The Girl of the Golden West, Page 3

  III.

  The Polka Saloon!

  How the name stirs the blood and rouses the imagination!

  No need to be a Forty-Niner to picture it all as if there that night:the great high and square room lighted by candles and the warm, yellowlight of kerosene lamps; the fireplace with its huge logs blazing androaring; the faro tables with the little rings of miners around them;and the long, pine bar behind which a typical barkeeper of the periodwas busily engaged in passing the bottle to the men clamorous for whiskyin which to drink the health of the Girl.

  And the spirit of the place! When and where was there ever such a finefellowship--transforming as it unquestionably did an ordinary salooninto a veritable haven of good cheer for miners weary after a long andoften discouraging day in the gulches?

  In a word, the Polka was a marvellous tribute to its girl-proprietor'ssense of domesticity. Nothing that could insure the comfort for herpatrons was omitted. Nothing, it would seem, could occur that woulddisturb the harmonious aspect of the scene.

  But alas! the night was yet young.

  Now the moment for which not a few of that good-humoured andmusically-inclined company were waiting arrived. Clear above the babelof voices sounded a chord, and the poor old concertina player begansinging in a voice that was as wheezy as his instrument:

  "Camp town ladies sing this song Dooda! Dooda! Camp town race track five miles long Dooda! Dooda! Day!"

  Throughout the solo nothing more nerve-racking or explosive than anoccasional hilarious whoop punctuated the melody. For once, at any rate,it seemed likely to go the distance; but no sooner did the chorus, whichhad been taken up, to a man, by the motley crowd and was rip-roaringalong at a great rate, reach the second line than there sounded thereports of a fusillade of gun-shots from the direction of the street.The effect was magical: every voice trailed off into uncertainty andthen ceased.

  Instantly the atmosphere became charged with tension; a hush fell uponthe room, the joyous light of battle in every eye, if nothing else,attesting the approach of the foe; while all present, after listeningcontemptuously to a series of wild and unearthly yells which announcedan immediate arrival, sprang to their feet and concentrated theirglances on the entrance of the saloon through which there presentlyburst a party of lively boys from The Ridge.

  A psychological moment followed, during which the occupants of ThePolka Saloon glared fiercely at the newcomers, who, needless to say,returned their hostile stares. The chances of war, judging from pastperformances, far outnumbered those of peace. But as often happens inaffairs of this kind when neither side is unprepared, the desire forgun-play gave way to mirthless laughter, and, presently, the hilariouscrowd from the rival camp, turning abruptly on their heels, betookthemselves en masse into the dance-hall.

  For the briefest of periods, there was a look of keen disappointment onthe faces of the Cloudy Mountain boys as they gazed upon the recedingfigures of their sworn enemies; but almost in as little time as it takesto tell it there was a tumultuous lining up at the bar, the flat surfaceof which soon resounded with the heavy blows dealt it by the fists ofthe men desirous of accentuating the rhythm when roaring out:

  "Gwine to run all night, Gwine to run all day, Bet my money on a bob-tail nag, Somebody bet on the bay!"

  Among those standing at the bar, and looking out of bleared eyes at aflashy lithograph tacked upon the wall which pictured a Spanish womanin short skirts and advertised "Espaniola Cigaroos," were two miners:one with curly hair and a pink-and-white complexion; the other, tall,loose-limbed and good-natured looking. They were known respectively asHandsome Charlie and Happy Halliday, and had been arguing in a maudlinfashion over the relative merits of Spanish and American beauties. Themoment the song was concluded they banged their glasses significantlyon the bar; but since it was an unbroken rule of the house that at theclose of the musician's performance he should be rewarded by a drink,which was always passed up to him, they needs must wait. The littlebarkeeper paid no attention to their demands until he had satisfiedthe thirst of the old concertina player who, presently, could be seendrawing aside the bear-pelt curtain and passing through the small,square opening of the partition which separated the Polka Saloon fromits dance-hall.

