“Wa’al, yer see he’s a feller thet’s got a lot of sand an’ ain’t afeared of nobody, an’ he’s allowed to hev the deal to his place on the square every time.  Accordin’ to my idee, gamblin’s about the wust racket a feller kin work, but it takes all sorts of men to make a world, an’ ef the boys is bound to hev a game, I calkilate they’d like to patronize his bank.  Thet’s made the old crowd mighty mad, an’ they’re a-talkin’ about puttin’ up a job of cheatin’ on him an’ then stringin’ him up.  Be sides, I kind o’ think there’s some cussed jealousy on another lay as comes in.  Yer see the young feller—­Cyrus Foster’s his name—­is sweet on thet gal of Jeff Johnson’s.  Jeff wuz to Laramie before he come here, an’ Foster knowed Sally up thar.  I allow he moved here to see her.  Hello!  Ef thar they ain’t a-comin’ now.”

Down a path leading from the town, past the railroad buildings, and well on the prairie, Sinclair saw the girl walking with the “young feller.”  He was talking earnestly to her, and her eyes were cast down.  She looked pretty and, in a way, graceful; and there was in her attire a noticeable attempt at neatness, and a faint reminiscence of by-gone fashions.  A smile came to Sinclair’s lips as he thought of a couple walking up Fifth Avenue during his leave of absence not many months before, and of a letter, many times read, lying at that moment in his breast-pocket.

“Papa’s bark is worse than his bite,” ran one of its sentences.  “Of course he does not like the idea of my leaving him and going away to such dreadful and remote places as Denver and Omaha, and I don’t know what else; but he will not oppose me in the end, and when you come on again—­”

“By thunder!” exclaimed Sam; “ef thar ain’t one of them cussed sharps a watchin’ ’em.”

Sure enough, a rough-looking fellow, his hat pulled over his eyes, half concealed behind a pile of lumber, was casting a sinister glance toward the pair.

“The gal’s well enough,” continued Sam; “but I don’t take a cent’s wuth of stock in thet thar father of her’n.  He’s in with them sharps, sure pop, an’ it don’t suit his book to hev Foster hangin’ round.  It’s ten to one he sent that cuss to watch ’em.  Wa’al, they’re a queer lot, an’ I’m afeared thar’s plenty of trouble ahead among ’em.  Good luck to you, Major,” and he pushed back his chair and walked away.

After breakfast next morning, when Sinclair was sitting at the table in his office, busy with maps and plans, the door was thrown open, and Foster, panting for breath, ran in.

“Major Sinclair,” he said, speaking with difficulty, “I’ve no claim on you, but I ask you to protect me.  The other gamblers are going to hang me.  They are more than ten to one.  They will track me here, and unless you harbor me, I’m a dead man.”

Sinclair rose from his chair in a second and walked to the window.  A party of men were approaching the building.  He turned to Foster: