"Who?" Janice demanded.
"Tom Hotchkiss. If the outlaws catch him I hope they'll put him somewhere where he'll get nothing to eat but beans. Cricky, Janice! ain't I hungry for real grub!"
"I want to rest—just rest," moaned the girl.
They reached the town after a while. It was then fully dark, but they easily found The Golden Fan. There was a flaring gasoline lamp before the door, over which was painted a huge yellow fan.
A man in sombrero and high boots with spurs lounged in the doorway. He first spoke to them in the vernacular; then:
"Madre di Dios! What do you here? Los Americanos—eh, yes?"
"We're not lost Americans," replied Marty, misunderstanding. "Just travelers."
"Sí, señor. Come to what you call 'see the sights,' yes?" and the man's grin was like that of a cat. He had yellow eyes, too, and a stiff, sparse mustache like a cat's.
"We want a place to sleep and, first of all, some supper," Marty said. "Do you run this hotel?"
The man turned his head and shouted over his shoulder: