the counsel to don a garb smacking less of the recent east struck me as sound; for although i was not the only person here in eastern guise, nevertheless about the majority of the populace there was an easy aggressiveness that my appearance evidently lacked.

so i must hurry ere the shops closed.

“i beg your pardon. what time do the stores close, can you tell me?” i asked of the nearest bystander.

he surveyed me.

“close? hell!” he said. “they don’t close for even a dog fight, pardner. business runs twenty-five hours every day, seven days the week, in these diggin’s.”

“and where will i find a haberdashery?”

“a what? talk english. what you want?”

“i want a—an outfit; a personal outfit.”

“blanket to moccasins? levi’s, stranger. levi’ll outfit you complete and throw in a yellow purp under the wagon.”

“and where is levi’s?”

“there.” and he jerked his head aside. “you could shut your eyes and spit in the doorway.”

with that he rudely turned his back upon me. but sure enough, by token of the large sign “levi’s mammoth emporium: liquors, groceries and general merchandise,” i was standing almost in front of the store itself.

i entered, into the seething aisle flanked by heaped-up counters and stacked goods that bulged the partially boarded canvas walls. at last i gained position near one of the perspiring clerks and caught his eye.

“yes, sir. you, sir? what can i do for you, sir?” he rubbed his hands alertly, on edge with a long day.

“i wish a hat, flannel shirt, a serviceable ready-made suit, boots, possibly other matters.”

“we have exactly the things for you, sir. this way.”

“going out on the advance line, sir?” he asked, while i made selections.

“that is not unlikely.”

“they’re doing great work. three miles of track laid yesterday; twelve so far this week. averaging two and one-half miles a day and promising better.”

“so i understand,” i alleged.

“general jack casement is a world beater. if he could get the iron as fast as he could use it he’d build through to california without a halt. but looks now as if somewhere between would have to satisfy him. you are a surveyor, i take it?”

“yes, i am surveying on the line along with the others,” i answered. and surveying the country i was.

“you are the gentlemen who lay out the course,” he complimented. “now, is there something else, sir?”

“i need a good revolver, a belt and ammunition.”

“we carry the reliable—the colt’s. that’s the favorite holster gun in use out here. please step across, sir.”

he led.

“if you’re not particular as to shine,” he resumed, “we have a second-hand outfit that i can sell you cheap. took it in as a deposit, and the gentleman never has called for it. of course you’re broken in to the country, but as you know a new belt and holster are apt to be viewed with suspicion and a gentleman sometimes has to draw when he’d rather not, to prove himself. this gun has been used just enough to take the roughness off the trigger pull, and it employs the metallic cartridges—very convenient. the furniture for it is o. k. and all at half price.”

i was glad to find something cheap. the boots had been fifteen dollars, the hat eight, shirt and suit in proportion, and the red silk handkerchief two dollars and a half. yes, benton was “high.”

with my bulky parcel i sought the belle marie café, ate my supper, thence hastened through the gloaming to the hotel for bath and change of costume.

i had yet time to array myself, as an experiment and a lark; and that i sillily did, hurriedly tossing my old garments upon bed and floor, in order to invest with the new. the third bed was occupied when i came in; occupied on the outside by a plump, round-faced, dust-scalded man, with piggish features accentuated by his small bloodshot eyes; dressed in eastern mode but stripped to the galluses, as was the custom. he lay upon his back, his puffy hands folded across his spherical abdomen where his pantaloons met a sweaty pink-striped shirt; and he panted wheezingly through his nose.

“hell of a country, ain’t it!” he observed in a moment. “you a stranger, too?”

“i have been here a short time, sir.”

“thought so. jest beginnin’ to peel, like me. i been here two days. what’s your line?”

“i have a number of things in view,” i evaded.

