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 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 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 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!