“Come on, now, gentlemen.  Two ladies have come with posies in tall silver vases and a white altar cloth for this table.  The preacher’s coming over from Folsom, and there will be church held here in one hour.  He’s a busy man today.  An infant will be given a license to travel the long and uncertain road to heaven, and a pair of happy lovers will be made one.”

“One — unhappy pair.”

It’s William Duncan.  He’s intoxicated again,” drawled Gentleman Jack, stretching his graceful length and smiling at a long, aristocratic figure crouched over a small table in a corner.  “His last strike turned out to be only a small pocket, and so he drowns his woes in liquor, as usual.”  He bowed to his recent card partners.  “Gentlemen, I am sincerely sorry for your losses this night.  I shall sleep an hour before the holy man arrives.  He sauntered out, stuffing a buckskin bag of gold dust into his pocket.

“There lies my pocket — in his pocket,” muttered Duncan.  “No, Stinson” raising his voice authoritatively, “I shall not go out.  It is my desire to pray for my sins today * * * and there has a letter come from overseas which I must read — if I can.  If I can — "

In an hour the room was cleared of smoke, greasy cards, poker chips and empty bottles.  The bar was in a small room apart.  The poker table, supplemented with a box, was covered with a handsome altar cloth flanked by huge silver candlesticks and vases which had been carried across the plains.  Every individual in the community came to church and stayed afterward for the christening.  At least twenty men expressed a wish to be god-father to the baby and the proud mother accepted all offers.  When the christening was over, William Duncan lurched to his feet, his high-bred face full of tenderness, his long-fingered, fine grained hands poised over the rosy child, while he quoted: 

“May time who sheds his blight o’er all,
And daily dooms some joy to death. 
O’er thee let years so gently fall,
They shall not crush one flower beneath!”

“Ah, ‘here comes the bride!’ ‘All the world’s a stage!’ Let us on with the next scene,” and he reeled back to his little table in the corner.

The kissing and congratulations after the wedding were interrupted by the shouts of a man on horseback, and riding hard.

“Where’s the minister?  Send for Doc Miller!  That beast of a Mexican horse thief — he’ shot Jim Muldoon down at Dolton’s Bar.  Jim caught he’s stealing his horse and I’m afraid the dirty greaser’s killed him.  We got ’im, though, before he skipped.  Somebody go down to Rattlesnake for Doc Miller.  They’re bringing ’em both here.”

When Doc Miller saw Muldoon stretched on the barroom table, the same table which a few minutes before had served as an altar he shook his head.

“He will be gone in half an hour,” he said.  The men standing about began taking off their hats.

“I wish to write home,” whispered Muldoon.  The young mother handed her baby to its father and seizing pencil and paper, ran forward.  The minister opened his prayer book at the service for the dying.