Two enormous and bulging suitcases, each as big as a small trunk, were in the stage boot, and Hassayamp hauled them out with antagonistic air, and led his victim away.
The Stovepipe House was built for desert use, not for looks. The front building contained post office and hotel dining-room; and passing through this, Tompkins descended the rear steps and found two long adobe structures stretching in front of him, each divided into cells; between them drooped some parched flowers and shrubs. He was shown to his cell, a room twelve by twelve, furnished with all the comforts of home.
“Don’t do no cussing nor singing after midnight,” warned Hassayamp as he shoved in the two enormous grips, “’cause a lady’s got the next room. When the bell rings for supper, you show up prompt; my old woman’s liable to be real ornery if folks don’t ’predate hot vittles. Two-fifty a day. What did you go tangle up with that old desert rat Sagebrush for? I’d ha’ been glad to pilot you around my own self. Int’rested in mines, are you? Don’t let him show you no specimens, Puffesser. That old rascal would salt hell and unload it on a pilgrim. Don’t you trust nobody around here but me. I got two quartz lodes and a placer location that’ll make your eyes water—”
“Not interested in mines, thanks,” said Tompkins, cutting short the flow of talk. “If I saw a good chicken-ranch, I might invest, but not otherwise. Ever hear of anyone around these parts by the name of Ramsay? Alec Ramsay. Might have passed through here a year or so ago.”
“Nope,” said Hassayamp, shaking his mustaches. “Well, if ye want anything, come and holler for it.”
Hassayamp withdrew; in more haste than he had previously displayed, he ducked around the side of the hotel, rambled down the desert sands of the nominal alley, and in three minutes was rapping sharply at the back door of the adobe bank. This was opened to him by the small gray-faced man, who was no other than Sidewinder Crowfoot. Hassayamp slid inside and closed the door behind him.
“Well?” rasped Sidewinder. “What’s up?”
“That bug-hunter,” said Hassayamp agitatedly. “What ye think he said? That if he knowed where there was a good chicken-ranch, he might buy it!”
A thin smile appeared in the gray mask. “That so? We’ll see about it.”
“And he asked if I knowed anyone around here, a year back, name of Alec Ramsay.”