Brophy stood before her. “I reckon you ain’t going to be very popular hereabout as a hash-slinger, Miss Whatever-your-name is.” He snapped his fingers and stretched his hand to command the transfer of the jacket and cap. “I’ll take ’em and put ’em in Ward’s room.”
But she clung to what she had retrieved as if she felt that she held a hostage of fortune. Brophy refrained from laying violent hands on the articles, and to save his face and create a diversion he turned on Crowley.
“Let’s see! You have bragged about being a detective! We don’t stand for your kind or tricks in this neck o’ woods.”
There was the menace of growls in the crowd. The mob spirit was stirring. A man said something about a rail and tar and feathers.
“I’ll argue with the boys and try to give you a fair start,” stated the landlord. “But you’d better pack up in a hurry. You can’t wait for to-morrow’s train under my roof. I’ll furnish you a livery hitch to the junction. Take the woman with you.”
It was an ugly crowd; the landlord was obliged to push back men when Crowley followed Lida into the tavern.
Miss Elsham was just inside the door, where she had posted herself as a spectator and listener. “There’s no telling what they’ll do; they’re bound to find out that I’m an operative,” she quavered. “You must take me with you, Buck.”
He had been appointed her guardian and he could not refuse. But he glowered at Lida, white and trembling.
Brophy came in after a struggle at the door; he slammed the portal and bolted it.
“They’re usually pretty genteel up here where wimmen are concerned,” he told Lida, “but they’re laying it all to you. They’ll let you go, Crowley, if you’ll go in a hurry. Are you one of ’em, too?” he bluntly asked Miss Elsham, ready to suspect all strangers.