“No, not within thirty miles. But there is a woman here--no, an angel--and it’s Angel we call her, and when there is sickness or trouble she is right there. If you like, I’ll interjuce her to your ladies the next time she comes in. She was here to-day to dinner. She is as fine a woman as ever walked the earth, the Angel is.” “Thank you, but just at present I want my daughter to be kept strictly secluded. The sight of strangers always makes her worse. I am sure that we shall be glad to know this lady--the Angel, as you call her--later. My wife will, I know.” Then Pierson took out a handful of cigars, paid for the box, and asked Snakes to keep the box handy, as he was going to have supper and a smoke. He signaled to Dopey and they went to the dining-room, where Dopey astonished himself, as well as the waiters, by the quantity of food he consumed. He could not have eaten as much in the city in a week. “Say, boss,” said he, in a raucous whisper, “dey’s no limit to de feed here, is dere? An’ see what a pile I’m layin’ away. I t’ink de air agrees wid me here.” “It is not the air so much as the absence from the dope-chair, so try to get that through your head, and never touch it again.” “I don’t care, now, if I never do, but if I gits back on de Bowery--I couldn’t say. Say, is de ladies eatin’?” “They are, I expect. Mum’s the word. Eat your supper and never talk when there is anyone about.” This last was said in a tone so low that none could hear it. There was some speculation among the men who were regular boarders and the miners and cowboys who generally rode in in the evening whenever they were at liberty, and the peremptory order from Snakes to refrain from shooting, on account of the young lady upstairs, had the effect of a damper upon their noisy gaiety. They were filled with sympathetic pity for the poor young girl who was so beautiful. In the meantime Pierson, followed by Dopey, went on up the run to smoke and be able to concoct their plans for getting rid of Muriel and Dora. They passed not ten feet from the tiny tent where the bereaved father was lying unconscious from the fumes of the abominable stuff he had been forced to drink to amuse the men. The poor shoemaker and the little boy lay there together, safe in the hands of the men about and sheltered by the great mountains beyond, but they would never have awakened to the glory of the morning had Pierson known who slept under the tent. CHAPTER VIII. The night passed and the morning dawned bright and beautiful, and it seemed that all nature was astir to welcome the light. There was first a cold blue light far in the East, which swiftly changed to a purplish pink, and this again to a rosy yellow, and then the sun rose in all its bright beauty.