A few nights later Lil was sitting in her parlor wondering where the men were. The girls were all banked around with folded hands. “Maybe there’s a celebration....” A moment later a belated male barged in. “Willie, where’s everybody?” Lil asked. Willie flicked a look at the idle girls. “Maybe,” he announced, “they’re down at that new cut-rate menage.” “Cut-rate?” Lil cried. “Yeh. Three dollars.” A steely glint came into Diamond Tooth Lil’s eyes. She tossed her cigarette into the cuspidor, went to her room, picked up her six-gun, saw that it was loaded and hurried to her rival’s. A rap on the door brought the dark beauty to the porch. “Listen dearie,” Diamond Tooth Lil began. “This is a union town. I hear you’re scabbing.” The hot Latin temper flared. “I run my business to suit myself....” “And you won’t raise the price?” asked Diamond Tooth Lil. “Never!” Suddenly the exotic one looked into hard steel and harder eyes. “Okay. You’re through. Start packing,” ordered Lil. Something in the eyes behind the six-gun told the madam that surrender was wiser than a funeral and the scab house closed forever. A wayfarer in Greenwater announced that he was so low he could mount stilts and clear a snake’s belly, but being broke, he could only sniff the liquor-scented air coming from Bill Waters’s saloon and look wistfully at the bottles on the shelves. Then he noticed that Bill Waters was alone, polishing glasses. A sudden inspiration came and he sauntered in. “Bill,” he said, “gimme a drink....” Bill Waters was no meticulous interpreter of English and slid a glass down the bar. A bottle followed. The drinker filled the glass, poured it down an arid throat. “Thanks,” he called and started out. “Hey—” cried Bill Waters. “You haven’t paid for that drink.” “Why, I asked you to give me a drink....” “Yeh,” Bill sneered. “Well, brother, you’d better pay.” “Horse feathers—” said the fellow and proceeded toward the door. Bill Waters picked up a double barrelled shotgun, pointed it at the departing guest and pulled the trigger. The jester fell, someone called the undertaker and the porter washed the floor. It looked bad for Bill. But lawyers solve such problems. Bill said he was joking and didn’t know the gun was loaded. The answer satisfied the court and Bill returned to his glasses. For a few years Greenwater prospered. Then it was noticed that the incoming stages had empty seats. Bartenders had more time to polish glasses. “The World’s Biggest Copper Deposit” which the world’s greatest experts had assured the moguls lay under the mountain just wasn’t there. Today there is barely a trace of Greenwater. A few bottles gleam in the sun. The wind sweeps over from Dante’s View or up Dead Man’s Canyon. The greasewood waves. The rotted leg of a pair of overalls protrudes from its covering of sand. A sunbaked shoe lies on its side.