ned to an inquisitive party of tourists, "He 's
a mighty fine little feller, gents, but he ain't got the git up an' git
necessary ter take the boundin' fancy of a high-strung heifer like her.
It needs a plum good man ter' rope an' tie any female critter in this
Territory, let me tell ye."

With this conception of the situation in mind, the citizens generally
settled themselves down to enjoy the truly Homeric struggle, freely
wagering their gold-dust upon the outcome. The regular patrons of the
Miners' Retreat were backing Mr. Moffat to a man, while those claiming
headquarters at the Occidental were equally ardent in their support of
the prospects of Mr. McNeil. It must be confessed that Miss Spencer
flirted outrageously, and enjoyed life as she never had done in the
effete East.

In simple truth, it was not in Miss Spencer's sympathetic disposition
to be cruel to any man, and in this puzzling situation she exhibited
all the impartiality possible. The Reverend Mr. Wynkoop always felt
serenely confident of an uninterrupted welcome upon Sunday evenings
after service, while the other nights of the week were evenly
apportioned between the two more ardent aspirants. The delvers after
mineral wealth amid the hills, and the herders on the surrounding
ranches, felt that this was a personal matter between them, and acted
accordingly. Three-finger Boone, who was caught red-handed timing the
exact hour of Mr. Moffat's exit from his lady-love's presence, was
indignantly ducked in the watering-trough before the Miners' Retreat,
and given ten minutes in which to mount his cayuse and get safely
across the camp boundaries. He required only five. Bad-eye Connelly,
who was suspected of having cut Mr. McNeil's lariat while that
gentleman tarried at the Occidental for some slight refreshments while
on his way home, was very promptly rendered a fit hospital subject by
an inquisitive cowman who happened upon the scene.

On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings the Miners' Retreat was a
scene of wild hilarity, for it was then that Mr. Moffat, gorgeously
arrayed in all the bright hues of his imported Mexican outfit, his long
silky mustaches properly curled, his melancholy eyes vast wells of
mysterious sorrow, was known to be comfortably seated in the Herndon
parlor, relating gruesome tales of wild mountain adventure which paled
the cheeks of his fair and entranced listener. Then on Tuesday,
Thursday, and Saturday nights, when Mr. Mc