nine in the morning
Could this be Haskell ? Could this indeed be the inferno into which she had been precipitated from the train in the darkness of the evening before ? She stared about at the bare , board walls , the bullet-scarred mirror , the cracked pitcher , before she could fully reassure herself ; then stepped upon the disreputable rug , and crossed to the open window . Haskell at nine in the morning bore but slight resemblance to that same environment during the hours of darkness -- especially on a night immediately following pay-day at the mines . As Miss Donovan , now thoroughly awake , and obsessed by the memory of those past hours of horror , cautiously drew aside the corner of torn curtain , and gazed down upon the deserted street below , she could scarcely accept the evidence of her own eyes . True , there were many proofs visible of the wild riot of the evening before -- torn papers , emptied bottles , a shattered sign or two , an oil-lamp blown into bits by some well-directed shot , a bat lying in the middle of the road , and a dejected pony or two , still at the hitching-rack , waiting a delayed rider . But , except for these mute reminiscences of past frolic , the long street seemed utterly dead , the doors of saloons and dance-halls closed , the dust swirling back and forth to puffs of wind , the only moving object visible being a gaunt , yellow dog trotting soberly past .