  "Not goin', old Dooda Day, are you?" The question, almost a bellow,which, needless to say, was unanswered, came from Sonora Slim who, withhis great pal Trinidad Joe, was playing faro at a table on one side ofthe room. Apparently, both were losing steadily to the dealer whosechair, placed up against the pine-boarded wall, was slightly raisedabove the floor. This last individual was as fat and unctuous looking ashis confederate, the Look-out, was thin and sneaky; moreover, he borethe sobriquet of The Sidney Duck and, obviously, was from Australia.

  "Say, what did the last eight do?" Sonora now asked, turning to thecase-keeper.

  "Lose."

  "Well, let the tail go with the hide," returned Sonora, resignedly.

  "And the ace--how many times did it win?" inquired Trinidad.

  "Four times," was the case-keeper's answer.

  All this time a full-blooded Indian with long, blue-black hair, verythick and oily, had been watching the game with excited eyes. His dresswas part Indian and part American, and he wore all kinds of imitationjewelry including a huge scarf-pin which flashed from his vivid red tie.Furthermore, he possessed a watch,--a large, brassy-looking article,--which he brought out on every possible occasion. When not engaged inhelping himself to the dregs that remained in the glasses carelesslyleft about the room, he was generally to be found squatted down on thefloor and playing a solitaire of his own devising. But now he reachedover Sonora's shoulder and put some coins on the table in front of thedealer.

  "Give Billy Jackrabbit fer two dolla' Mexican chip," he demanded in aguttural voice.

  The Sidney Duck did as requested. While he was shuffling the cards fora new deal, the players beat time with their feet to the music thatfloated in from the dance-hall. The tune seemed to have an unusuallyexhilarating effect on Happy Halliday, for letting out a series ofwhoops he staggered off towards the adjoining room with the evidentintention of getting his fill of the music, not forgetting to yellback just before he disappeared:

  "Root hog or die, boys!"

  Happy's boisterous exit caused a peculiar expression to appearimmediately on Handsome's face, which might be interpreted as one ofenvy at his friend's exuberant condition; at all events, he proceededforthwith to order several drinks, gulping them down in rapidsuccession.

  Meanwhile, at the faro table, the luck was going decidedly against theboys. In fact, so much so, that there was a dangerous note in Sonora'svoice when, presently, he blurted out:

  "See here, gambolier Sid, you're too lucky!"

  "You bet!" approved Trinidad, and then added:

  "More chips, Australier!"

  But Trinidad's comment, as well as his request, only brought forth theoily smile that The Sidney Duck always smiled when any reference wasmade to his game. It was his policy to fawn upon all and never permithimself to think that an insult was intended. So he gathered inTrinidad's money and gave him chips in return. For some seconds the menplayed on without anything disturbing the game except the loud voice ofthe caller of the wheel-of-fortune in the dance-hall. But the boys wereto hear something more from there besides, "Round goes the wheel!" For,all at once there came to their ears the sounds of an altercation inwhich it was not difficult to recognise the penetrating voice of HappyHalliday.

  "Now, git, you loafer!" he was saying in tones that left no doubt in theminds of his friends that Happy was hot under the collar over something.

  A shot followed.

  "Missed, by the Lord Harry!" ejaculated Happy, deeply humiliated at hisfailure to increase the mortuary record of the camp.

  The incident, however, passed unnoticed by the faro players; not a manwithin sound of the shot, for that matter, inquired what the troublewas about; and even Nick, picking up his tray filled with glasses and abottle,
walked straightway into the dance-hall looking as if the matterwere not worth a moment's thought.

  At Nick's going the Indian's face brightened; it gave him theopportunity for which he had been waiting. Nobly he maintained hisreputation as a thief by quietly going behind the bar and lifting froma box four cigars which he stowed away in his pockets. But even that,apparently did not satisfy him, for when he espied the butt of a cigar,flung into the sawdust on the floor by a man who had just come in, hepicked it up before squatting down again to resume his card playing.

  The newcomer, a man of, say, forty years, came slowly into theroom without a word of salutation to anyone. In common with hisfellow-miners, he wore a flannel shirt and boots. The latter gave everyevidence of age as did his clothes which, nevertheless, were neat.His face wore a mild, gentle look and would have said that he wascompanionable enough; yet it was impossible not to see that he was notwillingly seeking the cheer of the saloon but came there solely becausehe had no other place to go. In a word, he had every appearance of a mandown on his luck.

