“Go on with your story, Mr. Allen,” urged Ham.  “What’s river pirates got to do with the destruction of the Old Road House, that’s what I’d like to know.”  The crowd settled themselves again for the rest of the story.

“Well, it’s like this, Ham,” continued Mr. Allen.  “Every great story has a preface, and I’ve been telling you the preface so far.”  Ham let out a few long, extra well-developed snores.  “Say, Fat, wake me when he gets to the beginning of the first chapter, will you?”

“Finally Dad came to Colorado—­just why, I don’t know; but he prospected hereabouts a good deal in the early days, and when gold was discovered in Cripple Creek he was right on hand.  In 1873, I think it was, the county built the Cripple Creek Stage Road.  Dad was a pretty old man then, but not too old to see his opportunity.  With a little outside capital, he constructed that famous mountain inn, the Road House.  In a short time after it opened for business it became a very popular place, and was soon producing a nice little revenue for Dad.

“The night the house was burned, you remember, I said was dark and stormy.  It was in the summer, and a typical mountain storm was in full blast.  The thunder and lightning were terrific.  When the down stage pulled up at the inn, just before dark, they decided to stay for the night, fearing a possible cloudburst.  It happened that the stage was full of passengers that night.  There was a little Irishman who had just discovered a fine ledge of onyx out north of Cripple Creek, and a couple of engineers who had been surveying for a mine over in Cookstove Gulch.  Besides these there was a hard-looking old scalawag, who kept his business all to himself.  As they sat at supper, Dad noticed that the old-timer eyed him very closely, yet had nothing to say; and as he looked back on that night, long after the fire, he remembered a lot of little incidents that gave evidence to his own theory.  For instance, several times during the evening the old stranger rose from his seat and went out into the night.  He seemed very nervous about something.  He did not mingle with the other men, but sat well back in the corner by himself.  When it became time to go to bed, the old man insisted on sleeping on a couch near the fireplace.  Old Ben, who was there at the time, said afterward he remembered some one moving about the cabin in the night.

“The storm was at its worst.  Suddenly out of the raging storm Dad’s dog let out a long, fierce yelp, followed by several low growls.  Dad shouted down to him to be quiet, supposing he had smelled a coyote or a pole-cat outside.  He was quiet for a few moments, then a second time he howled and scratched at the door.  There was a loud cursing, that was nearly lost in a peal of thunder, then the cry of ‘Fire!’ The smoke of the burning logs was already streaming up the open stairway.  The outside door opened and shut, yet the dog was left inside.  Almost before the sleeping guests