They went forward, Westcott, in spite of his confident words, watchful and silent, the valise in one hand, the other grasping her arm.  The narrow stretch of sidewalk was jammed with men, surging in and out through the open door of a saloon, and the two held to the middle of the road, which was lined with horses tied to long poles.  Men reeled out into the street, and occasionally the sharp crack of some frolicsome revolver punctuated the hoarse shouts and bursts of drunken laughter.  No other woman was visible, yet, apparently, no particular attention was paid to their progress.  But the stream of men thickened perceptibly, until Westcott was obliged to shoulder them aside good-humouredly in order to open a passage.  The girl, glancing in through the open doors, saw crowded bar-rooms, and eager groups about gambling tables.  One place dazzlingly lighted was evidently a dance-hall, but so densely jammed with humanity she could not distinguish the dancers.  A blare of music, however, proved the presence of a band within.  She felt the increasing pressure of her escort’s hand.

“Can we get through?”

“Sure; some crowd, though.  ’Tisn’t often as bad as this; miners and punchers all paid off at once.”  He released her arm, and suddenly gripped the shoulder of a man passing.  He was the town marshal.

“Say, Dan, I reckon this is your busy night, but I wish you’d help me run this lady through as far as Timmons; this bunch of long-horns appear to be milling, and we’re plum stalled.”

The man turned and stared at them.  Short, stockily built, appearing at first view almost grotesque under the broad brim of his hat, Stella, recognising the marshal, was conscious only of a clean-shaven face, a square jaw, and a pair of stern blue eyes.

“Oh, is that you, Jim?” he asked briefly.  “Lord, I don’t see why a big boob like you should need a guardian.  The lady?  Pardon me, madam,” and he touched his hat.  “Stand back there, you fellows.  Come on, folks!”

The little marshal knew his business, and it was also evident that the crowd knew the little marshal.  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.