"This way, pilgrims," said a low musical voice, and at the same
instant a gust of wind lifted the jaunty sombrero from the speaker's
head, revealing a most wonderful wealth of long glossy hair; "the
'toughs' are after you, and you cannot find a better place to coop
than in here." The soft hand drew Ned Harris inside the building,
which was finished, but unoccupied, and Redburn followed, nothing loth
to get into a place of safety. So far, Deadwood had not impressed him
favorably as being the most peaceable city within the scope of a
continent.

Into an inner room of the building they went, and the door was closed
behind them. The apartment was small and smelled of green lumber. A
table and a few chairs comprised the furniture; a dark lantern burned
suspended from the ceiling by a wire. Redburn eyed the strange youth
as he and Harris were handed seats.

Of medium hight and symmetrically built; dressed in a carefully tanned
costume of buck-skin, the vest being fringed with the fur of the mink;
wearing a jaunty Spanish sombrero; boots on the dainty feet of patent
leather, with tops reaching to the knees; a face slightly sun-burned,
yet showing the traces of beauty that even excessive dissipation could
not obliterate; eyes black and piercing; mouth firm, resolute, and
devoid of sensual expression: hair of raven color and of remarkable
length;--such was the picture of the youth as beheld by Redburn and
Harris.

"You can remain here till you think it will be safe to again venture
forth, gentlemen," and a smile--evidently a stranger there--broke out
about the speaker's lips. "Good-evening!" "Good-evening!" nodded
Harris, with a quizzical stare. The next moment the youth was gone.