It was Saturday night, and the mining town was already alive.  The one long, irregular street was jammed with constantly moving figures, the numerous saloons ablaze, the pianos sounding noisily, the shuffling of feet in the crowded dance-halls incessant.  Fakers were everywhere industriously hawking their useless wares and entertaining the loitering crowds, while the roar of voices was continuous.  Cowboys from the wide plains, miners from the hidden gulches, ragged, hopeful prospectors from the more distant mountains, teamsters, and half-naked Indians, commingled in the restless throng, passing and repassing from door to door, careless in dress, rough in manner, boisterous in language.  Here and there amid this heterogeneous population of toilers and adventurers, would appear those attired in the more conventional garb of the East,—­capitalists hunting new investments, or chance travellers seeking to discover a new thrill amid this strange life of the frontier.  Everywhere, brazen and noisy, flitted women, bold of eye, painted of cheek, gaudy of raiment, making mock of their sacred womanhood.  Riot reigned unchecked, while the quiet, sleepy town of the afternoon blossomed under the flickering lights into a saturnalia of unlicensed pleasure, wherein the wages of sin were death.

Hampton scarcely noted this marvellous change; to him it was no uncommon spectacle.  He pushed his way through the noisy throng with eyes ever watchful for the faces.  His every motion was that of a man who had fully decided upon his course.  Through the widely opened doors of the Occidental streams of blue and red shirted men were constantly flowing in and out; a band played strenuously on the wide balcony overhead, while beside the entrance a loud-voiced “barker” proclaimed the many attractions within.  Hampton swung up the broad wooden steps and entered the bar-room, which was crowded by jostling figures, the ever-moving mass as yet good-natured, for the night was young.  At the lower end of the long, sloppy bar he stopped for a moment to nod to the fellow behind.

“Anything going on to-night worth while, Jim?” he questioned, quietly.

“Rather stiff game, they tell me, just started in the back room,” was the genial reply.  “Two Eastern suckers, with Red Slavin sitting in.”

The gambler passed on, pushing rather unceremoniously through the throng of perspiring humanity.  He appeared out of place amid the rough element jostling him, and more than one glanced at him curiously, a few swearing as he elbowed them aside.  Scarcely noticing this, he drew a cigar from his pocket, and stuck it unlighted between his teeth.  The large front room upstairs was ablaze with lights, every game in full operation and surrounded by crowds of devotees.  Tobacco smoke in clouds circled to the low ceiling, and many of the players were noisy and profane, while the various calls of faro, roulette, keno, and high-ball added to the confusion and to the din of shuffling