anifest dissatisfaction on the bare walls of her
room, and then out through the open window into the comparatively
quiet street below. The bar-tender at the "Palace," directly opposite,
business being slack, was leaning negligently in the doorway. His roving
eyes caught the fair face framed in the window, and he waved his hand
encouragingly. Miss Christie's big brown eyes stared across at him in
silent disgust, and then wandered again about the room, her foot tapping
nervously on the rag carpet.

"It's my very last trip to this town," she said decisively, her red lips
pressed tightly together.

Miss Maclaire had indeed ample reason to feel aggrieved over her
reception. She had written to have the best apartment in the house
reserved for her, and then, merely because she had later been invited
out to Fort Hays, and was consequently a day behind in arrival, had
discovered that another woman--a base imposter, actually masquerading
under her name--had been duly installed in the coveted apartment.
Driving in from the fort that morning, accompanied by two of the more
susceptible junior officers, conscious that she had performed most
artistic work the evening before in the spacious mess-hall, and feeling
confident of comfortable quarters awaiting her, it had been something
of a shock to be informed by the perturbed clerk that "15" was already
occupied by another. "A lady what come in last night, and I naturally
supposed it was you."

In vain Miss Maclaire protested, ably backed by the worshipful officers
who still gallantly attended her; the management was obdurate. Then
she would go up herself, and throw the hussy out. Indeed, too angry for
bantering further words, Christie had actually started for the stairs,
intending to execute her threat, when the perspiring Tommy succeeded in
stopping her, by plainly blurting out the exact truth.

"Don't you ever do it," he insisted. "The marshal brought her in here,
and fired a fellow out o' the room so as to give it to her. He'd clean
out this house if we ran in a cold deck on a friend o' his."

"What do I care for what your marshal does?"

"But he's Bill Hickock, Miss, 'Wild Bill.'"

Miss Maclaire leaned back against the stair-rail, her eyes turning from
Tommy to her speechless supporters. Slowly the truth seemed to penetrate
her brain.

"Oh," she gasped at last. "Then--then what else can you give me?"

The officers had long since departed, promising, however, to remain over