The bar was at one side of the room, with the usual complement of bottles, glasses and other paraphernalia devoted to such purposes.
The door leading to the street was a wide one and a high one to accommodate the cowboys from the adjacent ranches and the miners from up the mountains beyond.
Far up the trail could be seen mountains dark and sinister, more and more rugged as they ascended. Along, on some of the slopes in the far distance, could be seen the roofs and tall chimneys of quartz mills. On the whole, the outlook was dreary and monotonous.
Over the bar was a mirror and below that the usual hint about the unwisdom of trust, and another, in form of a placard, hung to the bar, saying:
“Please don’t shoot the barkeeper!
He’s doing the best he can.”
There was the usual crowd of roughly-dressed men lounging about and drinking, to kill the time until the stage should arrive. This was an event every day, for by it came letters, papers and news from the outer world.
Four of the men stood against the bar, singing. Their voices were good and resonant, developed by singing to their herds in the long night-watches, and after each verse of a song they took a sip of their drink, and followed up that by giving the cowboy yell of “Ee—you! Zip! Zip!” etc., until the very bottles trembled.
One of the men, whom the others called Shoshone Pete, said, airily:
“Set ’em up again, Snakes. I’ve been out on the range and this is the first chance I’ve had in six weeks to oil up my machinery.”