a species of
road-house and hotel at the crossing of the Deadwood and Big Horn trails
through Custer Valley. Travellers changing from one to the other
frequently stopped there over night. He sold accommodations for man and
beast, the former comprising plenty of whiskey, the latter plenty of
hay. That was the best anyone could say of it. The hotel was of logs,
two-storied, with partitions of sheeting to insure a certain privacy of
sight if not of sound; had three beds and a number of bunks; and boasted
of a woman cook--one of the first in the Hills. Billy did not run it
long. He was too restless. For the time being, however, he was
interested and satisfied.

The personnel of the establishment consisted of Billy and the woman,
already mentioned, and an ancient Pistol of the name of Charley. The
latter wore many firearms, and had a good deal to say, but had never, as
Billy expressed it, "made good." This in the West could not be for lack
of opportunity. His functions were those of general factotum.

One evening Billy sat chair-tilted against the walls of the hotel
waiting for the stage. By and by it drew in. Charley hobbled out,
carrying buckets of water for the horses. The driver flung the reins
from him with the lordly insolence of his privileged class, descended
slowly, and swaggered to the bar-room for his drink. Billy followed to
serve it.

"Luck," said the driver, and crooked his elbow.

"Anything new?" queried Billy.

"Nope."

"Held up?"

"Nope. Black Hank's over in th' limestone."

That exhausted the situation. The two men puffed silently for a moment
at their pipes. In an instant the driver turned to go.

"I got you a tenderfoot," he remarked then, casually; "I reckon he's
outside."

"Guess I ambles forth and sees what fer a tenderfoot it is," replied
Billy, hastening from behind the bar.

The tenderfoot was seated on a small trunk just outside the door. As he
held his hat in his hand, Billy could see his dome-like bald head.
Beneath the dome was a little pink-and-white face, and below that
narrow, sloping shoulders, a flat chest, and bandy legs. He wore a light
check suit, and a flannel shirt whose collar was much too large for him.
Billy took this all in while passing. As the driver climbed to the seat,
the hotel-keeper commented.

"Say, Hen," said he, "would you stuff it or put it under a glass case?"

"I'd serve it, a lay Tooloose," replied the driver, briefly, and brought
his long lash 8-sh