s with deep interest from a pile of
lumber opposite, sarcastically intimated that under such circumstances
the attendance of club members would be necessarily limited. Mr.
Moffat's reply it is manifestly impossible to quote literally. Mrs.
Guffy was employed to provide the requisite refreshments in the
palatial dining-hall of the hotel, while Buck Mason, the vigilant town
marshal, popularly supposed to know intimately the face of every
"rounder" in the Territory, agreed to collect the cards of invitation
at the door, and bar out obnoxious visitors.

These preliminaries having been duly attended to, Mr. Moffat and his
indefatigable committee of arrangements proceeded to master the details
of decoration and entertainment, drawing heavily upon the limited
resources of the local merchants, and even invading private homes in
search after beautifying material. Jim Lane drove his buckboard one
hundred and sixty miles to Cheyenne to gather up certain needed
articles of adornment, the selection of which could not be safely
confided to the inartistic taste of the stage-driver. Upon his rapid
return journey loaded down with spoils, Peg Brace, a cow-puncher in the
"Bar O" gang, rode recklessly alongside his speeding wheels for the
greater portion of the distance, apparently in most jovial humor, and
so unusually inquisitive as to make Mr. Lane, as he later expressed it,
"plum tired." The persistent rider finally deserted him, however, at
the ford over the Sinsiniwa, shouting derisively back from a safe
distance that the Miners' Club was a lot of chumps, and promising them
a severe "jolt" in the near future.

Indeed, it was becoming more and more apparent that a decided feeling
of hostility was fast developing between the respective partisans of
Moffat and McNeil. Thus far the feud merely smouldered, finding
occasional expression in sarcastic speech, and the severance of former
friendly relations, but it boded more serious trouble for the near
future. To a loyal henchman, Moffat merely condescended to remark,
glancing disdainfully at a knot of hard riders disconsolately sitting
their ponies in front of the saloon door, "We 've got them fellers
roped and tied, gents, and they simply won't be ace-high with the
ladies of this camp after our fandango is over with. We're a holdin'
the hand this game, an' it simply sweeps the board clean. That duffer
McNeil's the sickest looking duck I 've seen in a year, an' the whole
blame bu