CHAPTER VI
THE MEN OF EAGLE
Waseche Bill jogged along the main street of Eagle, past log cabins, board shacks, and the deceiving two-story fronts of one-story stores. Now and then an acquaintance hailed him from the wooden sidewalk, and he recognized others he knew, among the small knots of men who stood about idly discussing the meagre news of the camp. At the Royal Palm Hotel, a long, low, log building with a false front of boards, he swung in and, passing around to the rear, turned his dogs into the stockade.
In the office, seated about the stove, were a dozen or more men, most of whom Waseche knew. They greeted him loudly as he entered, and plied him with a volley of questions.
"Where ye headed?"
"Thought ye'd struck it rich on Ten Bow?"
"D'ye hear about Camaron Creek?"
The newcomer removed his heavy parka and joined the group, answering a question here, and asking one there.