these, more enterprising spirits—­hopeful of future development—­had erected larger buildings, usually barn-like, with false fronts facing the single main street, filled with miscellaneous stocks of goods or used for purposes not so legitimate.  One of these housed the “Poodle Dog” saloon, with gambling rooms above, while a few doors below was a great dance hall, easily converted into a theatre if occasion arose,—­a grotesque, one-storied monstrosity.  Below these was the stage office, built against the three-storied wooden hotel, which boasted of a wide porch on two sides, and was a picture of ugliness.

By daylight all was squalor and dirt, dingy tents flapping in the ceaseless wind, unpainted shacks, wooden houses with boards warping under the hot sun, the single street deep in yellow dust, the surrounding prairie littered with tin cans, and all manner of debris.  But with the coming of night much of this roughness departed.  Soldiers from the garrison on pass, idle plainsmen, bull-whackers, adventurers of all kinds stranded here because of Indian activity, stray cowboys from the nearby valleys, thronged the numerous dives, seeking excitement.  Women, gaudy of dress, shrill of voice, flitted from door to door through the jostling crowds.  Lamps blazed over the motley assembly, loud-voiced barkers yelled, and a band added its discords to the din.  The “Poodle Dog” glared in light, resounded with noise; lamps gleamed from the hotel windows, and the huge dance hall stood wide open.  Out from the shacks and tents crept the day’s sleepers for a night of revelry; along the trails rode others eager for excitement; it was the harvest-time of those birds of prey in saloon and gambling hell.

Hamlin saw all this, but gave the surroundings little thought.  He was of the West, of the frontier, and beheld nothing unique in the scene.  Moreover, the purpose for which he was there overshadowed all else, left him indifferent to the noise, the jostling, drunken crowd.  Some he met who knew him and called his name, but he passed them with a word, and pressed his way forward.  At the hotel he mounted the steps and entered.  The office was in one corner of the bar-room.  The proprietor himself, a bald-headed Irishman, sat with feet cocked up on the counter, smoking, and barely glancing up as the Sergeant asked for Mrs. Dupont.

“Who are yer?” he asked.

“My name is Hamlin; I am here on the lady’s invitation.”

“Sure; thet ’s ther name all right, me bhoy.  Yer ter go out on the east porch there, an’ wait a bit whoile I sind her worrd yer here.  Oi ‘m imaginin’ she hed sum doubts about yer comin’, the way she spoke.”

“How do I get there?”

“Through the winder of the parlur over thar—­sure, it ’s a noice quiet spot fer a tate-a-tate.”  He got up, and peered through his glasses across the room.  “Here, Moike; damn thet slapy head.  Will one o’ yer gents wake the lad—­that’s it.  Now come here, Moike.  You run over to the Palace an’ tell Mrs. Dupont the fellar is here waitin’.  Hold on now, not so fast; wait till Oi ‘m done tellin’ yer.  Say thet to her alone—­do yer moind thet, ye sap-head; nobody else is to hear whut yer say; stay there till yer git a chance ter whisper it to her.  Now skip.”