"By Jove, there's a girl; only one I've seen!" cried the little man named Frank, as Molly came in and took her seat at another table. "What of it?" asked Stevens, the tall man, with his mouth full of Black Jack's boiled potatoes. "But she's a pretty girl." Murphy, the fat jolly one, carefully removed his butter and soda biscuits, of which the visible supply seemed limited, beyond Frank's reach, and ventured a glance. "She is pretty," he agreed, firmly thwarting the little man's attempt to steal the butter in spite of his precautions. He turned to Dan Barker and resumed a labored discussion of the country's game and fishing. The tall man took up his conversation with Billy. "Yes," said he, "I go through that every morning. I find it invaluable. It keeps me as hard as nails. Feel there!" He doubled his arm, and Billy placed his huge fingers gingerly over the Easterner's biceps. Down the long table the miners and prospectors ate uneasily, with frequent glances toward the noisy strangers, exchanging rare low-voiced comments, and twisting their feet. Between Molly and the man whom the others called Frank there sprang up an incipient flirtation of glances. After dinner everybody went outside into the open air, where the gathering relaxed its formality and men breathed mere freely. Murphy conversed with several on the subject of Colt's forty-fives. He expressed a desire for a shooting match, to which end he borrowed Billy's six-shooter, and handled it so recklessly that everybody wanted to duck. Finally he planted the muzzle firmly between his fat legs, rested both hands on the butt, and looked about him triumphantly. "What'll I hit?" he asked. "God knows!" ejaculated the tall man; "but you can shoot at this." He drew an envelope from his pocket, and turned toward a small board box resting against the stump of a tree. Bill Martin started forward in alarm. "Hol' on!" cried he, "I got some chickens in that thar coop!" The tall man turned and wrung his hand in a mock access of gratitude. "Thank you! thank you!" he cried fervently. "To think how near I came to having the blood of those innocent chickens on my head! I shall never cease to feel grateful to you, sir!" He marched over to the coop and pinned the envelope square in the middle of it. "There," said he, stepping back with an air of satisfaction. "Now the chickens are perfectly safe!" The proprietor grinned very doubtfully. Several men laughed, one after the other, as the joke penetrated. "You go to hell, Steve," said the fat man, bubbling all over. He raised the long six-shooter with an easy gesture. "They're just as good as meat!" he asserted confidently as he squinted over the sights. A breathless pause ensued. "Always cock your pistol before shooting," Frank finally admonished in a soft and didactic voice.