CHAPTER XXXIII.
CHEYENNE.
Paul looked about him with eager curiosity, for he had all a youth's keen zest in visiting unknown places. He saw one long street, of unusual width, lined with an indiscriminate variety of buildings from one-story saloons and offices to two and three-story buildings.
The Inter-Ocean Hotel, in front of which his guide halted, was a fine brick structure of three stories, which seemed hardly at home in the loosely built town, which had sprung up as if by magic on the prairies.
"This is where I put up," said Mr. Scott.
"I'll take a room here, if they can give me one."
"I'll see that you have one. They know me—Jim Scott—and they'd make room if they hadn't one. Do you know what they used to call this settlement?"
"No."
"'Hell on Wheels' was the name they give it in early days."
"Was that to invite settlers?" asked Paul, laughing.
"I expect it was because it was about the roughest, most lawless place between Omaha and Frisco. Why the principal occupation of the first settlers was gamblin', drinkin' rot-gut whisky, and shootin'. There wasn't a day passed hardly but some chap was found lyin' in the street with a hole in his head or a bullet in his heart. I tell you them was rough times."