It was precisely that point that he wanted to make to the citizens of Greasy Corners.

23.

Mesty-Woolah stood seven foot tall, and wore a white turban. A long rifle was propped against one thigh. The red camel he rode was not the sort of animal you expect to see standing in your little American street on a fine summer morning. Mesty and the camel towered over the low adobes of Greasy Corners—you felt, seeing them for the first time, that there should have been a pyramid in the background or maybe the Sphinx.

But there was no pyramid behind them, and no Sphinx, just the great open plain.

“He’s a sight, ain’t he?” Isinglass said amiably. “He’s a fine shot with a rifle, but he’d rather slice than shoot.”

The gunfighters and the buffalo hunters were speechless, which annoyed Billy.

“Why, this old man’s treating us like white Indians,” he said. “He wants to reservation us off in Arizona, or someplace where there’s nothing to do.”

Isinglass looked around the settlement with its thin pigs and rough men.

“I can’t see that there’s much to do here, either, other than die,” he remarked.

“We’ll see who dies, if we’re bothered,” Billy said.

Isinglass turned his horse.

“I hope you men will use some good sense,” Isinglass said. “Visit the depot in Roswell, the sooner the better—there’s a nice selection of brochures there to tempt people who want to emigrate This could be a case when giving way to temptation would be the healthy thing.”

He rode slowly up the street toward Mesty-Woolah; then, after riding a few steps, his mood seemed to harden; he stopped for a moment and looked back.

“I rarely give advice of this sort,” he said. “I could have just ridden in and killed every malingering one of you, and I have little doubt that that would have been the efficient course.”

“You better ride a swifter horse than that when you come to kill me,” Billy Bone said.

The old man didn’t answer or look around.

Wild Horse Jerry jerked a pistol out of his holster, surprising everyone.

“This is a dern solemn kind of jubilee,” he declared. “I’d rather kill niggers than play cards, and a nigger that big would be hard to miss.”

He promptly fired three shots, and all missed. Isinglass angled his horse toward the side of the street, but he didn’t look around and he didn’t quicken his pace. Mesty-Woolah didn’t move.

“What a fool,” Billy said. “You shouldn’t talk about how easy it is to hit something unless you can hit it.”

Wild Horse Jerry ignored Billy’s taunt and walked up the street, holding his pistol above his head as if he were the starter in a horse race.