Who'd pick a fight with Lee Marvin?

Douglas, Arizona, is a border town. I pull up outside the Gadsden Hotel around 10.15am after driving down state highway191 from Willcox, passing through Cochise, Elfrida and Double Adobe on the way. The road follows the line of the Dragoon Mountains, where, in the 1860's, the Chiricahua Apache leader Cochise took refuge with two hundred of his people and for ten years waged a guerrilla war against the US army and the settlers of the southwest. In the clear morning light, the mountains stand hard and timeless against the blue empty sky; the spirits of those passed whisper still in the shadows of each hidden canyon and gulley.

Situated a mile from the border with Mexico, The Gadsden stands six stories high at 1046 G Avenue. Originally built in 1907, it fast became home-from-home for cattlemen, ranchers, miners and businessmen in this corner of what was then called Arizona Territory. Rebuilt in 1929 following a catastrophic fire, legend states that Mexican revolutionary Pancho Villa once rode his horse up the marble staircase: a chipped step remains as evidence for those who wish to believe in such folk tales. My visit is motivated by an altogether more basic need. I have come to sample the breakfast in the Gadsden's El Conquistador restaurant, renowned as one of the best to be had in Cochise County.

I take my place in the high walled room among a mid-morning scattering of fellow diners; late rising guests, subdued and not long awake, chewing silently while gazing, bleary-eyed, into some private inner space: local businessman taking time-out between appointments, eyes down, scanning newspapers or leafing through documents, jotting down notes; drifting travellers like myself, passing the time here in search of a lost and more glamorous past, chasing ghosts. And this fading hotel has its share of those. Sightings by staff and guests have been regularly reported over the years, made more incredible with each retelling.

Myself, I prefer the story of Lee Marvin coming within a hair of the dog's breadth of a brawl in the Saddle and Spur Tavern. Tossing down the contents of his glass with his pinkie elegantly extended, his sullen eyes drilled the fear of God into his foolish challenger, like he'd done a hundred times up on the big screen. Only this time, he wasn't acting. Then there was Shelly Winters, who, as a young starlet and hopeful pretender to Marilyn's crown, had answered the door to room service clothed only in the brassy confidence of her youth. Both are gone now, into the stuff of legend.

Breakfast over, I step out into the brightness beyond the front entrance of the hotel and turn right towards the border crossing. Unlike some towns I've visited, Douglas manages to hang on to a handful of businesses the like of which were to be found on every main street in thousands of such towns the length and breadth of this country until the 1960's. I walk past a grocery store, a furniture showroom, a ladies and gents clothing outlet, a flooring specialist and a post office. In so many small towns these have been replaced by trashy gift shops, thrift stores and failing cafes. Edge of town shopping malls have killed off retail in the centres of small towns in America, forcing surviving traders to scratch a living from passing tourists while giant Walmart superstores rule supreme and unseen, a short drive beyond the city limits.

The collection of low, bunker shaped buildings and high razor wire topped fences that identify the crossing point into Mexico are in a desolate part of town. Buildings peter out on the wide sidewalk-free streets, the dust blowing across from vacant lots, stinging eyes and catching in the back of the throat. A bunch of US border patrolmen and women are in position, dark featureless shapes in the shadows beneath a canopy that straddles the road, quietly going about their business. A dog is led around each vehicle by its handler, the animal trained to sniff out drugs and explosives. Papers are checked, the barrier raised and vehicles are waved through, highlights occasionally picking out the metal of the officer's weapons. These are dangerous times at the border and the authorities are on high alert and fully armed.

Thousands of people from Mexico cross into the United States every day. They get in line before it's light and they come to work. Then each evening, they return, a full day's work done in exchange for the US dollar. But they spend the night on their own side of the border.

There's something about this place that is giving me a sense of unease. It could be the military presence, the guns, the wire, the dogs, or it may be the thought of all those people passing this way every day, only tolerated for their labour before being forced to return to their country of origin. I'm aware that my view is based on privilege. I am able to work freely in my own country without the need to cross a border in order to earn a living wage. If this were so, my view would likely be very different, grateful for the opportunity to support my family by providing more, however that was achieved.

My head spinning with such thoughts I turn around and head back to the car.