They were in a foul mood. The copper-mine town was as mealy as McLean, squatting on pink grime in a handful of tin-roofed frame buildings. A rail spur and Bates's freighters out of Polkton fed and clothed it. Aside from cactus patches, there wasn't a piece of green within five miles. They'd gone seventy wandering miles south, without whiff or sight of Billy Bonney, and a complaining Perry was all for washing it out. He wanted to drop below the border, hole up in Cananea for a spell, maybe then go on to El Paso, think about robbing a bank. But Art, though weary, was still possessed. He knew he'd never get a good night's sleep—in Texas, Arkansas, or any other place—until he could see Joe's killer over a shotgun bead. Now they were in Colterville's general store, up at the counter, arousing little curiosity from the few afternoon customers. Because it was a jumping-off place for the deserts below, red-eyed men like themselves frequently paused for replenishment.
