"Baggage?" he inquired as Mr. Bowles stood helplessly to one side.
"Oh, yes!" said Bowles, recovering himself with an effort. "Here are the checks. My trunks will be in on a later train. Have them sent up, won't you?"
"Sample room?" queried the hotel-keeper brusquely.
"Beg pardon?"
"D'ye want 'em put in the sample room?" snarled the proprietor, outraged at having to bandy words with the despised Easterner.
"The sample room?" repeated Mr. Bowles, now thoroughly mystified. "Why, no—why should I?"
At this final evidence of imbecility a mighty spasm of rage came over the proprietor, and as he struggled to regain his calm Dixie Lee suddenly clapped a handkerchief to her mouth and made a dash for the dining-room. The paroxysm passed and with an air of wearied indulgence the proprietor explained and disappeared.
"All right!" he grumbled. "Guess you know your own business. Thought you was a travelin' man."
He stepped back through the door marked "Bar" and Mr. Bowles was left to gasp alone. A traveling man! They took him for a traveling man! It was quite a shock, and Bowles was still brooding over it by the stove when the door from the bar was thrust open and a tall cowboy, booted and spurred and shapped and pistoled, came stalking into the room. His broad sombrero was shoved far back on his head, showing a tremendous stand of tumbled hair, and his keen hazel eyes roved about with the steady intentness of a hunting animal's; but only for the fraction of a second did he condescend to notice Bowles. He swayed a little as he walked and the aroma of whisky came with him, but otherwise he seemed perfectly sober.
"Say!" he called, turning and kicking the bar door open again, "did Dix come in on that train? She did? Well, here's where I git hell—I was supposed to go down and meet 'er!"