"Say, who's runnin' this here hotel?"
"You're runnin' it, an' I'm tellin you how," answered the tall hillman, without taking his eyes from the other's face.
The man disappeared, muttering incoherently, and Vil Holland turned to the door.
"I want to thank you," ventured Patty. "Evidently your word carries weight with mine host."
"It better," replied the cowpuncher, dryly. "An' you're welcome. I'll take the team across to the livery barn." He spoke impersonally, with scarcely a glance in her direction, and as the screen door banged behind him the girl flushed, remembering her own rudeness upon the trail.
"Lawless he may be, and he certainly looks and acts the part," she murmured to herself as the wagon rattled away from the sidewalk, "but his propensity for turning up at the right time and the right place is rapidly becoming a matter of habit." A door beside the desk stood ajar, and above it, Patty read the words "Wash Room." Pushing it open she glanced into the interior which was dimly lighted by a murky oil lamp that occupied a sagging bracket beside a distorted mirror. Two tin wash basins occupied a sink-like contrivance above which a single iron faucet protruded from the wall. Beside the faucet was tacked a broad piece of wrapping paper upon which were printed in a laborious scrawl the following appeals:
NOtiss
- Ples DoNT LEEv THE WaTTer RUN ITS hAN
- Pumpt.
- PLes DONT Waist THE ToWL.
- Kome AN BREsh AN TOOTH BResH IS INto
- THR Rak BESIDS THE MiRRoW. PLeS PUT
- EM baCK.
- THes IS hoUSE RULes AN WANts TO be OBayD
- KINLY.
F. RuMMEL, PROP.
Removing the trail dust from their faces and hands, the girls returned to the office and after an interminable wait the proprietor appeared, red-faced and surly. "Grub's on, an' yer room'll be ready agin you've et," he growled, and waddled to his place at the window.