Slim looked at him calmly, yet when he spoke his voice was low.
“That,” he said, “is none of your business.” The hotel keeper decided that as far as he was concerned the newcomers could be only one jump ahead of a sheriff.
He handed a key over the counter. “Your room’s No. 3 on the left side as you go down the hall.”
Slim and Chuck picked up their saddles and ascended the stairs. The hallway was narrow, hot, and poorly lighted, but they found the door of their own room.
The room was furnished in the usual fashion of a cow country hotel. The bed was of cast iron, the other furnishings being two straight-backed chairs and a wash stand that stood at a crazy angle. The mirror above it, like the windows, had not been cleaned in months and there was a smell of mustiness about the room.
Slim threw open the one window and a light breeze from the east riffled the remnants of what had once been a curtain.
Chuck tested the bed.
“Not bad,” he said, “and the sheets are clean.”
There was no water in the pitcher on the washstand but the portly keeper of the hostelry appeared with a bucketful.
“Wasn’t looking for any business today,” he said as he filled the water pitcher. “Here’s a towel, too. Supper will be ready in about fifteen minutes.”