“I reckon it might.”
They passed together up the three rickety steps leading into the front hall, which latter opened directly into the cramped office; to the left was the wide-open barroom, clamorous and throbbing with life. A narrow bench stood against the wall, with a couple of half drunken men lounging upon it. The marshal routed them out with a single, expressive gesture.
“Wait here with the lady, Fairbain,” he said shortly, “and I'll arrange for the room.”
They watched him glance in at the bar, vigilant and cautious, and then move directly across to the desk.
“Tommy,” he said genially to the clerk. “I've just escorted a lady here from the train—Miss Maclaire—and want you to give her the very best room in your old shebang.”
The other looked at him doubtfully.
“Hell, Bill, I don't know how I'm goin' to do that,” acknowledged. “She wrote in here to the boss for a room; said she'd be along yesterday. Well, she didn't show up, an' so to-night we let a fellow have it. He's up there now.”
“Well, he'll have to vamose—who is he?”
“Englishman—'Walter Spotteswood Montgomery,'” consulting his book. “Hell of a pompous duck; the boys call him 'Juke Montgomery.'”
“All right; send some one up to rout his lordship out lively.”