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." Tommy shuffled his feet, and looked again at the marshal; he had received positive orders about that room, and was fully convinced that Montgomery would not take kindly to eviction.

But Hickock's quiet gray eyes were insistent.
"Here, 'Red,'" he finally called to the burly porter, "hustle up to '15,' an' tell that fellow Montgomery he's got to get out; tell him we want the room for a lady." Hickock watched the man disappear up the stairs, helped himself carefully to a cigar out of the stand, tossing a coin to the clerk and then deliberately lighting up.
"Think Montgomery will be pleased ?" he asked shortly.
"No; he'll probably throw 'Red' down stairs." The marshal smiled, his glance turning expectantly in that direction.
"Then perhaps I had better remain, Tommy." And he strolled nonchalantly over to the open window, and stood there looking quietly out, a spiral of blue smoke rising from his cigar.
They could distinctly hear the pounding on the door above, and occasionally the sound of the porter's voice, but the straight, erect figure at the window remained motionless.