  Men were continually coming in and going out, but no one paid theslightest attention to him, even though a succession of audible sighsescaped his lips. At length he went over to the counter and took a sheetor two of the paper,--which was kept there for the few who desired towrite home,--a quill-pen and ink; and picking up a small wooden box heseated himself upon it before a desk--which had been built from a rudepacking-case--and began wearily and laboriously to write.

  "The lone star now rises!"

  It was the stentorian voice of the caller of the wheel-of-fortune.One would have thought that the sound would have had the effect of athunder-clap upon the figure at the desk; but he gave no sign whateverof having heard it; nor did he see the suspicious glance which Nick,entering at that moment, shot at Billy Jackrabbit who was stealingnoiselessly towards the dance-hall where the whoops were becoming sofrequent and evincing such exuberance of spirits that the ubiquitous, ifgenerally unconcerned, Nick felt it incumbent to give an explanation ofthem.

  "Boys from The Ridge cuttin' up a bit," he tendered apologetically, andtook up a position at the end of the bar where he could command a viewof both rooms.

  As a partial acknowledgment that he had heard Nick's communication,Sonora turned round slightly in his seat at the faro table and shot aglance towards the dance-hall. Contempt showed on his rugged featureswhen he turned round again and addressed the stocky, little man sittingat his elbow.

  "Well, I don't dance with men for partners! When I shassay, Trin, I wanta feminine piece of flesh an' blood"--he sneered, and then went on toamplify--"with garters on."

  "You bet!" agreed his faithful, if laconic pal, on feeling the other'splayful dig in his ribs.

  The subject of men dancing together was a never-ceasing topic ofconversation between these two cronies. But whatever the attitude ofothers Sonora knew that Trinidad would never fail him when it cameto nice discriminations of this sort. His reference to an article offeminine apparel, however, was responsible for his recalling the factthat he had not as yet received his daily assurance from the presidinggenius of the bar that he stood well in the estimation of the only ladyin the camp. Therefore, leaving the table, he went over to Nick andwhispered:

  "Has the Girl said anythin' about me to-day, Nick?"

  Now the role of confidential adviser to the boys was not a new one tothe barkeeper, nor was anyone in the camp more familiar than he withtheir good qualities as well as their failings. Every morning beforegoing to work in the placers it was their custom to stop in at The Polkafor their first drink--which was, generally, "on the house." Invariably,Nick received them in his shirt-sleeves,--for that matter he was theproud possessor of the sole "biled shirt" in the camp,--and what withhis red flannel undershirt that extended far below the line of hiscuffs, his brilliantly-coloured waistcoat and tie, and his hair combeddown very low in a cow-lick over his forehead, he was indeed an oddlittle figure of a man as he listened patiently to the boys' grievancesand doled out sympathy to them. On the other hand, absolutely devoted tothe fair proprietress of the saloon,--though solely in the character ofa good comrade,--he never ceased trying to advance her interests; andsince one and all of her customers believed themselves to be in lovewith her, one of his most successful methods was to flatter each one inturn into thinking that he had made a tremendous impression upon her. Itwas not a difficult thing to do inasmuch as long custom and repetitionhad made him an adept at highly-coloured lying.

  "Well, you got the first chance," asseverated Nick, dropping his voiceto a whisper.

  Sonora grinned from ear to ear; he expanded his broad chest and held hishead proudly; and waving his hand in lordly fashion he sung out:

  "Cigars for all hands and drinks, too, Nick!"

  The genial prevaricator could scarcely restrain himself from laughingoutright as he watched the other return to his place at the faro table;and when, in due course, he served the concoctions and passed around thehigh-priced cigars, there was a smile on his face which said as plainlyas if spoken that Sonora was not the only person present that had reasonto be pleased with himself.

