on a raised dais began to tune an ancient
fiddle.

Two more women came in from somewhere at the back, a big blooming girl
by the name of Sadie, and a small red-head, tragically faded, with
soft brown eyes that should never have looked upon Bullard's. Two men
rose and took them as the tune, an old-fashioned waltz, began to
ripple under the fingers of the fiddler, who was a born musician, and
the four swung down between the tables and the bar. The Golden Cloud
was in full swing, running free for the night, though the soft
twilight was scarcely faded from the beautiful country without.

Slip--step, slip--step--went the dancing feet to the accompaniment of
rattling spurs. These men were lithe and active, able to dance with
amazing grace in chaps and the full accoutrement of the rider. They
even wore their broad brimmed hats.

Why should they not, since none objected?

Bullard, solid, stocky, red-faced, leaned on his bar and watched the
busy room with pleased eyes.

He did not hear a voice which called his name, once or twice, among
the jumble of sounds. Presently an odd figure came round the end of
the bar from a door that opened there into the mysterious back
regions of the place and elbowed in to face him.

This was a little old man, weazened and bent, his unkempt head thrust
forward from hunched shoulders. He dragged two grain sacks behind him,
and he was so grotesquely bow-legged that the first sight of him
always provoked laughter. This was old Pete the snow-packer, bound on
his nightly trip to the hills. Outside his burros waited, their
pack-saddles empty.

By dawn they would come down from the world's rim, the grain sacks
bulging with hard-packed snow for the cooling of Bullard's liquor.

"Dick," he said when he faced his employer, "here 'tis time t' start
an' there ain't a damned bit o' grub put up fer me! Ef ye don't make
that pig-tailed Chink pay 'tention t' my wants, I quit! I quit, I tell
ye!"

And he emphasized his vehement protest by whirling the bags over his
head and flailing them upon the floor.

A roar of laughter greeted him, which brought dim tears of indignation
to his old eyes.

"Ye don't care a damn!" he whimpered in impotent rage. "Jes' 'cause
it's me. Ef 'twas yer ol' Chink, now--if 'twas him, th' ol'
he-pigtail, ye'd----"

"Hold on, Pete," said Bullard, slapping an indulgent hand on the
grotesque shoulder, "You go tell Wan Lee that if he don't put up th'
best lunch in camp for you,