Against the walls were eight bunks, five of them made up with blankets and the other three showing their burlap ticking.
Over each bunk there was nailed an apple box with the opening forward
so that it made two shelves for the personal belongings of the occupant of the bunk.
And these shelves were loaded with little articles, soap and talcum powder, razors
and those Western magazines ranch men love to read and scoff at and secretly believe.
And there were medicines on the shelves, and little vials, combs; and from nails on the box sides, a few neckties.
Near one wall there was a black cast-iron stove, its stovepipe going straight up through the ceiling.
In the middle of the room stood a big square table littered with playing cards, and around it were grouped boxes for the players to sit on.
At about ten o’clock in the morning the sun threw a bright dust-laden bar through one of the side windows,
and in and out of the beam flies shot like rushing stars.
The wooden latch raised. The door opened and a tall, stoop-shouldered old man came in.
He was dressed in blue jeans and he carried a big push broom in his left hand.
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