“You’re too late,” said Wild Bill curtly. “What’s your label.”
“Spangler is my handle.”
“Any strangers in town, Spangler?”
“Only you.”
“When’s the next stage due from Montegordo?”
“To-morrow afternoon.”
“Well, I’m going to stay with you until to-morrow afternoon, anyhow. Call some one to take care of my horse; and if I can have a room all to myself, I want it.”
“That’ll cost extry,” said Spangler. “If ye’re goin’ to throw on style with a private room, you’ll have to bleed ten dollars’ worth.”
“That’s the size of my stack. Hustle, now. I’m fagged, and want to lie down.”
Spangler lifted his voice and gave a husky yell. In answer to the signal, a Mexican showed himself around the corner of the house, who took Wild Bill’s horse. Then once more Spangler indulged in a wheezy shout. This was the signal for a Chinaman to present himself. After a few words with Spangler, the Chinaman led Wild Bill into the house, through the office and the drinking-part of the establishment, and into a small, corner room, with a window looking out upon the street.