There was a time when "Slaughter's Hotel" was the first and only house
of its kind in the town of Helena. That was when Slaughter, senior,
presided over its destinies. Now that he was no more, and his son
walked rather slipshod in his shoes, it had sunk into a second-rate
place of entertainment--an establishment more respectable, or, at all
events, more pretentious, having swung out its sign.
In Slaughter's hostelry _bona fide_ travellers had become scarce. Still
it was not without guests and patrons in plenty. There were enough
"sportsmen" in the place, with adventurers of other kinds, to give the
house a custom, and these principally patronised it. From a family
hotel, it had changed into a drinking and gambling saloon, and in this
respect was prosperous enough. It was the resort of all the dissipated
young men of the neighbourhood--and the old ones too. It had public and
private parlours, and one of the latter, the landlord's own, was only
accessible to the select of his acquaintances--his cronies of a special
type.
On the evening of that day in which Alfred Brandon had received his
dismissal from the daughter of Jerry Rook, this apartment was occupied
by six persons, including the landlord himself. They were the same who
had figured in the hanging frolic, of which young Robideau had been so
near being the victim. On this account, it is not necessary to give
their names nor any description of them, farther than to say that all
six were as wild and wicked as ever, or, to speak with greater
exactitude, wilder and more wicked.
It might seem strange that chance had brought these young men together
without any other company, but the closed door, and the order for no one
to be admitted, showed that their meeting was not by mere accident.
Their conversation, already commenced, told that they had met by
appointment, as also the purpose of their assembling.
It was Alfred Brandon who had summoned them to the secret conclave, and
he who made the opening speech, declaring his object in having done so.