t feller
comin' yonder, who was preachin' from on top of the barrel, a bit ago?
Well, that is Catamount Cass, an' he's a pard of Chet Diamond, the
feller you salted, an' them fellers behind him are his gang. Come!
follow me, Henry, and I'll nose our way out of here."

Redburn signified his readiness, and with a cocked six-shooter in
either hand Ned Harris led the way.

CHAPTER IV.

SAD ANITA--THE MINE LOCATER--TROUBLE

Straight toward the door of the saloon he marched, the muzzles of the
grim sixes clearing a path to him; for Ned Harris had become
notorious in Deadwood for his coolness, courage and audacity. It had
been said of him that he would "just es lief shute a man as ter look
at 'im," and perhaps the speaker was not far from right.

Anyway, he led off through the savage-faced audience with a composure
that was remarkable, and, strange to say, not a hand was raised to
stop him until he came face to face with Catamount Cass and his gang;
here was where the youth had expected molestation and hindrance, if
anywhere.

Catamount Cass was a rough, illiterate "tough" of the mountain
species, and possessed more brute courage than the general run of his
type of men, and a bull-dog determination that made him all the more
dangerous as an enemy.

Harry Redburn kept close at Ned Harris' heels, a cocked "six" in
either hand ready for any emergency.

It took but a few moments before the two parties met, the "Cattymount"
throwing out his foot to block the path.

"Hello!" roared the "tough," folding his huge knotty arms across his
partially bared breast; "ho! ho! whoa up thar, pilgrims! Don' ye go
ter bein' so fast. Fo'kes harn't so much in a hurry now-'days as they
uster war. Ter be sure ther Lord manyfactered this futstool in seven
days; sum times I think he did, an' then, ag'in, my geological ijees
convince me he didn't."

"What has that to do with us?" demanded Ned, sternly. "I opine ye'd
better spread, some of you, if you don't want me to run a canyon
through your midst. Preach to some other pilgrim than me; I'm in a
hurry!"

"Haw! haw! Yas, I obsarve ye be; but if ye're my meat, an' I think
prob'ble ye be, I ain't a-goin' fer ter let yer off so nice and easy.
P'arps ye kin tell who fired the popgun, a minnit ago, w'at basted my
ole pard?"

"I shall not take trouble to tell!" replied Ned, fingering the trigger
of his left six uneasily. "Ef you want to know who salted Chet
Diamond, the worst blackleg