I’ve been around considerable in the Western Country––mostly some years back––and I’ve seen quite a little, one way and another, of the folks living there: but I can’t really and truly say I’ve often come up with them nature’s noblemen––all the time at it doing stunts in natural nobility––the story-books make out is the chief population of them parts. Like enough the young fellers from the East who write such sorts of books––having plenty of spare time for writing, while they’re giving their feet a rest to get 2 the ache out––do come across ’em, same as they say they do; but I reckon the herd’s a small one––and, for a fact, if you could cross the book brand with the kind you mostly meet on the ranges the breed would be improved.

Cow-punchers and prospectors and such don’t look like and don’t act like what tenderfoots is accustomed to, and so they size ’em up to be different all the way through. They ain’t. They’re just plain human nature, same as the rest of us––only more so, through not being herded close in. About the size of it is, most folks needs barbed wire to keep ’em from straying. In a rough country––where laws and constables ain’t met with frequent––a good-sized slice of the population ’s apt to run wild. With them that’s white, it don’t much matter. The worst you can say against ’em is, they sometimes do a little more shooting than seems really needed; but such doings is apt to have a show of reason at the bottom of ’em, and don’t happen often anyhow––most being satisfied to work off their high spirits some 3 other way. With them that’s not white, things is different. When the Apache streak gets on top it sends ’em along quick into clear deviltry––the kind that makes you cussed just for the sake of cussedness and not caring a damn; and it’s them that has give some parts of the Western Country––like it did New Mexico in the time I’m talking about, when they was bunched thick there––its bad name.

In the long run, of course, the toughs is got rid of––being shoved out or hung out, at first by committees and later on in regular shape by sheriffs and marshals––and things is quieted down. It’s the everlasting truth, though, that them kind of mavericks mostly is a blame sight commoner in parts just opened than the story-book kind––that’s always so calm-eyed and gentle-natured and generous and brave. What’s more, I reckon they’ll keep on being commoner, human nature not being a thing that changes much, till we get along to the Day of Judgment round-up––and the goats is cut out and corralled for keeps.

For certain, it was goats was right up at the head of the procession in the Territory in my time––which was the time when the railroads was a-coming in––and in them days things was rough. The Greasers living there to start with wasn’t what you might call sand-papered; and the kind of folks found in parts railroads has just got to, same as I’ve mentioned, don’t set out to be extry smooth. Back East they talked about the higher civilization that was overflowing New Mexico; but, for a cold fact, the higher civilization that did its overflowing on that section mostly had a sheriff on its tracks right along up to the Missouri––and the rest of the way done what it blame felt like, and used a gun.

Some of them native Mexicans wasn’t bad fighters. When they went to hacking at one another with knives––the way they was used to––they often done right well. But when they got up against the higher civilization––which wasn’t usually less ’n half drunk, and went heeled with two Colt’s and a Winchester––they found out they’d bit off more’n they 5 could chew. Being sandy, they kept at it––but the civilizers was apt to have the call. And in between times, when the two of ’em––the Greasers and the civilizers––wasn’t taking the change out of each other, they both of ’em took it out of anybody who happened to come along.

Yes, sirree!––in them days things was a good deal at loose ends in the Territory. When you went anywheres, if you was going alone, you always felt you’d better leave word what trail you took: that is, if you was fussy in such matters, and wanted what the coyotes left of you brought in by your friends and planted stylish––with your name, and when it happened, painted on a board.

This place where the track got stuck––sticking partly because there was trouble with the Atchison, and partly because the Company couldn’t foreclose onto a year jag any more out of the English stockholders to build on with––was up on a bluff right over the Rio Grande and was called Palomitas. Being only mostly Greasers and Indians living 6 in the Territory––leaving out the white folks at Santa FÉ and the army posts, and the few Germans there was scattered about––them kind of queer-sounding names was what was mainly used.

It wasn’t never meant to be no sort of an American town nohow, Palomitas wasn’t––being made to start with of ’dobes (which is Mexican for houses built of mud, and mud they was in the rainy season) spilled around on the bluff anywheres; and when the track come along through the middle of it the chinks was filled in with tents and shingle-shacks and dugouts––all being so mixed up and scattery you’d a-thought somebody’d been packing a town through them parts in a wagon and the load had jolted out, sort of casual over the tail-board, and stuck where it happened to come down. The only things you could call houses was the deepo, and the Forest Queen Hotel right across the track from it, and Bill Hart’s store. Them three buildings was framed up respectable; with real windows that opened, and doors such as you could move without kicking at ’em till 7 you was tired. The deepo was right down stylish––having a brick chimney and being painted brown. Aside the deepo was the tank and the windmill that pumped into it. Seems to me at nights, sometimes, I can hear that old windmill going around creaking and clumpetty-clumpetting now!

Palomitas means “little doves”––but I reckon the number of them birds about the place was few. For about a thousand years, more or less, it had been run on a basis of two or three hundred Mexicans and a sprinkling of pigs and Pueblo Indians––the pigs was the most respectable––and it was allowed to be, after the track got there, the toughest town the Territory had to show. Santa Cruz de la CaÑada, which was close to it, was said to have took the cake for toughness before railroad times. It was a holy terror, Santa Cruz was! The only decent folks in it was the French padre––who outclassed most saints, and hadn’t a fly on him––and a German named Becker. He had the Government forage-station, Becker had; and he used to say he’d had a fresh surprise every 8 one of the mornings of the five years he’d been forage-agent––when he woke up and found nobody’d knifed him in the night and he was keeping on being alive!

