door, and stare at the receding cavalcade in a dazed sort of way.
Others, thinking that the noise is all resulting from an Indian
attack, seize rifles or revolvers, as the case may be, and blaze away
out of windows and loopholes at whatever may be in the way to receive
their bullets.

But the road-agents only pause a moment in their song to send back a
wild, sarcastic laugh; then they resume it, and merrily dash along up
the gulch, the ringing of iron-shod hoofs beating a strange tatoo to
the sound of the music.

Sleepily the miners crawl back to their respective couches; the moon
smiles down on mother earth, and nature once more fans itself to sleep
with the breath of a fragrant breeze.

* * * * *

Deadwood--magic city of the West!

Not dead, nor even sleeping, is this headquarters of the Black Hills
population at midnight, twenty-four hours subsequent to the rush of
the daring road-agents through Camp Crook.

Deadwood is just as lively and hilarious a place during the interval
between sunset and sunrise as during the day. Saloons, dance-houses,
and gambling dens keep open all night, and stores do not close until a
late hour. At one, two and three o'clock in the morning the streets
present as lively an appearance as at any period earlier in the
evening. Fighting, shooting, stabbing and hideous swearing are
features of the night; singing, drinking, dancing and gambling