All day and all night could be heard the call of the _croupier_ at the gambling-table as he announced the numbers and combinations that the wheel or cards produced in the course of the manipulations to which his deft fingers subjected them.
Hot words often came from fortunate and unfortunate gamesters, and the short, sharp report of the six-shooter, the shouts of combatants, the groans of wounded or dying men, the clatter of heavy boots or spurs on the feet of stampeded spectators were sounds that, nearly every night, greeted the ears of the populace.
Mob law reigned supreme, and there was little effort on the part of the village authorities to punish offenders. Sometimes Judge Lynch's court was convened on short notice, and someone who had committed an unusually flagrant violation of the "law of honor" and had killed a man without due provocation, was hurriedly tried and strung up to the nearest tree.
One evening in the month of November, the excitement was varied by the arrival of a "bull-train"[1] of ten wagons loaded with buffalo skins. They drove to the warehouse of the largest trader in the place to unload, and were quickly surrounded by a crowd of eager inquirers who sought for news from the front.
[1] What is known on the frontier as a "bull-train" is a number of ponderous wagons, drawn by from six to ten yoke of oxen each, used for hauling heavy freight across the plains.
Some inquired as to the nature of the country, some as to the progress of settlements, some as to friends who were at the front, and many as to the buffalo herd from which the five thousand skins brought in by this train had been taken.
"The main herd," said the wagon boss, "is two hundred miles west on the headwaters of the Brazos river."
"Nobody knows that, for none of 'em has took time to ride to the west end of it."
"Are there many hunters there?" inquired a young St. Louis lawyer.
"Wall, you'd reckon," said the boss. "Tha's 'bout a hundred and fifty white hunters, and more'n a thousand red-skins."
"To-morrow mornin', if I can keep my bull punchers from gettin' full of pizen."
The crowd gradually scattered, while a little knot of the more respectable element repaired to the hotel to discuss the question of organizing a hunting party to go to the buffalo range. In an hour they agreed to go, the time for the start being fixed for the morning of the second day following.