ight, and stores do not close until a
late hour. At one, two and three o'clock in the morning the streets
present as lively an appearance as at any period earlier in the
evening. Fighting, shooting, stabbing and hideous swearing are
features of the night; singing, drinking, dancing and gambling
another.

Nightly the majority of the miners come in from such claims as are
within a radius of from six to ten miles, and seldom is it that they
go away without their "load." To be sure, there are some men in
Deadwood who do not drink, but they are so few and scattering as to
seem almost entirely a nonentity.

It was midnight, and Deadwood lay basking in a flood of mellow
moonlight that cast long shadows from the pine forest on the peaks,
and glinted upon the rapid, muddy waters of Whitewood creek, which
rumbles noisily by the infant metropolis on its wild journey toward
the south.

All the saloons and dance-houses are in full blast; shouts and maudlin
yells rend the air. In front of one insignificant board,
"ten-by-twenty," an old wretch is singing out lustily:

"Right this way ye cum, pilgrims, ter ther great Black Hills Thee'ter;
only costs ye four bits ter go in an' see ther tender sex, already
a-kickin' in their striped stockin's; only four bits, recollect, ter
see ther greatest show on earth, so heer's yer straight chance!"

But, why the use of yelling? Already the shanty is packed, and judging
from the thundering screeches and clapping of hands, the entertainment
is such as suits the depraved tastes of the ruffianly "bums" who have
paid their "four bits," and gone in.

But look!

Madly out of Deadwood gulch, the abode of thousands of lurking
shadows, dashes a horseman.

Straight through the main street of the noisy metropolis he spurs,
with hat off, and hair blowing backward in a jetty cloud.

On, on, followed by the eyes of scores curious to know the meaning of
his haste--on, and at last he halts in front of a large board shanty,
over whose doorway is the illuminated canvas sign: "Metropolitan
Saloon, by Tom Young."

Evidently his approach is heard, for instantly out of the
"Metropolitan" there swarms a crowd of miners, gamblers and bummers to
see "what the row is."

"Is there a man among you, gentlemen, who bears the name of Hugh
Vansevere?" asks the rider, who from his midnight dress we may judge
is no other than Deadwood Dick.

"That is my handle, pilgrim!" and a tall, rough-looking customer of
the M