“well, you don’t have to tell ’em,” he granted. “thought you was a salesman. i’m from saint louie, myself. sell groceries, and pasteboards on the side. cards are the stuff. i got the best line of sure-thing stock—strippers, humps, rounds, squares, briefs and marked backs—that ever were dealt west of the missouri. judas priest, but this is a roarer of a burg! what it ain’t got i never seen—and i ain’t no spring goslin’, neither. i’ve plenty sand in my craw. you ain’t been plucked yet?”

“no, sir. i never gamble.”

“wish i didn’t, but my name’s jakey and i’m a good feller. say, i’m supposed to be wise, too, but they trimmed me two hundred dollars. now i’m gettin’ out.” he groaned. “take the train in a few minutes. dasn’t risk myself on the street again. sent my baggage down for fear i’d lose that. say,” he added, watching me, “looks like you was goin’ out yourself. one of them surveyor fellers, workin’ for the railroad?”

“it might be so, sir,” i replied.

he half sat up.

“you’ll want to throw a leg, i bet. lemme tell you. it’s a hell of a town but it’s got some fine wimmen; yes, and a few straight banks, too. you’re no crabber or piker; i can see that. you go to the north star. tell frank that jakey sent you. they’ll treat you white. you be sure and say jakey sent you. but for gawd’s sake keep out of the big tent.”

“the big tent?” i uttered. “why so?”

“they’ll sweat you there,” he groaned lugubriously. “say, friend, could you lend me twenty dollars? you’ve still got your roll. i ain’t a stivver. i’m busted flat.”

“i’m sorry that i can’t accommodate you, sir,” said i. “i have no more money than will see me through—and according to your story perhaps not enough.”

“i’ve told you of the north star. you mention jakey sent you. you’ll make more than your twenty 93back, at the north star,” he urged inconsistent. “if it hadn’t been for that damned big tent——” and he flopped with a dismal grunt.

by this time, all the while conscious of his devouring eyes, i had changed my clothing and now i stood equipped cap-a-pie, with my hat clapped at an angle, and my pantaloons in my boots, and my red silk handkerchief tastefully knotted at my throat, and my six-shooter slung; and i could scarcely deny that in my own eyes, and in his, i trusted, i was a pretty figure of a westerner who would win the approval, as seemed to me, of my lady in black or of any other lady.

his reflection upon the big tent, however, was the fly in my ointment. therefore, preening and adjusting with assumed carelessness i queried, in real concern:

“what about the big tent? where is it? isn’t it respectable?”

“respectable? of course it’s respectable. you don’t ketch your jakey in no place that ain’t. i’ve a family to think of. you ain’t been there? say! there’s where they all meet, in that big tent; all the best people, too, you bet you. but i tell you, friend——”

he did not finish. an uproar sounded above the other street clamor: a pistol shot, and another—a chorus of hoarse shouts and shrill frightened cries, the scurrying rush of feet, all in the street; and in the 94hall of the hotel, and the lobby below, the rush of still more feet, booted, and the din of excited voices.

my man on the bed popped with the agility of a jack-in-the-box for the window.

“a fight, a fight! shootin’ scrape!” in a single motion grabbing coat and hat he was out through the door and pelting down the hall. overcome by the zest of the moment i pelted after, and with several others plunged as madly upon the porch. we had left the lobby deserted.

the shots had ceased. now a baying mob ramped through the street, with jangle “hang him! hang him! string him up!” borne on by a hysterical company i saw, first a figure bloody-chested and inert flat in the dust, with stooping figures trying to raise him; then, beyond, a man bareheaded, whiskered, but as white as death, hustled to and fro from clutching hands and suddenly forced in firm grips up the street, while the mob trailed after, whooping, cursing, shrieking, flourishing guns and knives and ropes. there were women as well as men in it.

all this turned me sick. from the outskirts of the throng i tramped back to my room and the bath. the hotel was quiet as if emptied; my room was vacant—and more than vacant, for of my clothing not a vestige remained! my bag also was gone. worse yet, prompted by an inner voice that stabbed me like an icicle i was awakened to the knowledge that every cent i had possessed was in those vanished garments.

