"Say, Timmons," he burst forth noisily, and striding over to the desk, "the marshal tells me a dame blew in from New York to-night—is she registered here?"
The landlord shoved the book forward, with one finger on the last signature.
"Yep," he said shortly, "but she ain't the one you was lookin' for—I asked her that, furst thing."
"Stella Donovan—huh! That's no name ever I heard; what's she look like?"
"Like a lady, I reckon; I ain't seen one fer quite a spell now."
"Dark or light?"
"Waal, sorter medium, I should say; brown hair with a bit o' red in it, an' a pair o' grey eyes full of fun—some girl, to my notion."
The questioner struck his fist on the wood sharply.
"Well, what the devil do you suppose such a woman has come to this hole clear from New York for, Timmons? What's her game, anyhow?"
"Blessed if I know," and the proprietor seated himself on a high stool. "I didn't ask no questions like that; maybe the gent by the stove there might give yer all the information yer want. He brought her up from the dapoo, an' kin talk English. Say, Jim, this yere is a short horn frum New York, named Beaton, an' he seems ter be powerfully interested in skirts—Beaton, Mr. Jim Westcott."