I resolutely declined to hit the grit as proposed. Soon we came in sight of the town. It showed uncertainly on the horizon like a lake of mist, with a few wavering windmills swaying therein; it might have been an impressionistic painting of a Dutch canal. A mile from the first house, the sheriff pulled up and bade me remain where I was, whilst he entered Badger. His instructions were that I should hold back for ten minutes precisely, then proceed casually into town, leaving my horse at the cattle company's corral, and meet him at dinner in the Fashion. "No, you can't come with me," he said. "So let that soak into your hide. It's like some fool will start something and I don't want you on my mind. You'd only be in the way." This was not flattering, but every man to his business. The sheriff made preparations for his by looking carefully to his six-shooter. Then he nodded and rode ahead into Badger. Ten minutes and ten seconds later, I followed. Badger suggests in its exterior a woman of the street, made up carefully as to the face and run-down at the heel. To left and to right as you enter from the west, are the Fashion and the Cowboys' Rest, both of frame, and pretentious structures for that region. Then there is the Wells-Fargo express office, with a tin roof which catches all the heat of the ages and sends it sizzling over Badger. There are a general store and a butcher shop; two Eating Houses, one at the Fashion, the other conducted by a Chinaman; and a broken line of one-story, two-roomed dwellings of rough boards. Beyond that again, a few adobe huts straggle for a full half-mile. They are the abodes of natives. The cattle company's corral is at the extreme edge of town, and there is a stable attached. From there one can see the habitation of Dutch Annie and her handmaidens. Usually the tinkle of a piano greets the wayfarer, and sometimes bursts of laughter which have no tinkle in them, nor any musical quality whatever. The sheriff's horse slouched in front of the Fashion as I proceeded down the street. Not a human being moved in sight. The express agent waved a friendly hand at me from the interior of his darkened office, and bestowed a sardonic grin. Then he made a fanciful gesture, as of drawing a loop around his neck. Next, he was fighting violently for breath, and he was still engaged in this agreeable pantomime when I passed beyond his ken. A mongrel collie, stretched in the hot dust, retreated sluggishly to give me right of way, and, sitting on his rump, began to scratch for fleas. "Say, Dan, hell's a-poppin'," said Tim Haverty cheerfully. Mr. Haverty takes care of the company's corral and counts that day lost when no fracas promises. He told me all about it now, with a most unholy glee, although he is an old, old man, who ought to be giving thought to heavenly things.