Regularly he meets the arriving
trains and by the glistening three-inch nickel star pinned to his left
suspender announces to the traveling world that here, on the one time
woolly Kiowa, law and order at last prevail. Odd times the marshal farms
a ten-acre truck patch close to the river at the southern edge of the
town. Pending the arrival of trains he divides his time between the
front steps of the old hotel and the Elite Amusement Parlor, Eagle
Butte's single den of iniquity where pocket pool, billiards,
solo--devilish dissipations these!--along with root beer, ginger ale,
nut sundaes, soda-pop, milk shakes and similar enticements are served to
those, of reckless and untamed temperaments.
From the open door of the pool hall the marshal saw a thin, black streak
of smoke curling far out on the horizon--a dozen miles--northeast of
Eagle Butte.
"Seventeen's comin'," he remarked to the trio of idlers leaning against
the side of the building; "guess I'd better go over an' see who's on
her," moving as he spoke out into the sizzling glare of the almost
deserted street. Glancing toward the east his eyes fastened on a cloud
of dust whirling rapidly along the road that came from the direction of
the lower Cimarron.
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