“Gentlemen, I think you are making a mistake,” began Mr. Ashby, as he met the salesmen in the lobby near the clerk's desk.
“We made a mistake in coming here,” retorted the leader of the salesmen, pleasantly as to tone, “but we're rectifying it now. Are our bills ready?”
The proprietor went behind the desk to make change, while the clerk receipted seven bills. Ashby's hands shook as he manipulated the money.
“Dobson,” he said, in a low tone to one of the drummers, “I had intended ordering a ton of hams from you. Now, of course, I can't—”
“Quite right,” nodded Mr. Dobson cheerfully. “You couldn't get them from our house at four times the market price. We wouldn't want our brand served here.”
The last bill was paid. Proprietor Ashby stiffened, his backbone, trying to look game.
“Gentlemen,” he inquired, “where are you going from here? Won't you let me call the 'bus to take you?”
“Never mind the 'bus, Ash,” smilingly replied the leader of the drummers, a man named Pritchard. “If you'll send the 'bus over to the Cactus House with our trunks we'll be greatly obliged.”
“Certainly, gentlemen, it's a pleasure to oblige you,” murmured Ashby, with a ghastly effort to look pleasant. He watched the eight men step outside. Duff and his crowd had vanished. It would never do to try any mob tricks on so many strangers who had done nothing. The most easy-going citizens of an Arizona town would turn out to punish such a mob.
The three railroad men had their horses brought around, but they rode slowly, chatting with the salesmen on the sidewalk.