It was called a depot merely through courtesy, consisting of a layer of cinders, scattered promiscuously so as to partially conceal the underlying mud, and a dismantled box car, in which presided ticket agent and telegrapher. A hundred yards below was the big shack where the railroad officials lodged. Across the tracks blazed invitingly the “First Chance” saloon. All intervening space was crowded with men, surging aimlessly about in the glare of a locomotive head light, and greeting the alighting passengers with free and easy badinage. Stranger or acquaintance made no difference, the welcome to Sheridan was noisily extended, while rough play and hoarse laughter characterized the mass.

Hope paused on the step, even as Dr. Fairbain grasped her hand, dinned by the medley of discordant sounds, and confused by the vociferous jam of humanity. A band came tooting down the street in a hack, a fellow, with a voice like a fog horn, howling on the front seat. The fellows at the side of the car surged aside to get a glimpse of this new attraction, and Fairbain, taking quick advantage of the opportunity thus presented, swung his charge to the cinders below. Bending before her, and butting his great shoulders into the surging crowd, he succeeded in pushing a passage through, thus finally bringing her forth to the edge of the street.

“Hey, there,” he said shortly, grabbing a shirt-sleeved individual by the arm. “Where's Charlie?”

The fellow looked at him wonderingly.

“Charlie? Oh, you mean the 'Kid'? Well, he ain't here ter-night; had a weddin', an' is totin' the bridal couple 'round.”

Fairbain swore discreetly under his breath, and cast an uncertain glance at the slender figure shrinking beside him. The streets of Sheridan were not over pleasant at night.

“Only hack in town is somewhere else, Miss,” he explained briefly. “I reckon you and I will have to hoof it.”

He felt the grip of her fingers on his sleeve.

“The boys are a little noisy, but it's just their way—don't mean anything—you hang on to me, an' keep the veil down—we 'll be there in the shake of a dog's tail.”

He helped her over the muddy crossing, and as they reached a stretch of board walk, began expatiating on the various places lining the way.

“That's the 'Mammoth' over there,—dance hall back of it—biggest thing west of the Missouri—three men killed there last week—what for? Oh, they got too fresh—that's the 'Casino,' and the one beyond is 'Pony Joe's Place'—cut his leg off since I've been here—fight over a girl. Ain't there any stores?—sure; they're farther back—you see the saloons got in first—that's 'Sheeny Mike's' gambling joint you're looking at—like to go over and see 'em play? All right, just thought I'd ask you—it's early anyhow, and things wouldn't be goin' very lively yet. Say, there, you red head, what are you trying to do?”

The fellow had lurched out of the crowd in such a manner as to brush partially aside the girl's veil, permitting the glare of “Sheeny Mike's” lights to fall full upon her revealed face. It was accomplished so openly as to appear planned, but before he could reel away again, Fairbain struck out, and the man went down. With an oath he was on his feet, and Hope cowered back against her protector. Each man had weapons drawn, the crowd scurrying madly to keep out of the line of fire, when, with a stride, a new figure stepped quietly in between them. Straight as an arrow, broad shouldered, yet small waisted as a woman, his hair hanging low over his coat-collar, his face smooth shaven except for a long moustache, and emotionless, the revolvers in his belt untouched, he simply looked at the two, and then struck the revolver out of the drunken man's hand. It fell harmless to the ground.

“And don't you pick it up until I tell you, Scott,” he said quietly. “If you do you've got to fight me.”

Without apparently giving the fellow another thought, he wheeled and faced the others.

“Oh, it's you, is it, Doctor? The drunken fool won't make any more trouble. Where were you taking the lady?”

“To the hotel, Bill.”

“I'll walk along with you. I reckon the boys will give us plenty of room.” He glanced over the crowd, and then more directly at Scott.

“Pick up your gun!” the brief words snapping out. “This is the second time I've caught you hunting trouble. The next time you are going to find it. I saw you run into the lady—what did you do it for?”

“I only wanted to see who she was, Bill.”

“You needn't call me Bill. I don't trot in your class. My name is Hickock to you. Was it any of your affair who she was?”

“I reckoned I know'd her, and I did.”

The marshal turned his eyes toward Hope, and then back upon Scott, evidently slightly interested.

