om door to orchestra railing. It
was the pride of Ascalon that a hundred men could stand and regale
themselves before this counter at one time.

Five bartenders stood behind this altar of alcohol when Morgan set foot
in the place intent on putting himself in the way of the riders of the
Chisholm Trail. These Texas cowboys were easily identified among the
early activities of the place by the unusual amount of Mexican silver
and leather ornamentation of their apparel. They were a road-worn and
dusty crew, growing noisy and hilarious in their celebration of one of
their number being elevated to the place of so conspicuous power as city
marshal of that famous town. It appeared to have its humorous side from
the loud laughter they were spending over it, and the caressing thumps
which they laid on Seth Craddock's bony back.

They were lined up against the bar, Craddock in the midst of them, a
regiment of bottles before them. Morgan drew near, ordered a drink,
stood waiting the moment of his discovery and what might follow it. The
Texans were trying everything in the stock, from gin to champagne, gay
in the wide choice the marvelous influence of their comrade opened to
them without money or the hint of price.

Morgan lounged at the bar, turning meditatively the little glass of
amber liquor that was the passport to the estate of a proper man in
Ascalon, as in many places neither so notorious nor perilous in those
times. Each of the big metal kerosene lamps swung high on the joists
threw a circular blotch of shadow on the floor, but the light from them
fell brightly on the bar, increased in brilliancy by reflection from the
long row of mirrors.

In this sparkle of glass and bar furniture Morgan stood, conspicuous by
being apart, like a solitary who had ridden in for a jambouree of his
own without companion or friend. He wore his broad-brimmed black hat
with the high crown uncreased, and only for the lack of boots and pistol
he might have passed for a man of the range. The bartender who served
him looked at him with rather puzzled and frequent sidelong turning of
the eyes as he stood brooding over the untasted liquor, as if he sought
to place him in memory, or to classify him among the drift of men who
came in varying moods to his mahogany altar to pay their devotions to
its bottled gods.

Morgan's hat cast a shadow over half his face, making it as stern as a
Covenanter's portrait. His eyes were on the bar, where his great h