  Then occurred one of those terpsichorean performances which never failedto shock old Sonora's sense of the fitness of things. For the nextmoment two Ridge boys, dancing together, waltzed through the openingbetween the two rooms and, letting out ear-piercing whoops with everyrotation, whirled round and round the room until they brought up againstthe bar where they, breathlessly, called for drinks.

  An angry lull fell upon the room; the card game stopped. However, beforeanyone seated there could give vent to his resentment at this boisterousintrusion of the men from the rival camp, the smooth, oily and invitingvoice of the unprincipled Sidney Duck, scenting easy prey because oftheir inebriated condition, called out in its cockney accent:

  "'Ello, boys--'ow's things at The Ridge?"

  "Wipes this camp off the earth!" returned a voice that was provocativein the extreme--a reply that instantly brought every man at the farotable to his feet. For a time, at least, it seemed as if the boys fromThe Ridge would get the trouble they were looking for.

  A murmur of angry amazement arose, while Sonora, his watery blue eyesglinting, followed up his explosive, "What!" with a suggestive movementtowards his hip. But quick as he was Nick was still quicker and had TheRidge boy, as well as Sonora, covered before their hands had evenreached their guns.

  "You . . .!" the little barkeeper's sentence was bristled out andcontained along with the expletives some comparatively mild words whichgave the would-be combatants to understand that any such foolishnesswould not be tolerated in The Polka unless he himself "'lowed it to bene'ssary."

  Not unnaturally The Ridge boys failed to see anything offensive inlanguage that had a gun behind it; and realising the futility of anyfurther attempt to get away with a successful disturbance they wiselyyielded to superior quickness at the draw. With a whoop of resignationthey rushed back to the dance-hall where the voice of the caller wasexhorting the gents--whose partners were mostly big, husky, hairy-facedmen clumsily enacting parts generally assigned to members of the gentlersex--to swing:

  "With the right-hand gent, first partner swing with the left-hand gent,first partner swing with the right-hand gent; first partner swing withthe left-hand gent, and the partner in the centre, and gents allaround!"

  Back at the faro table now,--the incident having passed quickly intooblivion,--Sonora called to the dealer for "a slug's worth of chips"--arequest that was promptly acceded to. But they had played only a fewminutes when a thin but somewhat sweet tenor voice was heard singing:

  "Wait for the waggon, Wait for the waggon, Wait for the waggon, And we'll all take a ride. Wait for the waggon--"

  "Here he is, gentlemen, just back from his triumphs of The Ridge!" brokein Nick, whose province it was to act as master of ceremonies; andcoming forward as the singer emerged from the dance-hall he introducedhim to the assembled company in the most approved music-hall manner:"Allow
me to present to you, Jake Wallace the Camp favour-ite!" he saidwith an exaggeratedly low bow.

  "How-dy, Jake! Hello, Jake, old man! How be you, Jake!" were some of thegreetings that were hurled at the Minstrel who, robed in a long linenduster, his face half-blacked, and banjo in hand, acknowledged the wordsof welcome with a broad grin as he stood bowing in the centre of theroom.

  That Jake Wallace was a typical camp minstrel from the top of his dustystove-pipe hat to the sole of his flapping negro shoes, one could seewith half an eye as he made his way to a small platform--a musician'sstand--at one end of the bar; nor could there be any question about hisbeing a prudent one, for the musician did not seat himself until he hadcarefully examined the sheet-iron shield inside the railing, which wasattached in such a way that it could be sprung up by working a spring inthe floor and render him fairly safe from a chance shot during a fracas.

  "My first selection, friends, will be 'The Little--'," announced theMinstrel with a smile as he begun to tune his instrument.

  "Aw, give us 'Old Dog Tray,'" cut in Sonora, impatiently from his seatat the card table.

  Jake bowed his ready acquiescence to the request and kept right ontuning up.

  "I say, Nick, have you saw the Girl?" asked Trinidad in a low voice,taking advantage of the interval to stroll over to the bar.

  Mysteriously, Nick's eyes wandered about the room to see if anyone waslistening; at length, with marvellous insincerity, he said:

  "You've got the first chance, Trin; I gave 'er your message."

  Trinidad Joe fairly beamed upon him.