“So? Recognized an old friend, I suppose?”

The slight sneer in “Wild Bill's” soft voice caused Scott to flame up in sudden passion.

“No, I didn't! but I called the turn just the same—she's Christie Maclaire.”

The marshal smiled.

“All right, little boy,” he said soberly. “Now you trot straight along to bed. Don't let me catch you on the street again to-night, and I'd advise you not to pull another gun—you're too slow on the trigger for this town. Come along, Doctor, and we'll get Miss Maclaire to her hotel.”

He shouldered his way through the collected crowd, the others following. Hope endeavored to speak, to explain to Fairbain who she actually was, realizing then, for the first time, that she had not previously given him her name. Amidst the incessant noise and confusion, the blaring of brass, and the jangle of voices, she found it impossible to make the man comprehend. She pressed closer to him, holding more tightly to his arm, stunned and confused by the fierce uproar. The stranger steadily pushing ahead of them, and opening a path for their passage, fascinated her, and her eyes watched him curiously. His name was an oddly familiar one, associated in vague memory with some of the most desperate deeds ever witnessed in the West, yet always found on the side of law and order; it was difficult to conceive that this quiet-spoken, mild-eyed, gently smiling man could indeed be the most famous gun fighter on the border, hated, feared, yet thoroughly respected, by every desperado between the Platte and the Canadian. Beyond the glare and glitter of the Metropolitan Dance Hall the noisy crowd thinned away somewhat, and the marshal ventured to drop back beside Fairbain, yet vigilantly watched every approaching face.

“Town appears unusually lively to-night, Bill,” observed the latter gravely, “and the boys have got an early start.”

“West end graders just paid off,” was the reply. “They have been whoopin' it up ever since noon, and are beginning to get ugly. Now the rest of the outfit are showing up, and there will probably be something interesting happening before morning. Wouldn't mind it so much if I had a single deputy worth his salt.”

“What's the matter with Bain?”

“Nothing, while he was on the job, but 'Red' Haggerty got him in 'Pony Joe's' shebang two hours ago; shot him in the back across the bar. Ned never even pulled his gun.”

“I'm sorry to hear that; what became of Haggerty?”

The marshal let his eyes rest questioningly on the doctor's face for an instant.

“Well, I happened to be just behind Ned when he went in,” he said gently, “and 'Red' will be buried on 'Boots Hill' to-morrow. I'm afraid I don't give you much chance to show your skill, Doc,” with a smile.

“If they all shot like you do, my profession would be useless. What's the matter with your other deputies?”

“Lack of nerve, principally, I reckon; ain't one of 'em worth the powder to blow him up. I'd give something just now for a fellow I had down at Dodge—he was a man. Never had to tell him when to go in; good judgment too; wasn't out hunting for trouble, but always ready enough to take his share. Old soldier in our army, Captain I heard, though he never talked much about himself; maybe you knew him—Jack Keith.”

“Well, I reckon,” in quick surprise, “and what's more to the point, he's here—slept in my room last night.”

“Keith here? In Sheridan? And hasn't even hunted me up yet? That's like him, all right, but I honestly want to see the boy. Here's your hotel. Shall you need me any longer?”

“Better step in with us, Bill,” the doctor advised, “your moral influence might aid in procuring the lady a decent room.”

“I reckon it might.”

They passed together up the three rickety steps leading into the front hall, which latter opened directly into the cramped office; to the left was the wide-open barroom, clamorous and throbbing with life. A narrow bench stood against the wall, with a couple of half drunken men lounging upon it. The marshal routed them out with a single, expressive gesture.

“Wait here with the lady, Fairbain,” he said shortly, “and I'll arrange for the room.”

They watched him glance in at the bar, vigilant and cautious, and then move directly across to the desk.

“Tommy,” he said genially to the clerk. “I've just escorted a lady here from the train—Miss Maclaire—and want you to give her the very best room in your old shebang.”

The other looked at him doubtfully.

“Hell, Bill, I don't know how I'm goin' to do that,” acknowledged. “She wrote in here to the boss for a room; said she'd be along yesterday. Well, she didn't show up, an' so to-night we let a fellow have it. He's up there now.”

“Well, he'll have to vamose—who is he?”

