“No one asked me any questions, and I offered no explanations. I'd pick up such food as I needed and ride on. I began to like the look of this new country I'd entered. There were grasslands and various trees. The mountains seemed to mount higher, the air was clear. I still didn't know what I intended. The only thing I had clear in mind was to land someplace where I could think things out, free of some lawman on my trail, until I could map out something that would clear off the all-too-many charg...es against me. I rode through some passes in the mountains and found myself descending into a wide valley with more mountains, a great ridge of serrated peaks, which I later learned were called the Doladera Mountains, and crossing the Mexican Border in a series of crazily-tumbled rock buttes, known as Buzzard Buttes. It was almost in the shadow of that western range that Onyxton was situated. Now, I began to see a sort of trail leading to the town. Here and there it swerved to one side to curve around a big cottonwood tree or screw-bean mesquite.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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