Even the coming of an autumn dusk could not subdue the color of
this land. Shadows here were not gray or black; they were violet
and purple. The crumbling adobe walls were laced by strings of
crimson peppers, vivid in the torch and lantern light. It had been
this way for days, red and yellow, violet-colors he had hardly been
aware existed back in the cool green, silver, gray-brown of
Kentucky. So this was Tubacca! The rider shifted his weight in the
saddle and gazed about him with watchful interest. Back in '59 this
had been a flourishing town, well on its way to prominence in the
Southwest. The mines in the hills behind producing wealth, the fact
that it was a watering place on two cross-country routes-the one
from Tucson down into Sonora of Old Mexico, the other into
California-had all fed its growth.
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