The other buildings were less imposing. There was the butcher’s place, a small adobe with a fenced-in yard. As Mendoza’s car drove past it, the butcher, with sanguinary intentions, was occupied in driving a wise and reluctant young steer around the yard. A little further along was the Roman Catholic Church—a Penitentes church, by the way, and the little house of Father Silva, who officiated. Further still was a long low building which had once been a livery stable, but which had been altered to meet the needs of a moving picture theatre, and the Commonwealth House, kept by Sam Penhallow, who varied the monotony of hotel keeping by exercising the duties of sheriff of the county. He it was who had crossed the line after the kidnapped young lady. The newspapers had featured him as a Texas Ranger, which he was not and never had been, but that was rather a near thing for a newspaper.
Penhallow was a tall, thin, brown-skinned man, who wore checked suits and who had the long drooping mustache which fiction assigns to the calling of a sheriff. Whether fiction is right in this particular, or whether Sam wore the mustache to conform with the best standards, is not important. He was sitting in a tilted chair, on the narrow strip of flooring which served the hotel as a veranda when Mendoza and his party wheezed into view.
Penhallow’s conventional welcome expanded into real warmth when he recognized Scott, who was well known in Chula Vista.
“Hullo,” he said, his hand outstretched. “If it ain’t Marc Scott! Drive you out down there, did they? Well, Mendoza—blamed if I didn’t think you was dead long ago! No, I don’t guess I know the ladies or your other friend, but any friend of Scott’s has got the keys of the city all right.” He turned and called into the house: “Mabel, come out here!”
“One of these ladies, Miss Street, is on her way to Chicago,” said Scott. Polly, restored to good looks by a few days rest and her prettiest lace blouse, beamed on Mr. Penhallow with the usual result. “Mrs. Conrad,” continued Scott, “is a friend of ours and is going back with the young lady. No, we weren’t driven out but things are rather bad down yonder.”
“Well, you ladies sure have courage, travelin’ round at this time,” said the admiring Penhallow. A tall pretty girl appeared in the doorway and was introduced as “my daughter, Mabel, who runs the ranch. Mabel, show these ladies the best rooms we’ve got. Give ’em the bridal soot if you can find it.”
Hard, suitcases in hand, followed the women into the hotel, while Mendoza steamed away to a haunt of his own. Scott sank into an armchair and settled himself for a talk with Penhallow.
“That young Street’s sister?” demanded the latter.
Scott nodded.
“I heard Bob Street had married a Douglas girl?”