Streak Malone was almost obliged to ride over the wooden sidewalks, in order to avoid the traffic. In front of the stage office a man yelled his name, and he drew up. He vaguely remembered seeing the man in Bismark a year ago, and waved a greeting. He found an opening between two freight wagons, and spurred across the street and continued on to a feed-corral. The man in charge said: “Turn yore horse loose in the corral, stranger, and hang yore saddle in the stable.” “Wait a minute, my friend,” replied Streak. “I’ve got to have a stall for this horse, and I’ll take care of him myself.” “Ain’t the corral good enough?” The man was inclined to resent Streak’s words. “This horse will try to kill any man who touches him,” explained Streak. “Tell everybody to keep away from him.” “I’ve got an empty stall,” said the man. “Much obliged.” Streak walked out of the stable and met the man who had called to him. Streak looked closely at the man, who spoke quietly. “I own the general store here,” said the man. “You’re Streak Malone. I’m Jim Buskirk.” “I remember you,” said Streak. “Bismark, a year or so ago.” “Good! We’ve been lookin’ for a man like you, Malone.” Streak’s eyes hardened, and his right hand dropped naturally over the butt of his holstered gun. The man grinned and shook his head quickly. “Nothin’ like that,” he said quietly. “Come to my store at dark, and I’ll take yuh where we can talk to other men.” “I don’t reckon I understand this deal, my friend.” “Look across the street at that sign on the sheriff’s office.” It was painted in big, black letters and read: CLOSED BY ORDER OF THE VIGILANTES Streak nodded. “Plain enough,” he remarked. “The sheriff,” said Buskirk, “was an honest man. They shot him down in his office.” “The Vigilantes don’t usually kill an innocent man,” remarked Streak. “I heard they are operatin’ here.” “But don’t yuh understand?” asked Buskirk quietly. “There’s no Vigilantes. I mean, not honest ones. The sheriff was murdered.” “Oh, I see,” nodded Streak. “Wolves in sheep clothing.” “That’s it exactly. Will you meet with us?” Streak smiled. In town ten minutes, and already included in some mystery. He said, “I’ll be there, Buskirk--at dark.” The man nodded and crossed the street, while Streak walked up past the feed corral, and stopped to look at the new construction of the Eureka Saloon. They were unloading the sections of a huge, mahogany bar from freight wagons. The dismantled bar had been shipped by steamer from St. Louis, and picked up from a Missouri River boat. A man said: “The Eureka shore spent a fortune on that stuff. Imagine a mahogany bar in Silver Butte. Pearls before swine, I calls it.” Streak smiled and crossed the street to the one hotel in the town, where he was lucky enough to get a room. The clerk said: “Are you one of the new Eureka gamblers?” Streak shook his head. “Do I look like a gambler?” he asked.