  "Whisky for everybody, Nick!" he ordered bumptuously; and as before thelittle barkeeper's face wore an expression of pleasure not a whit lessthan that of the man whom, presently, he followed to the faro table witha bottle and four glasses.

  As soon as Trinidad had seated himself the Minstrel struck a chord andannounced impressively:

  "'Old Dog Tray,' gents, 'or Echoes from Home'!" He cleared his throat,and the next instant in quavering tones he warbled:

  "How of-ten do I pic-ture The old folks down at home, And of-ten wonder if they think of me, Would an-gel mother know me, If back there I did roam, Would old dog Tray re-member me."

  At the first few words of his song the man at the desk who, up to thistime, had been wholly oblivious to what was taking place, arose from hisseat, put the ink-bottle back on the bar, opened a cigar-box there andtook from it a stamp, which he put on his letter. This he carried toa mail-box attached to the door; then, returning, he threw himselfdejectedly down in a chair and put his head in his hands, where itremained throughout the song.

  At the conclusion of his solo, the Minstrel's emotions were seeminglydeeply stirred by his own melodious voice and he gasped audibly;whereupon, Nick came to his relief with a stiff drink which, apparently,went to the right spot, for presently the singer's voice rang outvigorously: "Now, boys!"

  No second invitation was needed, and the chorus was taken up by all, thesingers beating time with their feet and chips.

  ALL. "Oh, mother, an-gel mother, are you waitin' there beside the lit-tle cottage on the lea--"

  JAKE. "On the lea--"

  ALL. "How of-ten would she bless me in all them days so fair-- Would old dog Tray re-member me--"

  SONORA. "Re-member me."

  All the while the miners had been singing, the sad and morose-lookingindividual had been steadily growing more and more disconsolate; andwhen Sonora rumbled out the last deep note in his big, bass voice, heheaved a great sob and broke down completely.

  In surprised consternation everyone turned in the direction from whencehad come the sound. But it was Sonora who, affected both by the pathosof the song and the sight of the pathetic figure before them, quietlywent over and laid a hand upon the other's arm.

  "Why, Larkins--Jim--what's the trouble--what's the matter?" he asked,a thousand thoughts fluttering within his breast. "I wouldn't feel sobad."

  With a desperate effort Larkins, his face twitching perceptibly, thelines about his eyes deepening, struggled to control himself. At last,after taking in the astonished faces about him, he plunged into his taleof woe.

  "Say, boys, I'm homesick--I'm broke--and what's more, I don't care whoknows it." He paused, his fingers opening and closing spasmodically, andfor a moment it seemed as if he could not continue--a moment of silencein which the Minstrel began to pick gently on his banjo the air of OldDog Tray.

  "I want to go home!" suddenly burst from the unfortunate man's lips."I'm tired o' drillin' rocks; I want to be in the fields again; I wantto see the grain growin'; I want the dirt in the furrows at home; Iwant old Pensylvanny; I want my folks; I'm done, boys, I'm done, I'mdone . . .!" And with these words he buried his face in his hands.

  "Oh, mother, an-gel mother, are you waitin'--"

  sang the Minstrel, dolefully.

  Men looked at one another and were distressingly affected; The Polka hadnever witnessed a more painful episode. Throwing a coin at the Minstrel,Sonora stopped him with an impatient gesture; the latter noddedunderstandingly at the same time that Nick, apparently indifferentto Larkin's collapse, began to dance a jig behind the bar. A lookof scowling reproach instantly appeared on Sonora's face. It wasuncalled-for since, far from being heartless and indifferent to theman's misfortunes, the little barkeeper had taken this means to distractthe miners' attention from the pitiful sight.

  "Boys, Jim Larkins 'lows he's goin' back East," announced Sonora. "Chipin every mother's son o' you."

  Immediately every man at the faro table demanded cash from The SidneyDuck; a moment later they, as well as the men who were not playingcards, threw their money into the hat which Sonora passed around. It wasindeed a well-filled hat that Sonora held out to the weeping man.

  "Here you are, Jim," he said simply.