for an instant i stood paralyzed, fronting the calamity. i could not believe. it was as if the floor had swallowed my belongings. i had been absent not more than five minutes. surely this was the room. yes, number six; and the beds were familiar, their tumbled covers unaltered.

now i held the bath-room responsible. the scoundrel in the bath had heard, had taken advantage, made a foray and hidden. out i ran, exploring. every room door was wide open, every apartment blank; but there was a splashing, from the bath—i listened at the threshold, gently tried the knob—and received such a cry of angry protest that it sent me to the right-about, on tiptoe. the thief was not in the bath.

my heart sank as i bolted down for the office. the clerk had reinstated himself behind the counter. he composedly greeted me, with calm voice and with eyes that noted my costume.

“you can have your bath as soon as the porter gets back from the hanging, sir,” he said. “that is, unless you’d prefer to hurry up by toting your own water. the party now in will be out directly.”

“never mind the bath,” i uttered, breathless, in a voice that i scarcely recognized, so piping and aghast it was. “i’ve been robbed—of money, clothes, baggage, everything!”

“well, what at?” he queried, with a glimmer of a smile.

“what at? in my room, i tell you. i had just changed to try on these things; the street fight sounded; i was gone not five minutes and nevertheless the room was sacked. absolutely sacked.”

“that,” he commented evenly, “is hard luck.”

“hard luck!” i hotly rejoined. “it’s an outrage. but you seem remarkably cool about it, sir. what do you propose to do?”

“i?” he lifted his brows. “nothing. they’re not my valuables.”

“but this is a respectable hotel, isn’t it?”

“perfectly; and no orphan asylum. we attend strictly to our business and expect our guests to attend to theirs.”

“i was told that it was safe for me to leave my things in my room.”

“not by me, sir. read that.” and he called my attention to a placard that said, among other matters: “we are not responsible for property of any nature left by guests in their rooms.”

“where’s the chief of police?” i demanded. “you have officers here, i hope.”

“yes, sir. the marshal is the chief of police, and he’s the whole show. the provost guard from the post helps out when necessary. but you’ll find the marshal at the mayor’s office or else at the north star gambling hall, three blocks up the street. i don’t think he’ll do you any good, though. he’s not likely to bother with small matters, especially when he’s 97dealing faro bank. he has an interest in the north star. you’ll never see your property again. take my word for it.”

“i won’t? why not?”

“you’ve played the gudgeon for somebody; that’s all. easiest thing in the world for a smart gentleman to slip into your room while you were absent, go through it, and make his getaway by the end of the hall, out over the kitchen roof. it’s been done many a time.”

“a traveling salesman saw me dressing. he went out before me but he might have doubled,” i gasped. “he had one of the beds—who is he?”

“i don’t know him, sir.”

“a round-bellied, fat-faced man—sold groceries and playing cards.”

“there is no such guest in your room, sir. you have bed number one, bed number two is assigned to mr. bill brady, who doubtless will be in soon. number three is temporarily vacant.”

“the man said he was about to catch the train east,” i pursued desperately. “a round-bellied, fat-faced man in pink striped shirt——”

“if he was to catch any train, that train has just pulled out.”

“and who was in the bath, ten or fifteen minutes ago?”

“my wife, sir; and still there. she has to take her chances like everybody else. no, sir; you’ve been 98done. you may find your clothes, but i doubt it. you are next upon the bath list.” and he became all business. “the porter will carry up the water and notify you. you are allowed twenty minutes. that is satisfactory?”

a bath, now!

“no, certainly not,” i blurted. “i have no time nor inclination for a bath, at present. and,” i faltered, ashamed, “i’ll have to ask you to refund me the dollar and a half. i haven’t a cent.”

“under the circumstances i can do that, although it is against our rules,” he replied. “here it is, sir. we wish to accommodate.”

