Sanderson stood beside his horse at the hitching rail for a look at
Okar.
There was one street--wide and dust-windrowed, with two narrow board
walks skirting it. The buildings--mostly of one story--did not
interest Sanderson, for he had seen their kind many times, and his
interest centered upon the people.
"Different from Tombstone," he told Owen as the two entered the hotel.
"Tombstone is cattle--Okar is cattle and business. I sort of like
cattle better."
Owen grinned. "Cattle are too slow for some of Okar's men," he said.
"There's men here that figure on making a killing every
day--financially. Gamblers winning big stakes, supply dealers charging
twenty times the value of their stuff; a banker wanting enormous
interest on his money; the railroad company gobbling everything in
sight--and Silverthorn and Dale framing up to take all the land and the
water-rights. See that short, fat man playing cards with the little
one at that table?"
He indicated a table near the rear of the barroom, visible through an
archway that opened from the room in which a clerk with a thin, narrow
face and an alert eye presided at a rough desk.
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