“I shall be at your service whenever you are disposed to take the matter up,” replied the youth from the Wyoming.
Royce addressed the little innkeeper, who had remained a silent spectator of all that had passed.
“Now,” said he, coldly, “let us have that door open,” indicating a door that apparently led into another of the inn’s public rooms. “And let there be no further delay about it.”
“But, my good sir,” protested the frightened little man, “this is a much more comfortable room. It’s larger and more airy.”
Without more ado, Royce threw him aside, for the man stood between him and the door.
“Stand out of the way,” growled he. “I’ll save you the trouble by opening it myself.”
His hand was upon the knob and he was about to throw the door open, when a clear voice cried:
“Wait!”
Royce and the others turned their heads, startled by the suddenness and sharpness of the command. Nat Brewster stood upon the hearth facing them, and plain in view of all was a long-barreled, shining pistol.
“Before you intrude yourselves upon those people within here,” said the lad, firmly, “let us have another word together, Mr. Royce.”