  The sudden transition from poverty to comparative affluence was too muchfor Larkins! Looking through tear-dimmed eyes at Sonora he struggled forwords with which to express his gratitude, but they refused to come; andat last with a sob he turned away. At the door, however, he stopped andchoked out: "Thank you, boys, thank you."

  The next moment he was gone.

  At once a wave of relief swept over the room. Indeed, the incident wasforgotten before the unfortunate man had gone ten paces from The Polka,for then it was that Trinidad suddenly rose in his seat, lunged acrossthe table for The Sidney Duck's card-box, and cried out angrily:

  "You're cheatin'! That ain't a square deal! You're a cheat!"

  In a moment the place was in an uproar. Every man at the table sprung tohis feet; chairs were kicked over; chips flew in every direction; gunscame from every belt; and so occupied were the men in watching TheSidney Duck that no one perceived the Lookout sneak out through thedoor save Nick, who was returning from the dance-hall with a tray ofempty glasses. But whether or not he was aware that the Australian'sconfederate was bent upon running away he made no attempt to stop him,for in common with every man present, including Sonora and Trinidad, whohad seized the gambler and brought him out in front of his card-table,Nick's eyes were fastened upon another man whom none had seen enter, butwhose remarkable personality, now as often, made itself felt even thoughhe spoke not a word.

  "Lift his hand!" cried Sonora, looking as if for sanction at thenewcomer, who stood in the centre of the room, calmly smoking a hugecigar.

  Forcing up The Sidney Duck's arms, Trinidad threw upon the table a deckof cards which he had found concealed about the other's person, burstingout with:

  "There! Look at that, the infernal, good-for-nothin' cheat!"

  "String 'im up!" suggested Sonora, and as before he shot a questioninglook at the man, who was regarding the scene with bored interest.

  "You bet!" shouted Trinidad, pulling at the Australian's arm.

  "For 'eaven's sake, don't, don't, don't!" wailed The Sidney Duck,terror-stricken.

  The Sheriff of Manzaneta County, for such was the newcomer's off
ice,raised his steely grey eyes inquisitorially to Nick's who, with ahostile stare at the Australian, emitted:

  "Chicken lifter!"

  "String 'im! String 'im!" insisted Trinidad, at the same time draggingthe culprit towards the door.

  "No, boys, no!" cried the unfortunate wretch, struggling uselessly tobreak away from his captors.

  At this stage the Sheriff of Manzaneta County took a hand in theproceedings, and drawled out:

  "Well, gentlemen--" He stopped short and seemingly became reflective.Instantly, as was their wont whenever the Sheriff spoke, all eyes fixedthemselves upon him. Indeed, it needed but a second glance at this cool,deliberate individual to see how great was his influence upon them.He was tall,--fully six feet one,--thin, and angular; his hair andmoustache were black enough to bring out strongly the unhealthy pallorof his face; his eyes were steel grey and were heavily fringed andarched; his nose straight and his mouth hard, determined, but just, thelips of which were thin and drawn tightly over brilliantly-white teeth;and his soft, pale hands were almost feminine looking except for theunusual length of his fingers. On his head was a black beaver hat with astraight brim; a black broadcloth suit--cut after the "'Frisco" fashionof the day--gave every evidence that its owner paid not a littleattention to it. From the bosom of his white, puffed shirt an enormousdiamond, held in place by side gold chains, flashed forth; whileglittering on his fingers was another stone almost as large. Below histrousers could plainly be seen the highly-polished boots; the heelsand instep being higher than those generally in use. In a word, it wasimpossible not to get the impression that he was scrupulously immaculateand careful about his attire. And his voice--the voice that tellscharacter as nothing else does--was smooth and drawling, thoughfearlessness and sincerity could easily be detected in it. Such was Mr.Jack Rance, Gambler and Sheriff of Manzaneta County.

  "This is a case for you, Jack Rance," suddenly spoke up Sonora.

  "Yes," chimed in Trinidad; and then as he gave the Australian a roughshake, he added: "Here's the Sheriff to take charge of you."

