camped there was Sinclair, and it was by his advice that the contractors selected it for division headquarters.  Then came drinking “saloons,” and gambling-houses—­alike the inevitable concomitant and the bane of Western settlements; then scattered houses and shops, and a shabby so-called hotel, in which the letting of miserable rooms (divided from each other by canvas partitions) was wholly subordinated to the business of the bar.  Before long, Barker’s had acquired a worse reputation than even other towns of its type, the abnormal and uncanny aggregations of squalor and vice which dotted the plains in those days; and it was at its worst when Sinclair returned thither and took up his quarters in the engineers’ building.  The passion for gambling was raging, and to pander thereto were collected as choice a lot of desperadoes as ever “stocked” cards or loaded dice.  It came to be noticed that they were on excellent terms with a man called “Jeff” Johnson, who was lessee of the hotel; and to be suspected that said Johnson, in local parlance, “stood in with” them.  With this man had come to Barker’s his daughter Sarah, commonly known as “Sally,” a handsome girl with a straight, lithe figure, fine features, reddish auburn hair, and dark blue eyes.  It is but fair to say that even the “toughs” of a place like Barker’s show some respect for the other sex, and Miss Sally’s case was no exception to the rule.  The male population admired her; they said she “put on heaps of style”; but none of them had seemed to make any progress in her good graces.

On a pleasant afternoon, just after the track had been laid some miles west of Barker’s, and construction trains were running with some regularity to and from the end thereof, Sinclair sat on the rude veranda of the engineers’ quarters, smoking his well-colored meerschaum and looking at the sunset.  The atmosphere had been so clear during the day that glimpses were had of Long’s and Pike’s peaks, and as the young engineer gazed at the gorgeous cloud-display he was thinking of the miners’ quaint and pathetic idea that the dead “go over the Range.”

“Nice-looking, ain’t it, Major?” asked a voice at his elbow, and he turned to see one of the contractors’ officials taking a seat near him.

“More than nice-looking, to my mind, Sam,” he replied.  “What is the news to-day?”

“Nothin’ much.  There’s a sight of talk about the doin’s of them faro an’ keno sharps.  The boys is gittin’ kind o’ riled, fur they allow the game ain’t on the square wuth a cent.  Some of ’em down to the tie-camp wuz a-talkin’ about a vigilance committee, an’ I wouldn’t be surprised ef they meant business.  Hev yer heard about the young feller that come in a week ago from Laramie an’ set up a new faro-bank?”

“No.  What about him?”