“Wanted to be chief,[5] eh?” the murderer jeered in a heavy overbearing voice. “There’ll be only one chief in Virginia while Sam Dutch is here. If any one else wants the job, he’ll gets his like Red Mike did.” He shuffled away, Spanish spurs jingling, slouching and slow of movement. His gestures were heavy, except when shooting. No bad man in Washoe was quicker on the draw. ----- [5] It was a matter of pride among the desperadoes of Nevada in early days to be cock of the walk. Many a “bad man” died with his boots on because he aspired to be “chief” among his fellows. So long as these ruffians killed each other, the community paid little attention to their murders. When good citizens fell victim, a sentiment was created which eventually resulted in the supremacy of law.—W. M. R. ----- A faint trickle of smoke still issued from the barrel of his revolver as he thrust it back into its scabbard, where it could be seen beneath the flapping coat tails. He disappeared into the Mile High and proceeded to down half-a-dozen gin slings at the expense of friends who did not dare withhold this tribute of admiration lest he make one of them number eleven on his list. An hour later, Scot McClintock saw him there, in drunken slumber lying on a billiard table, the brute primordial, first among the bad men of the lawless camp because he was its most deadly ruffian. There were those who would have liked to make an end of him as he lay soddenly asleep, but he was so quick and terrible that their fear was greater than the lust to kill. Scot helped from the ground the woman he had thrown. She looked at him, her breast rising and falling deep, fear still quick in the soft brown eyes. Her cheeks were white as the snow on Mt. Davidson. “Madam, I’m sorry I was rough,” Scot said, and gave her the most gallant bow in Washoe. “But you were in the line of fire. I couldn’t take chances.” Emotion shook her. A faint colour crept timidly into her face. She said, in a voice hardly audible: “You saved my life.” “I wouldn’t go that far,” the man answered, smiling. Something eager, beautiful, made of the woman’s eyes soft stars of night. “I’ll never forget—never,” she promised, with a strangled sob. There was a low jangling laugh at her shoulder. “Tha’s right. Always a fool if you can find a chance to be one, Moll,” a voice sneered. The light died from the woman’s eyes, the colour from her cheeks. She became at once a creature lifeless, without spirit. Scot turned, voice soft and suave. “Did you find what you went to look for in the wagon, sir?” he asked, raking the unkempt unclean emigrant with scornful eyes. A dull flush burned into the man’s face. A furtive darting look slid from the yellow-gray eyes. It carried menace, as does sometimes that of a tamed wolf toward its trainer. “I—I didn’t notice where Moll was when I started,” he said with sullen reluctance. “An’ I reckon tha’s _my_ business.” “Quite so,” agreed the gambler.