him. He had known men before now to
make towns upon dry bare ground and in a mere handful of days; not even
he, with his first-hand knowledge of such venturings, had ever seen the
like of Sanchia's Town. The spirit which had initiated it into the
world was still its driving spirit. It sprawled, it overflowed its
boundaries incessantly, it hooted and yelled and sang. It grew like a
formless mass lumped about fermenting yeast. Already there were shacks
and tents up and down both sides of Dry Gulch and strung along in the
gravelly bed. There were gambling-houses, monstrosities which named
themselves hotels and rooming-houses, stores, lunch counters. The
streets were crooked alleys; everywhere dust puffed up and thickened
and never settled; teams and jolting wagons and pack burros disputed
the congested way; there were seasoned miners, old-time prospectors,
going their quiet ways; there were tenderfeet of all descriptions. Not
less than five thousand human souls had already found their way to
Sanchia's Town and more were coming.

In all of this to-day, Howard took scant interest. His major emotion
was one of annoyance. Among such a seething crowd where should he ask
of the Longstreets? He sat his horse in a narrow space between a lunch
counter and a canvas bar-room and stared about him. Then he saw that
the solitary figure perched upon a box before the lunch counter was
Yellow Barbee. He called to him quickly.

Barbee's young eyes, which he turned promptly, were still eloquent of
an amorous joyousness within Barbee's young soul. He bestowed his
glance only fleetingly upon Howard, said a brief 'Hello, Al,' and
turned immediately to the cause of the obvious flutter in Barbee's
bosom. Howard expected to see Sanchia Murray behind the counter.
Instead he saw a young girl of a little less than Barbee's age,
roguish-eyed, black-haired, red-mouthed, plump and saucy. Her sleeves
were up; her arms were brown and round; there was flour on them.

'Where are the Longstreets, Barbee?' asked Howard.

'Gone,' announced Barbee cheerfully. And as though that closed the
matter to his entire satisfaction, he demanded: 'Come on, Pet; be a
good kid. Going with me, ain't you?'

Pet laughed and thereafter turned up her pretty nose with obviously
mock disdain.

'Dancing old square dances and polkas, I'd bet a stack of wheats,' she
scoffed. 'Why, there ain't any more real jazz in your crowd of
cow-hands than there is in an