  But Mr. Jack Rance, the Sheriff of Manzaneta County, was never knownto move otherwise than slowly, deliberately. Taking from his pocket asmoothly-creased handkerchief he proceeded to dust languidly first oneand then the other of his boots; and not until he had succeeded inflicking the last grain of dust from them did he take up the businessin hand.

  "Gentlemen, what's wrong with the cyards?" he now began in his peculiardrawling voice.

  Sonora pointed to the faro table.

  "The Sidney Duck's cheated!" he said--an accusation which wasresponsible for a renewal of outcries and caused a number of men topounce upon the faro dealer.

  Trinidad ran a significant hand around his collar.

  "String 'im! Come on, you--!" once more he cried. But on seeing theSheriff raise a restraining hand he desisted from pulling the Australianalong.

  "Wait a minute!" commanded the Sheriff.

  The miners with the prisoner in their midst stood stock-still. Nowthe Sheriff's features lost some of their usual inscrutability andfor a moment became hard and stern. Slowly he let his eyes wandercomprehensively about the saloon: first, they travelled to a smallbalcony--reached by a ladder drawn down or up at will--decorated withred calico curtains, garlands of cedar and bittersweet, while therailing was ornamented with a wildcat's skin and a stuffed fawn's head;from the ceiling with its strings of red peppers, onions and applesthey fell on a stuffed grizzly bear, which stood at the entrance tothe dance-hall, with a little green parasol in its paw and an old silkhat upon its head; from it they shifted to the gaudy bar with itsparaphernalia of fancy glasses, show-cases of coloured liquors and itspair of scales for weighing the gold dust; and from that to a keg,the top of which could be withdrawn without engendering the slightestsuspicion that it represented other than an ordinary receptacle forliquor. Two notices tacked upon the wall also caught and held hisglance, his eyes dwelling most affectionately on the one reading:"A Real Home For The Boys."

  That there was such a thing as sentiment in the make-up of theSheriff of Manzaneta County few people, perhaps, would have believed.Nevertheless, at the thought that this placard inspired, he dismissedwhatever inclination he might have had to deal leniently with theculprit, and calmly observed:

  "There is no reason, gentlemen, of being in a hurry. I've got somethingto say about this. I don't forget, although I am the Sheriff ofManzaneta County, that I'm running four games. But it's men like TheSidney Duck here that casts reflections on square-minded, sporting menlike myself. And worse--far worse, gentlemen, he casts reflections onThe Polka, the establishment of the one decent woman in Cloudy."

  "You bet!" affirmed Nick, indignantly.

  "Yes, a lady, d'you hear me?" stormed Sonora, addressing the prisoner;then: "You lily-livered skunk!"

  "Oh, let's string 'im up!" urged Trinidad.

  "Yes, come on, you . . .!" was Handsome's ejaculation, contriving, atlast, to get his hands on the faro dealer.

  But again the Sheriff would have none of it.

  "Hold on, hold on--" he began and paused to philosophise: "After all,gents, what's death? A kick and you're off;" and then went on: "I'vethought of a worse punishment. Give him his coat."

  Surprised and perplexed at this order, Handsome, reluctantly, assistedthe culprit into his coat.

  "Put him over there," the Sheriff now ordered.

  Whereupon, obedient to the instructions of that personage, The SidneyDuck was roughly put down into a chair; and while he was firmly heldinto it, Rance strolled nonchalantly over to the faro table and pickedout a card from the deck there. Returning, he quickly plucked astick-pin from the prisoner's scarf, saying, while he suited his actionto his words:

  "See, now I place the deuce of spades over his heart as a warning. Hecan't leave the camp, and he never plays cyards again--see?" And whilethe men, awed to silence, stood looking at one another, he instructedHandsome to pass the word through the camp.

  "Ow, now, don't si that! Don't si that!" bawled out the card sharp.

  The sentence met with universal approval. Rance waved an authoritativehand towards the door; and the incident, a few seconds later, passedinto its place in the camp records. Albeit, in those seconds, and whilethe men were engrossed in the agreeable task of ejecting The SidneyDuck, The Polka harboured another guest, no less unwelcome, who made hisway unobserved through the saloon to become an unobtrusive spectator ofthe doings in the dance-hall.