Men swaggered along the streets looking for trouble, and generally finding it; cowboys rode into open saloon doors and drank in the saddle; troops of congenial spirits, frenzied with liquor, spurred recklessly through the street firing into the air, or the crowd, as their whim led; bands played popular airs on balconies, and innumerable "barkers" added their honeyed invitations to the perpetual din.

From end to end it was a saturnalia of vice, a babel of sound, a glimpse of the inferno.

Money flowed like water; every man was his own law, and the gun the arbiter of destiny.

The town marshal, with a few cool-headed deputies, moved here and there amid the chaos, patient, tireless, undaunted, seeking merely to exercise some slight restraint.

This was Sheridan.
Into the one long street just at dusk rode Keith and Neb, the third horse trailing behind.