“I’ll get my pistol,” the brawny newspaperman said with relish. “I only wish I had my other arm so I could use a rifle. By Jesus, I’ll print up a fine notice, too, so I will, calling for volunteers. You’ll see, Marshal, we’ll find help. We’ll give the Hopkins boys a beating they won’t forget.” “I hope so,” Clay said, feeling heartened. “Meet me at my office. I’ve got one more stop to make.” The two men split up. Clay rented a horse at the City Stables and rode two miles downstream to the stamping mill, where silver ore from the mine was processed. The mill was built on five levels, each one stepped back from the level below it. The desert air was split by the rumble and clatter of the ore crushers, the vanners, the stampers, and conveyor belts. Smokestacks belched sulfuric clouds into the cobalt sky. Nearby, the San Marcos River had been turned foamy brown by the wastes poured into it. Its banks were lined with sludge. Mounds of slag dotted the landscape like giant anthills.
