“Did you clearly inform Mr.—ah—Montgomery that we desired the room for the use of a lady?” he questioned gently, apparently both pained and shocked.
“I did, sir.”
“It surprises me to find one in our city with so little regard for the ordinary courtesies of life, Tommy. Perhaps I can persuade the gentleman.”
He disappeared up the stairs, taking them deliberately step by step, the cigar still smoking between his lips. “Red” called after him.
“Keep away from in front of the door, Bill; he'll shoot sure, for he cocked his gun when I was up there.”
Hickock glanced back, and waved his hand.
“Don't worry—the room occupied by Mr.—ah—Montgomery was '15,' I believe you said?”
Whatever occurred above, it was over with very shortly. Those listening at the foot of the stairs heard the first gentle rap on the door, an outburst of profanity, followed almost instantly by a sharp snap, as if a lock had given way, then brief scuffling mingled with the loud creaking of a bed. Scarcely a minute later the marshal appeared on the landing above, one hand firmly gripped in the neck-band of an undershirt, thus securely holding the writhing, helpless figure of a man, who swore violently every time he could catch his breath.
“Any other room you could conveniently assign Mr.—ah—Montgomery to, Tommy?” he asked pleasantly. “If he doesn't like it in the morning, he could be changed, you know.”
“Give—give him '47.'”