“and will you advance me twenty dollars, say, until i shall have procured funds from the east?” i ventured.

a mask fell over his face. he slightly smiled.

“no, sir; i cannot. we never advance money.”

“but i’ve got to have money, to tide me over, man,” i pleaded. “this dollar and a half will barely pay for a meal. i can give you references——”

“from colonel sunderson, may i ask?” his voice was poised tentatively.

“no. i never saw the colonel before. my references are eastern. my father——”

“as a gentleman the colonel is o. k.,” he smoothly interrupted. “i do not question his integrity, nor your father’s. but we never advance money. it is against the policy of the house.”

“has my trunk come up yet?” i queried.

“yes, sir. if you’d rather have it in your room——”

“in my room!” said i. “no! else it might walk out the hall window, too. you have it safe?”

“perfectly, except in case of burglary or fire. it is out of the weather. we’re not responsible for theft or fire, you understand. not in benton.”

“good lord!” i ejaculated, weak. “you have my trunk, you say? very good. will you advance me twenty dollars and keep the trunk as security? that, i think, is a sporting proposition.”

he eyed me up and down.

“are you a surveyor? connected with the road?”

“no.”

“what is your business, then?”

“i’m a damned fool,” i confessed. “i’m a gudgeon—i’m a come-on. in fact, as i’ve said before, i’m out here looking for health, where it’s high and dry.” he smiled. “and high and dry i’m landed in short order. but the trunk’s not empty. will you keep it and lend me twenty dollars? i presume that trunk and contents are worth two hundred.”

“i’ll speak with the porter,” he answered.

by the lapse of time between his departure and his return he and the gnome evidently had hefted the trunk and viewed it at all angles. now he came back with quick step.

“yes, sir; we’ll advance you twenty dollars on your trunk. here is the money, sir.” he wrote, and passed me a slip of paper also. “and your receipt. when you pay the twenty dollars, if within thirty days, you can have your trunk.”

“and if not?” i asked uncomfortably.

“we shall be privileged to dispose of it. we are not in the pawn business, but we have trunks piled to the ceiling in our storeroom, left by gentlemen in embarrassed circumstances like yours.”

i never saw that trunk again, either. however, of this, more anon. at that juncture i was only too glad to get the twenty dollars, pending the time when i should be recouped from home; for i could see that to be stranded “high and dry” in benton city of wyoming territory would be a dire situation. and i could not hope for much from home. it was a bitter dose to have to ask for further help. three years returned from the war my father had scarcely yet been enabled to gather the loose ends of his former affairs.

“now if you will direct me to the telegraph office——?” i suggested.

“the telegraph into benton is the union pacific railroad line,” he informed; “and that is open to only government and official business. if you wish to send a private dispatch you should forward it by post to cheyenne, one hundred and seventy-five miles, where it will be put on the overland branch line for the east by way of denver. the rate to new york is eight dollars, prepaid.”

i knew that my face fell. eight dollars would make a large hole in my slender funds—i had been foolish not to have borrowed fifty dollars on the trunk. so i decided to write instead of telegraph; and with him watching me i endeavored to speak lightly.

“thank you. now where will i find the place known as the big tent?”

he laughed with peculiar emphasis.

“if you had mentioned the big tent sooner you’d have got no twenty dollars from me, sir. not that i’ve anything against it, understand. it’s all right, everybody goes there; perfectly legitimate. i go there myself. and you may redeem your trunk to-morrow and be buying champagne.”

“i am to meet a friend at the big tent,” i stiffly explained. “further than that i have no business there. i know nothing whatever about it.”

“i beg your pardon, sir. no offense intended. the big tent is highly regarded—a great place to spend a pleasant evening. all benton indulges. i wish you the best of luck, sir. you are heeled, i see. no one will take you for a pilgrim.” despite the assertion there was a twinkle in his eye. “you will find the big tent one block and a half down this street. you cannot miss it.”