A stout, black-bearded man stood in front of the hotel to welcome
the stage passengers. He took a clay pipe from his lips and nodded a
welcome.
“Glad to see you, strangers,” he said. “Here, Peter, you black rascal,
help the gentlemen with their baggage.”
The door was thrown open, and the party filed into a comfortless looking
apartment, at one end of which was a rude bar.
One of the passengers, at least, seemed to know the landlord, for Col.
Warner advanced to greet him, his face beaming with cordiality.
“How are you, John?” he said. “How does the world use you?”
The landlord growled something inaudible.
“Have a drink, colonel?” was the first audible remark.
“Don't care if I do. It's confounded dry traveling over these mountain
roads. Walk up, gentlemen. Col. Warner doesn't drink alone.”
With the exception of Herbert and George Melville, the passengers seemed
inclined to accept the offer.
“Come along, Melville,” said the colonel; “you and your friend must join
us.”
“Please excuse me, colonel,” answered Melville. “I would prefer not to
drink.”
“Oh, nonsense! To oblige me, now.”
“Thank you; but I am traveling for my health, and it would not be
prudent.”
“Just as you say, Melville; but a little whisky would warm you up and do
you good, in my opinion.”
“Thank you all the same, colonel; but I think you must count me out.”
The colonel shrugged his shoulders and beckoned Herbert.
“You can come, anyway; your health won't prevent.”
Melville did not interfere, for he knew it would give offense, but he
hoped his young clerk would refuse.
“Thank you,” said Herbert; “I won't object to a glass of sarsaparilla.”
“Sarsaparilla!” repeated the colonel, in amazement. “What's that?”
“We don't keep no medicine,” growled the landlord.
“Have you root-beer?” asked Herbert.
“What do you take me for?” said the landlord, contemptuously. “I haven't
got no root-beer. Whisky's good enough for any man.”
“I hope you'll excuse me, then,” said Herbert. “I am not used to any
strong drinks.”
“How old are you?” asked the colonel, rather contemptuously.
“Sixteen.”
“Sixteen years old and don't drink whisky! My young friend, your
education has been sadly neglected.”
“I dare say it has,” answered Herbert, good-naturedly.
“Gentlemen,” said Col. Warner, apologetically, “the boy is a stranger,
and isn't used to our free Western ways. He's got the makings of a man
in him, and it won't be long before he'll get over his squeamishness,
and walk up to the bar as quick as any one of us.”
Herbert and Melville stood apart, while the rest of the company emptied
their glasses, apparently at a gulp. It was clear that their refusal had
caused them to be regarded with dislike and suspicion.
The accommodations of the Echo Gulch Hotel were far from luxurious. The
chambers were scarcely larger than a small closet, clap-boarded but not
plastered, and merely contained a bedstead. Washing accommodations were
provided downstairs.
Herbert and George Melville were assigned to a single room, to which
they would not have objected had the room been larger. It was of no use
to indulge in open complaints, however, since others had to fare in the
same way.
“This isn't luxury, Herbert,” said Melville.
“No,” answered the boy; “but I don't mind it if you don't.”
“I am afraid I may keep you awake by my coughing, Herbert.”
“Not if I once get to sleep. I sleep as sound as a top.”
“I wish I did; but I am one of the wakeful kind. Being an invalid, I
am more easily annoyed by small inconveniences. You, with your sturdy
health, are more easily suited.”
“Mr. Melville, I had just as lief sleep downstairs in a chair, and give
you the whole of the bed.”
“Not on my account, Herbert. I congratulate myself on having you for a
roommate. If I had been traveling alone I might have been packed away
with the colonel, who, by this time, would be even less desirable as a
bedfellow than usual.”
The worthy colonel had not been content with a single glass of whisky,
but had followed it up several times, till his utterance had become
thick, and his face glowed with a dull, brick-dust color.
Col. Warner had been assigned to the adjoining chamber, or closet,
whichever it may be called. He did not retire early, however, while
Herbert and George Melville did.
Strangely enough, Herbert, who was usually so good a sleeper, after
a short nap woke up. He turned to look at his companion, for it was a
moonlight night, and saw that he was sleeping quietly.
“I wonder what's got into me?” he thought; “I thought I should sleep
till morning.”
He tried to compose himself to sleep, but the more effort he made the
broader awake he became. Sometimes it seems as if such unaccountable
deviations from our ordinary habits were Heaven-sent. As Herbert lay
awake he suddenly became aware of a conversation which was being
carried on, in low tones, in the next room. The first voice he heard, he
recognized as that of the colonel.
“Yes,” he said, “some of the passengers have got money. There's that
Stiefel probably carries a big sum in gold and notes. When I was
speaking of the chance of the stage being robbed, he was uncommon
nervous.”
“Who's Stiefel?” was growled in another voice, which Herbert had no
difficulty in recognizing as the landlord's.
“Oh, he's the fat, red-faced German. From his talk, I reckon he's come
out to buy mines somewhere in Colorado.”
“We'll save him the trouble.”
“So we will--good joke, John. Oh, about this Stiefel, he carries his
money in a belt round his waist. I infer that it is gold.”
“Good! What about the others?”
“There's a tall, thin man--his name is Parker,” proceeded the colonel;
“he's smart, or thinks he is; you'll have to pull his stockings off to
get his money. Ha, ha!”
“How did you find out, colonel?” asked the landlord, in admiration.
“Drew it out of him, sir. He didn't know who he was confiding in. He'll
wonder how the deuce his hiding place was suspected.”
Other passengers were referred to who have not been mentioned, and in
each case the colonel was able to tell precisely where their money was
kept.
“How about that milksop that wouldn't drink with us?” inquired the
landlord, after a while.
“Melville? I couldn't find out where he keeps his cash. Probably he
keeps it in his pocket. He doesn't look like a cautious man.”
“Who's the boy?”
“Only a clerk or secretary of Melville's. He hasn't any money, and isn't
worth attention.”
“Very glad to hear it,” thought Herbert. “I don't care to receive any
attention from such gentry. But who would have thought the colonel was
in league with stage robbers? I thought him a gentleman.”
Herbert began to understand why it was that Col. Warner, if that was
his real name, had drawn the conversation to stage robbers, and artfully
managed to discover where each of the passengers kept his supply of
money. It was clear that he was in league with the landlord of the Echo
Gulch Hotel, who, it was altogether probable, intended to waylay the
stage the next day.
This was a serious condition of affairs. The time had been when, in
reading stories of adventure, Herbert had wished that he, too, might
have some experience of the kind. Now that the opportunity had come, our
hero was disposed to regard the matter with different eyes.
“What can be done,” he asked himself, anxiously, “to escape the danger
which threatens us to-morrow?”