“Yes.”

“And the young woman?  Hes she got enything ter do with it?”

“Not a thing, Timmons; but I want to keep her out of the hands of that bunch.  Give me a lamp and I’ll go up-stairs and think this game out.”

CHAPTER IX:  A NIGHT AND A MORNING

Stella Donovan never forgot the miseries of her first night in Haskell.  When old man Timmons finally left her, after placing the flaring lamp on a chair, and went pattering back down the bare hall, she glanced shudderingly about at her unpleasant surroundings, none too pleased with the turn of events.

The room was scarcely large enough to contain the few articles of furniture absolutely required.  Its walls were of unplaned plank occasionally failing to meet, and the only covering to the floor was a dingy strip of rag-carpet.  The bed was a cot, shapeless, and propped up on one side by the iron leg of some veranda bench, while the open window looked out into the street.  There was a bolt, not appearing particularly secure, with which Miss Donovan immediately locked the door before venturing across to take a glance without.

The view was hardly reassuring, as the single street was still the scene of pandemonium, the saloon and dance-hall almost directly opposite, operating in full blast.  Oaths and ribald laughter assailed her ears, while directly beneath, although out of her view, a quarrel threatened to lead to serious consequences.  She pulled down the window to shut out these sounds, but the room became so stuffy and hot without even this slight ventilation, as to oblige her opening it again.  As a compromise she hauled down the curtain, a green paper affair, torn badly, and which occasionally flapped in the wind with a startling noise.

The bed-clothing, once turned back and inspected, was of a nature to prevent the girl from disrobing; but finally she lay down, seeking such rest as was possible, after turning the flickering flames of the lamp as low as she dared, and then finally blowing it out altogether.  The glare from the street crept in through the cracks in the curtain, playing in fantastic light and shadow across ceiling and wall, while the infernal din never ceased.

Sleep was not to be attained, although she closed her eyes and muffled her ears.  The misshapen bed brought no comfort to her tired body, for no matter how she adjusted herself, the result was practically the same.  Not even her mind rested.

Miss Donovan was not naturally of a nervous disposition.  She had been brought up very largely to rely upon herself, and life had never been sufficiently easy for her to find time in which to cultivate nerves.  Her newspaper training had been somewhat strenuous, and had won her a reputation in New York for unusual fearlessness and devotion to duty.  Yet this situation was so utterly different, and so entirely unexpected, that she confessed to herself she would be very glad to be safely out of it.