It would never do to try any mob tricks on so many strangers who had done nothing.

The most easy-going citizens of an Arizona town would turn out to punish such a mob.
The three railroad men had their horses brought around, but they rode slowly, chatting with the salesmen on the sidewalk.
In this order they reached the Cactus House, which, thirty years ago, had been famous in and around the old Paloma of the frontier days.

The proprietor, a young man named Carter, had succeeded his father in the ownership of the property.

It was a neat hotel, but a small one.

The elder Carter had lost a good deal of money before his death, and the son was now trying to build up the property with hardly any reserve capital.
At the Cactus there was a great flurry when five such important guests arrived and the young railroad engineers were also most heartily welcomed.
"Our meal time is nearly over, but I'll have something special cooked for you right away, gentlemen," cried young Carter, bustling about, his eyes aglow.
"Before you get that meal ready," said Pritchard, drawing young Carter aside, "I want to ask you whether any man can ever be driven from this hotel, just for being decent ?" "He certainly cannot," replied Proprietor Carter with emphasis.
"Live up to that, son," advised the drummer, "and I half suspect that you'll prosper." The meal finished, the three men from the railroad camp took leave of their new salesmen friends, mounted and rode back to camp.
"The snakes are not all dead yet," mused Tom quizzically, as, in riding through the "tough" street again they heard hisses from open windows at which no heads appeared.
"There's a letter here for you, Mr.Reade," announced Foreman Payson, who was sitting alone in the office.
"Who brought it ?" "I don't know his name.