“Good!” he exclaimed, warmly.  “I have much to thank you for.  Did I kill that card-sharp?”

“No; you simply perforated him in the right side.  This way.”

They had been running straight up the main street.  Now they turned a corner and darted down one that was dark and deserted.

A moment later a trim boyish figure stepped before them, from out of the shadow of a new frame building; a hand of creamy whiteness was laid upon the arm of Ned Harris.

“This way, pilgrims,” said a low musical voice, and at the same instant a gust of wind lifted the jaunty sombrero from the speaker’s head, revealing a most wonderful wealth of long glossy hair; “the ‘toughs’ are after you, and you cannot find a better place to coop than in here.”  The soft hand drew Ned Harris inside the building, which was finished, but unoccupied, and Redburn followed, nothing loth to get into a place of safety.  So far, Deadwood had not impressed him favorably as being the most peaceable city within the scope of a continent.

Into an inner room of the building they went, and the door was closed behind them.  The apartment was small and smelled of green lumber.  A table and a few chairs comprised the furniture; a dark lantern burned suspended from the ceiling by a wire.  Redburn eyed the strange youth as he and Harris were handed seats.

Of medium hight and symmetrically built; dressed in a carefully tanned costume of buck-skin, the vest being fringed with the fur of the mink; wearing a jaunty Spanish sombrero; boots on the dainty feet of patent leather, with tops reaching to the knees; a face slightly sun-burned, yet showing the traces of beauty that even excessive dissipation could not obliterate; eyes black and piercing; mouth firm, resolute, and devoid of sensual expression:  hair of raven color and of remarkable length;—­such was the picture of the youth as beheld by Redburn and Harris.

“You can remain here till you think it will be safe to again venture forth, gentlemen,” and a smile—­evidently a stranger there—­broke out about the speaker’s lips.  “Good-evening!” “Good-evening!” nodded Harris, with a quizzical stare.  The next moment the youth was gone.

“Who was that chap?” asked Redburn, not a little bewildered.

“That?—­why that’s Calamity Jane!”

“Calamity Jane? What a name.”

“Yes, she’s an odd one.  Can ride like the wind, shoot like a sharp-shooter, and swear like a trooper.  Is here, there and everywhere, seemingly all at one time.  Owns this coop and two or three other lots in Deadwood; a herding ranch at Laramie, an interest in a paying placer claim near Elizabeth City, and the Lord only knows how much more.”

“But it is not a woman?”

“Reckon ‘tain’t nothin’ else.”

“God forbid that a child of mine should ever become so debased and—­”

“Hold! there are yet a few redeeming qualities about her.  She was ruined—­” and here a shade dark as a thunder-cloud passed over Ned Harris’ face—­“and set adrift upon the world, homeless and friendless; yet she has bravely fought her way through the storm, without asking anybody’s assistance.  True, she may not now have a heart; that was trampled upon, years ago, but her character has not suffered blemish since the day a foul wretch stole away her honor!”