or?"

"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