There always was a lot of activity in Silver Butte at night. Construction men, off shift, thronged the street, many of them intoxicated. Fights started and ended without interference. The jail was too small to think of starting a crusade against mere personal fights. Tomorrow night the new Eureka would open, which would, no doubt, start trouble. Streak Malone realized the enormity of his job. He had won his first encounter, but he knew, as Mack Shell had said, they would not give him a break next time. He managed to cross the street to his office where he found Mack Shell, carefully oiling his six-shooter. The little outlaw smiled slowly, and Streak knew that he had seen him taking Clare Ames across the street. “She’s dealin’ at the Eureka tomorrow night,” Streak said. “So Jim Flack is goin’ to use female bait, too, eh?” remarked Shell. “Yuh know, I’m afraid that Brant is goin’ to have plenty competition, Streak. That little singer--the one they call Mazie over at the Silver Dollar--has quit Brant and will sing at the Eureka. The men are crazy about her singin’.” “Have you got a puncher in yore outfit, sort of a kid, named Joe?” asked Streak. “Yeah. Joe East.” “I heard him talkin’ with that singer. He wants her to marry him and go back East.” “He does, eh? Yuh know, one of my boys told me that Joe was shinin’ around her but I didn’t believe it. Joe’s just a kid. He ain’t one of my regular gang, Streak. He just works with cows.” “What did yore boys say, when yuh told ’em you was a lawman?” * * * * * The outlaw hesitated, then shoved back his sombrero and scratched his head. “Thought I’d gone crazy,” Mack Shell grinned. “But I explained the whole thing, and they’re behind us. If yuh don’t mind, Streak, I’ll sleep here in the office tonight. There might be bushwhackers along the road to my ranch and, anyway, somebody might try to put up that sign again on the door of the office.” Streak was in no mood to go to bed and yet he realized the danger of that main street at night. Men were still working at the Eureka when he went over there, polishing the long bar, putting the final touches on the gambling paraphernalia. It cost Jim Flack a pretty penny to have all that shipped to Silver Butte. He found Flack, a tall, saturnine gambler, watching the men. His greeting to Streak was very friendly. He said: “Glad you came over Malone. I heard about that trouble in the Silver Dollar, and the folks are showing a lot of confidence in you as marshal of Silver Butte.” “Thank you,” said Streak soberly. “You’ve spent a lot of money to build and operate this place. That bar must have cost a small fortune, alone.” “I want to make this place permanent, Malone, but I’m afraid it might not work out that way. You know something of the conditions, and they are not good. I want to operate honest games and sell good liquors, but I don’t know.” “I know what yuh mean, Flack--and they’re not good prospects.”