A man who wore a silk hat on the back of his head and carried his hands in the pockets of his striped trousers, which—marvel of marvels!—bore traces of a crease, came forward and said:
“The town, gents, is right across the river there. It is not quite as large as Santa Fe, but it serves as a stopping place all right, if you are on your way to Taos, which I reckon you are.”
He eyed them closely, as if sizing them up. His eyes were piercing, and his mustache was coal-black. There was that in his appearance that pronounced him a gambler.
The boys thanked him and looked for the town.
They discovered a long, low adobe building, and that constituted the entire town. It was the post office, hotel and general store, and was kept by a Mexican, who was on hand at the station to get the mail.
A number of passengers beside Frank and his friends left the train.
Frank went ahead toward the baggage car to look out for the luggage.
The station agent was a beardless youth, to whom the arrival of a train was a most welcome break of the lonely monotony of the place. He was hurrying about and showing his importance.
About the station were several loungers, Mexicans and Indians.
Barely had Frank gone forward when he was startled to hear a loud scream, which he recognized as the voice of Inza.