“Englishman—'Walter Spotteswood Montgomery,'” consulting his book. “Hell of a pompous duck; the boys call him 'Juke Montgomery.'”

“All right; send some one up to rout his lordship out lively.”

Tommy shuffled his feet, and looked again at the marshal; he had received positive orders about that room, and was fully convinced that Montgomery would not take kindly to eviction. But Hickock's quiet gray eyes were insistent.

“Here, 'Red,'” he finally called to the burly porter, “hustle up to '15,' an' tell that fellow Montgomery he's got to get out; tell him we want the room for a lady.”

Hickock watched the man disappear up the stairs, helped himself carefully to a cigar out of the stand, tossing a coin to the clerk and then deliberately lighting up.

“Think Montgomery will be pleased?” he asked shortly.

“No; he'll probably throw 'Red' down stairs.”

The marshal smiled, his glance turning expectantly in that direction.

“Then perhaps I had better remain, Tommy.” And he strolled nonchalantly over to the open window, and stood there looking quietly out, a spiral of blue smoke rising from his cigar.

They could distinctly hear the pounding on the door above, and occasionally the sound of the porter's voice, but the straight, erect figure at the window remained motionless. Finally “Red” came down, nursing his knuckles.

“Says he'll be damned if he will—says he's gone to bed, an' that there ain't a cussed female in this blasted country he'd git up for,” he reported circumstantially to the clerk. “He told me to tell you to go plumb to hell, an' that if any one else come poundin' 'round thar to-night, he'd take a pot shot at 'em through the door. 'Fifteen' seemed a bit peevish, sir, an' I reckoned if he was riled up much more, he might git rambunctious; his language was sure fierce.”

“Wild Bill” turned slowly around, still calmly smoking, his eyes exhibiting mild amusement.

“Did you clearly inform Mr.—ah—Montgomery that we desired the room for the use of a lady?” he questioned gently, apparently both pained and shocked.

“I did, sir.”

“It surprises me to find one in our city with so little regard for the ordinary courtesies of life, Tommy. Perhaps I can persuade the gentleman.”

He disappeared up the stairs, taking them deliberately step by step, the cigar still smoking between his lips. “Red” called after him.

“Keep away from in front of the door, Bill; he'll shoot sure, for he cocked his gun when I was up there.”

Hickock glanced back, and waved his hand.

“Don't worry—the room occupied by Mr.—ah—Montgomery was '15,' I believe you said?”

Whatever occurred above, it was over with very shortly. Those listening at the foot of the stairs heard the first gentle rap on the door, an outburst of profanity, followed almost instantly by a sharp snap, as if a lock had given way, then brief scuffling mingled with the loud creaking of a bed. Scarcely a minute later the marshal appeared on the landing above, one hand firmly gripped in the neck-band of an undershirt, thus securely holding the writhing, helpless figure of a man, who swore violently every time he could catch his breath.

“Any other room you could conveniently assign Mr.—ah—Montgomery to, Tommy?” he asked pleasantly. “If he doesn't like it in the morning, he could be changed, you know.”

“Give—give him '47.'”

“All right. I'm the bell-boy temporarily, Montgomery; easy now, my man, easy, or I'll be compelled to use both hands. 'Red,' carry the gentleman's luggage to '47'—he has kindly consented to give up his old room to a lady—come along, Montgomery.”

It was possibly five minutes later when he came down, still smoking, his face not even flushed.

“Montgomery is feeling so badly we were obliged to lock him in,” he reported to the clerk. “Seems to be of a somewhat nervous disposition. Well, good-night, Doctor,” he lifted his hat. “And to you, Miss, pleasant dreams.”

Hope watched him as he stepped outside, pausing a moment in the shadows to glance keenly up and down the long street before venturing down the steps. This quiet man had enemies, hundreds of them, desperate and reckless; ceaseless vigilance alone protected him. Yet her eyes only, and not her thoughts, were riveted on the disappearing marshal. She turned to Fairbain, who had risen to his feet.

“I wish I might see him, also,” she said, as though continuing an interrupted conversation.

“See him? Who?”

“Mr. Keith. I—I knew him once, and—and, Doctor, won't you tell him I should like to have him come and see me just—just as soon as he can.”