The door leading to the street was a wide one and a high one to accommodate the cowboys from the adjacent ranches and the miners from up the mountains beyond. Far up the trail could be seen mountains dark and sinister, more and more rugged as they ascended. Along, on some of the slopes in the far distance, could be seen the roofs and tall chimneys of quartz mills. On the whole, the outlook was dreary and monotonous. Over the bar was a mirror and below that the usual hint about the unwisdom of trust, and another, in form of a placard, hung to the bar, saying: “Please don’t shoot the barkeeper! He’s doing the best he can.” There was the usual crowd of roughly-dressed men lounging about and drinking, to kill the time until the stage should arrive. This was an event every day, for by it came letters, papers and news from the outer world. Four of the men stood against the bar, singing. Their voices were good and resonant, developed by singing to their herds in the long night-watches, and after each verse of a song they took a sip of their drink, and followed up that by giving the cowboy yell of “Ee--you! Zip! Zip!” etc., until the very bottles trembled. One of the men, whom the others called Shoshone Pete, said, airily: “Set ’em up again, Snakes. I’ve been out on the range and this is the first chance I’ve had in six weeks to oil up my machinery.” “Zip! Zip! Hurry up, you spavined old cayuse! Kick up your heels and come to life,” suggested Dead Shot Mike, threateningly, while he hastily swallowed what was left in the bottom of his glass and wiped his lips on his sleeve, ready for another drink. “Ee--you! Zip! Zip! I’m my mother’s baby and I want my milk, I do,” whimpered Shoshone Pete, while Snakes, the bartender, was struggling with a refractory cork. He sneered: “Ah! gimme a minute till I get this cork out. You’re like a pack o’ howlin’ coyotes hungry for meat.” The cork popped out of the bottle just then and Snakes handed it to the waiting men, who set up another song with its shrill chorus of “zips and ee--yous.” By the time the song was ended another glass was called for, and Shoshone Pete began his noisy harangue of: “Ee--you! Zip! Zip! I’m the warbler of the range. I’m the wild mocking-bird of the chaparral. I’m the silver-voiced son of a gun from Cheyenne, Wy-o. I’m the game cock of Deadwood, and it’s my time to crow!” then imitating a rooster. All the others laughed, and Snakes said, benignly: “This is one on me, boys. Come up to the trough.” Again handing out the bottle. “Watch him, boys, watch him! Whenever he treats, it’s ‘coffin varnish,’” said Shoshone Pete, while the others attended strictly to business. “Is that so?” said Snakes, angrily. “Let me tell you, this stuff is four years old and came from Denver.” “Well,” said Mike, “it is the strongest four-year-old I ever saw. Here’s how.”