"Then there are no border wars any more, or Indians, or——"
"Adventures left in the West," Jack finished for him, laughing at the other's disappointed tone. Then, more seriously: "Well, Ralph, the West isn't what it's pictured to be in Wild West shows; but we've plenty of excitement here once in a while, and before you go back East, with those lungs of yours in A-one shape, you may experience some of it."
"I hope so," said Ralph, looking up the long dusty street with its sun-blistered board shacks on either side, with a few disconsolate ponies tied in front. The yellow water tower topped above it all like some sort of a misshapen palm tree or sunflower on steel legs. In fact, a more typical border town than Maguez at noon on a June day could not be imagined. Except for the buzzing of flies, and the occasional clatter of a horse's hoofs as some one rode or drove up to the general store—which, together with a blacksmith shop, a disconsolate-looking hotel, and a few miscellaneous buildings made up the town—there was not a sound to disturb the deep, brooding silence of the desert at noonday. Far on the horizon, like great blue clouds, lay the Sierre de la Hacheta, in the foothills of which lay Agua Caliente Ranch.
"So this is the desert?" went on Ralph, as they made their way up the rough wooden sidewalk toward the stable where they expected to find Bud Wilson and the horses.
"This is it," echoed Jack Merrill, "and the longer you know it the better you like it."
"It's peaceful as a graveyard, anyhow," commented Ralph. "Doesn't anything ever happen? I wonder if——"
He broke off suddenly as a startling interruption occurred.
The quiet of Maguez had been rudely shattered by a sudden sound.
Bang!