rned a
corner and darted down one that was dark and deserted.

A moment later a trim boyish figure stepped before them, from out of
the shadow of a new frame building; a hand of creamy whiteness was
laid upon the arm of Ned Harris.

"This way, pilgrims," said a low musical voice, and at the same
instant a gust of wind lifted the jaunty sombrero from the speaker's
head, revealing a most wonderful wealth of long glossy hair; "the
'toughs' are after you, and you cannot find a better place to coop
than in here." The soft hand drew Ned Harris inside the building,
which was finished, but unoccupied, and Redburn followed, nothing loth
to get into a place of safety. So far, Deadwood had not impressed him
favorably as being the most peaceable city within the scope of a
continent.

Into an inner room of the building they went, and the door was closed
behind them. The apartment was small and smelled of green lumber. A
table and a few chairs comprised the furniture; a dark lantern burned
suspended from the ceiling by a wire. Redburn eyed the strange youth
as he and Harris were handed seats.

Of medium hight and symmetrically built; dressed in a carefully tanned
costume of buck-skin, the vest being fringed with the fur of the mink;
wearing a jaunty Spanish sombrero; boots on the dainty feet of patent
leather, with tops reaching to the knees; a face slightly sun-burned,
yet showing the traces of beauty that even excessive dissipation could
not obliterate; eyes black and piercing; mouth firm, resolute, and
devoid of sensual expression: hair of raven color and of remarkable
length;--such was the picture of the youth as beheld by Redburn and
Harris.

"You can remain here till you think it will be safe to again venture
forth, gentlemen," and a smile--evidently a stranger there--broke out
about the speaker's lips. "Good-evening!" "Good-evening!" nodded
Harris, with a quizzical stare. The next moment the youth was gone.

"Who was that chap?" asked Redburn, not a little bewildered.

"That?--why that's Calamity Jane!"

"Calamity Jane? _What_ a name."

"Yes, she's an odd one. Can ride like the wind, shoot like a
sharp-shooter, and swear like a trooper. Is here, there and
everywhere, seemingly all at one time. Owns this coop and two or three
other lots in Deadwood; a herding ranch at Laramie, an interest in a
paying placer claim near Elizabeth City, and the Lord only knows how
much more."

"But it is not a _woman_?"

"Reckon 't