Black, vicious thoughts
filled his mind as he drove toward Lazette. When the wagon reached the
crest of a slope about a mile out of town, Calumet halted the horses
and rolled a cigarette, a sullen look in his eyes, unrelieved by the
prospect before him.
By no stretch of the imagination could Lazette be called attractive.
It lay forlorn and dismal at the foot of the slope, its forty or more
buildings dingy, unpainted, ugly, scattered along the one street as
though waiting for the encompassing desolation to engulf them. Two
serpentine lines of steel, glistening in the sunlight, came from some
mysterious distance across the dead level of alkali, touched the edge
of town where rose a little red wooden station and a water tank of the
same color, and then bent away toward some barren hills, where they
vanished.
Calumet proceeded down the slope, halting at the lumber yard, where he
left his wagon and orders for the material he wanted. Across the
street from the lumber yard was a building on which was a sign: "The
Chance Saloon." Toward this Calumet went after leaving his wagon. He
hesitated for an instant on the sidewalk, and a voice, seeming to come
from nowhere in particular, whispered in his ear:
"Neal Taggart's layin' for you!"
When Calumet wheeled, his six-shooter was in his hand.
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