. She—'
'You got thirty seconds!' Dahl sounded half strangled.
The mare, watching Rafe, began to look a little reproachful. 'Go on, you!' the barkeep growled, flourishing his
