I was getting restless when Manuel suddenly took a left turn and began driving east. We left the main road behind and were riding on a rutted track more suited to horses than to cars. Eventually, we reached the outskirts of a town. Shabby tin shacks appeared, thrown up haphazardly on either side of the road. Small children and dogs raced across the road, narrowly avoiding the car, while tired-looking women hung washing on makeshift lines. I could take Mayflower’s secrecy no more.

“Where on earth are we?”

“Look at the signpost over there, Miss Delia.”

“Shotgun City, Population 400” was written on a white sign hanging on a pole. Someone had crossed out the “400” and written “4,800” in a crude hand. My mouth fell open.

“But we can’t go to Shotgun City,” I said. “Aidan has forbidden it.”

Mayflower waved her hand at me. “Oh, pay him no mind.” She grinned. “Besides, Hans told me he and Aidan would be down in Beaumont today, inspecting the eastern oil field.”

Part of me was alarmed at defying Aidan’s orders, but a bigger part of me was elated. I’d finally get to see this place I’d heard so much about. Manuel pulled over the car to the side of the road at the edge of town and parked. He pointed to a small café, with the sign “Taquería” above it, indicating he was going to have lunch. Mayflower, Lily and I got out. I clutched Lily’s hand, and the three of us began to walk up the main street.

I couldn’t take in the sights fast enough, jerking my head from left to right, anxious not to miss anything. Rickety, roughly constructed, one-story wooden buildings were crammed together on either side of the street. Signs on the buildings reflected the businesses within: saloons advertising card games and low-priced beer, banks that looked legitimate and loan shops that didn’t, cafés with signs in Spanish and English. The only building made of brick was the Kearney Hotel and Saloon, which towered above the street.

A dizzying array of people rushed past us: men in crumpled, white linen suits with gold teeth and silver fobs, cowboys who doffed their hats to us, their horses tethered to railings, and women dressed in low-cut gowns as if on their way to a ball.

“Prostitutes,” Mayflower announced. “They flock to every makeshift camp town like this one.”

I noticed that among the well-dressed women and the men in linen suits were drably dressed men and women with weathered faces and stern expressions. Mayflower said they were farmers and ranchers.

“God-fearing people who disapprove of all these newcomers,” she said, “exceptin’ for the money they get for leasing out their land to wildcat drillers and oil companies.”