As in so many other mining towns, killers and robbers walked the streets of Goldville, and the authorities tacitly agreed to forget their pasts unless they committed some fresh crime within the town. So wanted men, with huge rewards offered for them by other States, drank, ate, and slept and had no other worry than to keep a wary eye out for an enemy.

Real law would come later, and the enforcement of it, but now, while many of the decent citizens of the town disliked and feared the roughs who hung out in the Ace High Saloon, few had the nerve to interfere, if the rowdies attempted to ride a stranger.

“Gents, I’m tellin’ yuh it’s the only lollygaholopus that ain’t in captivity,” a big, florid-faced man said with mock gravity as he pointed to one of the passengers who had arrived on the stage. There had been five in all—three hard-rock miners, “Pop” Howes, a leathery-faced old prospector, and the man who was the object of the rough’s joke.

He was a small, undersized man of about twenty-eight. His hat, with its extra high crown, was the finest grade of Stetson; his boots, custom-made patent leather, had abnormally high heels; his shirt was of silk and knotted with a loose black tie, and his suit was black, and silk-faced lapels adorned his long-tailed frock coat. If he heard the rough’s pleasantry he made no move to resent it. He pulled at his heavy black beard and gazed indifferently about the town.

“Anderson, yuh is plumb mixed in your animology. That ain’t no lollygaholopus; it’s a wampus on stilts!” a tall, gawky, hook-nosed man cried.

The bums roared at this allusion to the little man’s high heels. Even the other spectators who disliked Anderson and his cronies smiled, but still the little man in the frock coat paid no attention to the remarks.

A small, undersized young fellow, dressed in ragged, faded jeans, who was standing on the outer fringe of the watchers, stared at the little man as if he were a ghost. Then suddenly the youth’s freckled face split in a wide, loose-mouthed grin.

“Gosh, it’s him!” he cried excitedly.

Pop Howes, the old prospector who had arrived on the stage, raised himself on tiptoe and peered over the heads of the crowd.

“Who’s ‘him’?” he asked, then added regretfully: “Darn them big bullies! Why don’t they take a gent their own size?”

“Jack ain’t used to being made fun of, so he don’t savvy they’re talkin’ about him,” said the ragged fellow. “But don’t yuh worry none. When he does, he’ll swell up and get darned big in them gents’ eyes.”

“Big” Anderson, the florid-faced bully, took several steps toward the little man, cocked his head on one side, and carefully surveyed the stranger from his patent-leather boots to his high-crowned Stetson. Then Anderson nodded his head decisively.

“Yep, ‘Hi,’ yuh is plumb correct! It’s the most perfect specimen of a wampus on stilts I ever seen. What do yuh say we capture it an’ sell it to some museum?”

The little man suddenly realized that these remarks were directed toward himself and, very slowly, he turned and glanced at Big Anderson and Hi Stevens, the other rough. They met his eyes with broad, taunting grins.

The little man stood there, quietly watching them for a moment, then walked briskly across the road toward them. Because of his high heels, he seemed to strut like a bantam rooster. His eyes were steady and bored into those of the two crude jesters, who were taken aback at his sudden advance.

“Was yuh gents talkin’ about me?” he asked coldly.

The two recovered from their surprise and grinned mockingly, then prepared to have further fun with the “wampus.”

“We sure was. I was remarkin’ yuh is the most perfect specimen of——”

Big Anderson’s’ grin vanished, and his words came to an abrupt halt, for the little man’s coat opened like two doors on springs, and two big black guns seemed to leap from his belt into his hands. The bullies’ mouths grew slack, as they stared pop-eyed into the big, round barrels of those Colts.

“Yuh was sayin’?” the little man inquired.

“Put them guns away or—or——” Hi Stevens attempted to bluster, but he could not bring himself to finish the sentence. While the stranger was small, those two guns were big, the hands that held them steady, and the eyes behind them very hard.

“Yuh was sayin’ I was a wampus?”

The voice was gentle, but it sounded to the two bullies like a death knell. Their courage oozed away visibly, and their hands fell limply from the butts of their guns. Hi Stevens choked and stammered, then spoke hesitatingly:

“Naw, I never said that.”

“Then it was your friend. Now, mister, yuh’ll have to teach him manners. Yuh’ll have to show him it ain’t nice to go callin’ strangers names. Just so he won’t forget it, yuh pull his ear with one hand an’ slap him good with the other.”

The spectators gathered closer; this was good—the bullies being bullied. The two roughs’ friends near the door of the Ace High moved restlessly, and one or two of them handled their guns; but the boy in the tattered jeans ran across the road and whispered something to them, and their desire to interfere seemed to vanish.

Anderson and Stevens stared at the little stranger as if they had suddenly become half-witted and did not understand his words. He repeated them again more sharply this time, and when Hi Stevens made no move to obey, his right-hand gun roared, and the bully, white-faced, hopped about on one foot and stared at his left boot, the heel of which had vanished.

“Hey, mister, don’t do that,” he whined.

“Do what I tole yuh to, or I’ll take one of your toes off next,” the little man warned.

Instinctively Hi Stevens knew that the threat was no bluff. Moved by resentment toward Big Anderson, who had started this ill-fated horseplay, Stevens suddenly reached over and, before his astonished friend could recover from his stupor, yanked one of Anderson’s ears and clouted him across the cheek with his other hand.

Big Anderson roared with anger and glared at Stevens; but, while he rubbed the red mark on his cheek, he made no move that the frock-coated stranger might have interpreted as hostile.

“Now, mister, it’s your turn to teach him not to go callin’ names.”

Big Anderson stepped toward Stevens with blood in his eyes.

“Mister, yuh stand still an’ take it or I’ll——”

The stranger had no need to voice his threat, for Hi Stevens stopped in his tracks and waited. Anderson yanked Stevens’ ear, raised a big, hairy paw, and clouted him on the side of the head with such force that Stevens reeled backward.

“Now get the hell out of here!” the stranger snapped.

The two bullies, murderous with rage, both at each other and at the stranger, whirled about and hurried into the Ace High Saloon. The little man waited until they disappeared. Then he returned his guns to their holsters, with a movement as swift as that with which he had drawn them, whirled on his heel, and stalked toward the hotel.

“Baldy” Kane, a slender man of forty whose face and head were as guiltless of hair as an egg and whose gray eyes and long, sallow face were entirely devoid of expression, watched the black-coated stranger enter the hotel, then turned to a friend and asked:

“Who’s the little rooster?”

His friend nodded toward the ragged boy, who was now walking down the dusty street by the side of Pop Howes.

“Jim-twin Allen horned in suddenlike when the boys was thinkin’ of stoppin’ the little man, so I figger the little runt with the whiskers is Jim’s brother—‘Jack-twin’ Allen.”

Kane shrugged, turned on his heel, and followed Big Anderson and Hi Stevens into the Ace High. A miner leaped down and whispered to a companion.

“If that there rip-snortin’ hellion of a Wyoming sheriff is here, hell is sure goin’ to pop, an’ Baldy is thinkin’ fast an’ hard!”

“’Tain’t safe to talk!” the other mumbled out of the corner of his mouth and turned away.