Drunk and quarrelsome as many of them were, they made way--the more obstreperous sullenly, but the majority in a spirit of rough good humour.

The time had not come for war against authority, and even the most reckless were fully aware that there was a law-and-order party in Haskell, ready and willing to back their officer to the limit.

Few were drunk enough as yet to openly defy his authority and face the result, as most of them had previously seen him in action.

To the girl it was all terrifying enough--the rough, hairy faces, the muttered threats, the occasional oath, the jostling figures--but the two men, one on each side of her, accepted the situation coolly enough, neither touching the revolver at his belt, but, sternly thrusting aside those in their way, they pressed straight through the surging mass in the man-crowded lobby of the disreputable hotel.
The building itself was a barnlike structure, unpainted, but with a rude, unfinished veranda in front.

One end contained a saloon, crowded with patrons, but the office, revealed in the glare of a smoky lamp, disclosed a few occupants, a group of men about a card-table.
At the desk, wide-eyed with excitement, Miss Donovan took a service-worn pen proffered by landlord Pete Timmons, whose grey whiskers were as unkempt as his hotel, and registered her name.
"A telegram came to-day for you, ma'am," Peter said in a cracked voice, and tossed it over.
Miss Donovan tore it open.