“All this hyar,” commented Nomad, “on’y illustrates what I was er sayin’ erbout trouble. This excitement come around ther curve, full-tilt, an’ hit us squar’ in ther face. Thar wasn’t no dodgin’ et.”
Half an hour later the pards descended into Sun Dance Cañon, and an hour’s ride down the cañon brought them to the foot of the slope leading to the “flat,” and the mining-camp.
“We’re a good two hours ahead o’ Dell an’ Cayuse,” asserted Nomad, while they were climbing the slope.
“I hope we’re in time for Hickok’s business, whatever it is,” answered the scout.
Bije Spangler, as usual, was occupying a couple of chairs in front of the Lucky Strike. The ragged, palm-leaf fan was working slowly, and he watched the pards approach with a speculative eye. Spangler had no difficulty in detecting that they were persons of consequence.
“‘Lucky Strike Hotel,’” said the scout, reading from the sign. “Are you the proprietor?” he went on, dropping his eyes to the huge bulk of humanity in the two chairs.
“I run this joint,” wheezed Spangler, “but I ain’t high-toned enough ter call myself a proprietor.”
“Can we stop here?”
“Can if ye got the price.”
“We want a room by ourselves.”