fringed by the shacks of Spigotty Town, where the strings of red peppers, the rebosos of the Mexican women and the bright serapes of the men, could not offset the squalidness of the adobe huts, lack of sanitation, dirty, naked children tumbling in the sun, flea-harassed curs and smells almost to be seen, like unhealthy fogs.
Sheridan gathered his packages together, which had been sent down to the parcel room, and placed them on the platform ready for the almost-due train. Three Mexicans, in tight trousers belted with bright soiled sashes over gay shirts sadly in need of cleansing, wearing sombreros heavy with tarnished lace that gave them the appearance of constantly performing a balancing trick, raced along the opposite side of the tracks on sorry-looking but fast ponies. The men were yelling, evidently half drunk with pulque, or meseale.
They caught sight of Sheridan looking at them from the platform. The foremost reined in his mount viciously with the cruel curb and tinned in his saddle. The others ploughed along beside him, coming to a halt. The man who turned was Pedro, his dark face twitching with a hate his drunkenness both urged him to express and at the same time checked. He spat in Sheridan's direction, he sputtered and he clutched at the holster attached to the belt beneath his sash. One of his companions, more sober or more cautious, clapped his hand above Pedro's, jabbering at him excitedly.
The whistle of the train sounded and it appeared, entering the freight yards. Pedro drew himself up
