These preliminaries having been duly attended to, Mr. Moffat and his indefatigable committee of arrangements proceeded to master the details of decoration and entertainment, drawing heavily upon the limited resources of the local merchants, and even invading private homes in search after beautifying material.  Jim Lane drove his buckboard one hundred and sixty miles to Cheyenne to gather up certain needed articles of adornment, the selection of which could not be safely confided to the inartistic taste of the stage-driver.  Upon his rapid return journey loaded down with spoils, Peg Brace, a cow-puncher in the “Bar O” gang, rode recklessly alongside his speeding wheels for the greater portion of the distance, apparently in most jovial humor, and so unusually inquisitive as to make Mr. Lane, as he later expressed it, “plum tired.”  The persistent rider finally deserted him, however, at the ford over the Sinsiniwa, shouting derisively back from a safe distance that the Miners’ Club was a lot of chumps, and promising them a severe “jolt” in the near future.

Indeed, it was becoming more and more apparent that a decided feeling of hostility was fast developing between the respective partisans of Moffat and McNeil.  Thus far the feud merely smouldered, finding occasional expression in sarcastic speech, and the severance of former friendly relations, but it boded more serious trouble for the near future.  To a loyal henchman, Moffat merely condescended to remark, glancing disdainfully at a knot of hard riders disconsolately sitting their ponies in front of the saloon door, “We ’ve got them fellers roped and tied, gents, and they simply won’t be ace-high with the ladies of this camp after our fandango is over with.  We’re a holdin’ the hand this game, an’ it simply sweeps the board clean.  That duffer McNeil’s the sickest looking duck I ‘ve seen in a year, an’ the whole blame bunch of cow-punchers is corralled so tight there can’t a steer among ’em get a nose over the pickets.”

He glanced over the waiting scene of festivities with intense satisfaction.  From bare squalor the spacious apartment had been converted into a scene of almost gorgeous splendor.  The waxed floor was a perfect marvel of smoothness; the numerous windows had been heavily draped in red, white, and blue hangings; festoons of the same rich hues hung gracefully suspended from the ceiling, trembling to the least current of air; oil lamps, upheld by almost invisible wires, dangled in profusion; while within the far corner, occupying a slightly raised platform later to be utilized by the orchestra, was an imposing pulpit chair lent by the Presbyterian Church, resting upon a rug of skins, and destined as the seat of honor for the fair guest of the evening.  Moffat surveyed all this thoughtfully, and proceeded proudly to the hotel to don a “boiled” shirt, and in other ways prepare himself to do honor to his exalted office.  Much to the surprise of McNeil, lounging with some cronies on the shaded porch, he nodded to him genially, adding a hearty, “Hello there, Bill,” as he passed carelessly by.