“Better ease up a little,” said the Circle Four rider. “This pace is a little more than my cayuse can stand on a day as hot as this.
“We’ve been hitting it pretty hard,” conceded Slim, “but I wanted to get to Dirty Water before sundown. Unless I miss my guess the village is only a couple of miles further.” Slim pointed toward the left, where a cluster of frame buildings could be seen strewn along the banks of a stream.
“It may be the Box B,” said Chuck.
“I don’t think so. The Box B is closer to the Three Soldiers. Whatever it is, we’ll know in a few minutes.”
Slim spoke to Lightning and the magnificent sorrel started down the slight grade, apparently as fresh and tireless as when they had taken the trail early in the day.
As they neared the buildings, Slim was convinced that they were approaching Dirty Water and he wondered just what kind of a reception was in store for them. Old Bill Needham had said the village was the headquarters of the rustlers.
Dirty Water was anything but impressive. It was a typical cow town. Most of the buildings were unpainted, their cracked boards burned a dead gray by the heat of summer and the chill blasts of winter.
Slim and Chuck pulled up on their side of the creek and surveyed the town with critical eyes. There was only one street, the buildings fronting along the creek and set back about fifty yards from the edge of the stream. Many of the frame structures had false fronts, giving them the appearance of two story buildings. There were not more than fifteen or sixteen buildings in Dirty Water.
“Wonder where the town got its name?” mused Chuck, looking down at the stream which flowed in front of them. It was clear and blue--the blue of waters from the high peaks of the Three Soldiers. “It couldn’t have been from this creek.”
“I’ll leave that information for you to dig out,” grinned Slim. “Come on. I’m hungry, tired and dirty. There’s one place over there that claims to be a hotel.”