But when the track come in, and the higher civilization come in a-yelling with it and spread itself, Palomitas could give points to the CaÑada in cussedness all down the line. Most of it right away was saloons and dance-halls; and the pressure for faro accommodation was such the padre thought he could make money by closing down his own monte-bank and renting. Denver Jones took his place at fifty dollars a week, payable every Saturday night––and rounded on the padre by getting back his rent-money over the table every Sunday afternoon. He’d a-got it back Sunday mornings if the padre hadn’t been tied up mornings to his work. (He was a native, that padre was––and went on so extra outrageous his own folks couldn’t stand him and Bishop Lamy bounced him from his job.) Pretty much all the time there was rumpusses; and the way they was managed made the Mexicans––being used, same as I’ve 9 said, to knives mostly––open their eyes wide. It seemed really to jolt ’em when they begun to find out what a live man with his back up could do with a gun! Occurrences was so frequent––before construction started up again, and for a while after––the new cemetery out in the sage-brush on the mesa come close to having as big a population as the town.

What happened––shootings, and doings of all sorts––mostly centred on the Forest Queen. That was the only place that called itself a hotel in Palomitas––folks being able to get some sort of victuals there, and it having bunks in a room off the bar-room where passers-through was give a chance to think (by morning they was apt to think different) they was going to have a night’s sleep. Kicking against what you got––and against the throwed-in extras you’d a-been better without––didn’t do no good. Old Tenderfoot Sal, who kept the place, only stuck her fat elbows out and told the kickers she done the best she knowed how to, and she reckoned it was as good as you could expect in them 10 parts, and most was suited. If they didn’t like the Forest Queen Hotel, she said, they was free to get out of it and go to one that suited ’em better––and as there wasn’t none to go to, Sal held the cards.

She was a corker, Sal was! By her own account of herself, she’d learned hotel-keeping through being a sutler’s wife in the war. What sutling had had to do with it was left to guess at, and there was opinions as to how much her training in hoteling had done for her; but it was allowed she’d learned a heap of other things––of one sort and another––and her name of Tenderfoot was give her because them fat feet of hers, in the course of her travels, had got that hard I reckon she wouldn’t a-noticed it walking on red-hot point-upwards ten-penny nails!

In the Forest Queen bar-room was the biggest bank there was in town. Blister Mike––he was Irish, Blister was, and Sal’s bar-keep––had some sort of a share in it; but it was run by a feller who’d got the name of Santa FÉ Charley, he having had a bank over in Santa FÉ afore Sal give him the offer to come 11 across to Palomitas and take charge. He was one of the blue-eyed quiet kind, Charley was, that’s not wholesome to monkey with; the sort that’s extra particular about being polite and nice-spoken––and never makes no mistakes, when shooting-time comes, about shooting to kill. When he was sober, though––and he had to keep sober, mostly, or his business would a-suffered––he wasn’t hunting after rumpusses: all he did was to keep ready for ’em, and hold his end up when they come along. He had the habit––same as some other of the best card sharps I’ve met with––of dressing himself in black, real stylish: wearing a long-tail coat and a boiled shirt and white tie, and having a toney wide-brimmed black felt hat that touched him off fine. With them regular fire-escape clothes on, folks was apt to take him for one; and, when they did, he always met ’em half-way by letting on preaching was his business––till he got ’em on the other side of the table and begun to shake down what cards he needed from up inside them black coat-sleeves. Mostly they ended by thinking that 12 maybe preaching wasn’t just what you might call his strongest hold.

It helped him in his work more’n a little, sometimes, dressing up that way and talking to suit, like he knowed how to, real high-toned talk; but I do believe for a fact he enjoyed the dollars he got out of it less ’n he did the fun it give him making fools of folks by setting up rigs on ’em––he truly being the greatest hand at rigging I ever seen. Somehow––not having the comfort of being able to get drunk half as often as he wanted to––it seemed like he give himself the let-out he needed in them queer antics; and, for certain, he managed ’em always so they went with a hum. When him and the Sage-Brush Hen played partners in rigging anybody––as they was apt to, the Hen being much such another and so special friends with Charley she’d come on after him from Santa FÉ––there mostly was a real down spirited game!

She was what you might call the leading lady in the Forest Queen dance-hall, the Sage-Brush Hen was; and if you wanted fun, and had to choose between her and a 13 basket of monkeys, all I’ve got to say is––nobody’d ever a-took the monkeys who knowed the Hen! That girl was up to more queer tricks than anybody of her size and shape––she had a powerful fine shape, the Hen had––I’ve ever laid eyes on; and she’d run ’em in you so slick and quiet––keeping as demure as a cat after birds while she was doing it––you’d never suspicion anything was happening till you found the whole town laughing its head off at you for being so many kinds of a fool!

Things wasn’t any time what you might call too extra quiet in Palomitas; but when them two––the Hen and Santa FÉ––started in together to run any racket you may bet your life there was a first-class circus from the word go! Grass didn’t grow much under their feet, either. The very minute the Hen struck the town––coming on after Santa FÉ, same as I’ve said, and him waiting for her when she got there––they went at their monkey-shining, finishing two-handed what the Hen had started as a lone-hand game. Right along from then on they kept things moving 14 spirited, one way and another, without much of a let-up. And they ended off––the day the two of ’em, owing to circumstances, lit out together––by setting up on all of us what I reckon was the best rig ever set up on anybody anywheres since rigs was begun!

Palomitas was a purer town, Cherry said––it was him led off in the purifying––after we was shut of ’em, and of some others that was fired for company; and I won’t say he wasn’t right in making out it was a better town, maybe, when we’d got it so blame pure. But they had their good points, the Hen and Santa FÉ had––and after they was purified out of it some of us didn’t never quite feel as if the place was just the same.