Bob Hampton of Placer

Hampton slowly picked his way back through the darkness down the silent

road, his only guide those dim yellow lights flickering in the

distance. He walked soberly, his head bent slightly forward, absorbed

in thought. Suddenly he paused, and swore savagely, his disgust at the

situation bursting all bounds; yet when he arrived opposite the beam of

light streaming invitingly forth from the windows of the first saloon,

he was whistling softly, his head held erect, his cool eyes filled with

reckless daring.

It was Saturday night, and the mining town was already alive. The one

long, irregular street was jammed with constantly moving figures, the

numerous saloons ablaze, the pianos sounding noisily, the shuffling of

feet in the crowded dance-halls incessant. Fakers were everywhere

industriously hawking their useless wares and entertaining the

loitering crowds, while the roar of voices was continuous. Cowboys

from the wide plains, miners from the hidden gulches, ragged, hopeful

prospectors from the more distant mountains, teamsters, and half-naked

Indians, commingled in the restless throng, passing and repassing from

door to door, careless in dress, rough in manner, boisterous in

language. Here and there amid this heterogeneous population of toilers

and adventurers, would appear those attired in the more conventional

garb of the East,--capitalists hunting new investments, or chance

travellers seeking to discover a new thrill amid this strange life of

the frontier. Everywhere, brazen and noisy, flitted women, bold of

eye, painted of cheek, gaudy of raiment, making mock of their sacred

womanhood. Riot reigned unchecked, while the quiet, sleepy town of the

afternoon blossomed under the flickering lights into a saturnalia of

unlicensed pleasure, wherein the wages of sin were death.

Hampton scarcely noted this marvellous change; to him it was no

uncommon spectacle. He pushed his way through the noisy throng with

eyes ever watchful for the faces. His every motion was that of a man

who had fully decided upon his course. Through the widely opened doors

of the Occidental streams of blue and red shirted men were constantly

flowing in and out; a band played strenuously on the wide balcony

overhead, while beside the entrance a loud-voiced "barker" proclaimed

the many attractions within. Hampton swung up the broad wooden steps

and entered the bar-room, which was crowded by jostling figures, the

ever-moving mass as yet good-natured, for the night was young. At the

lower end of the long, sloppy bar he stopped for a moment to nod to the

fellow behind.

"Anything going on to-night worth while, Jim?" he questioned, quietly.

"Rather stiff game, they tell me, just started in the back room," was

the genial reply. "Two Eastern suckers, with Red Slavin sitting in."