“Boys, I vouch to Cloudy for Mr. Johnson”
“Boys, I vouch to Cloudy for Mr. Johnson”
“Boys, I vouch to Cloudy for Mr. Johnson”
It moved the Girl to instant action. Quick as thought she turned and strode to where the cries were the most menacing—towards the boys who knew her best and ever obeyed her unquestioningly.
“Wait a minute!” she cried, holding up her hand authoritatively. “I know the gent!”
The men exchanged incredulous glances; from all sides came the explosive cries:
“What’s that? You know him?”
“Yes,” she affirmed dramatically; and turning now to Rance with a swift change of manner, she confessed: “I didn’t tell you—but I know ’im.”
The Sheriff started as if struck.
“The Sacramento shrimp by all that is holy!” he muttered between his teeth as the truth slowly dawned upon him.
“Yes, boys, this is Mr. Johnson o’ Sacramento,” announced the Girl with a simple and unconscious dignity that did not fail to impress all present. “I vouch to Cloudy for Mr. Johnson!”
Consternation!
And then the situation vaguely dawning upon them there ensued an outburst of cheering compared to which the previous howl of execration was silence.
Johnson smiled pleasantly at the Girl in acknowledgment of her confirmation of him, then shot a half-curious, half-amused look at the crowd surrounding him and regarding him with a new interest.Apparently what he saw was to his liking, for his manner was most friendly when bowing politely, he said:
“How are you, boys?”
At once the miners returned his salutation in true western fashion: every man in the place, save Rance, taking off his hat and sweeping it before him in an arc as they cried out in chorus:
“Hello, Johnson!”
“Boys, Rance ain’t a-runnin’ The Polka yet!” observed Sonora with a mocking smile on his lips, and gloating over the opportunity to give the Sheriff a dig.
The men shouted their approval of this jibe. Indeed, they might have gone just a little too far with their badgering of the Sheriff, considering the mood that he was in; so, perhaps, it was fortunate that Nick should break in upon them at this time with:
“Gents, the boys from The Ridge invites you to dance with them.”
No great amount of enthusiasm was evinced at this. Nevertheless, it was a distinct declaration of peace; and, taking advantage of it, Johnson advanced toward the Girl, bowed low, and asked with elaborate formality:
“May I have the honour of a waltz?”
Flabbergasted and awed to silence by what they termed Johnson’s “style,” Happy and Handsomestood staring helplessly at one another; at length Happy broke out with:
“Say, Handsome, ain’t he got a purty action? An’ ornamental sort o’ cuss, ain’t he? But say, kind o’ presumin’ like, ain’t it, for a fellow breathin’ the obscurity o’ The Crossin’ to learn gents like us how to ketch the ladies pronto?”
“Which same,” allowed Handsome, “shorely’s a most painful, not to say humiliatin’ state o’ things.” And then to the Girl he whispered: “It’s up to you—make a holy show of ’im.”
The Girl laughed.
“Me waltz? Me?” she cried, answering Johnson at last. “Oh, I can’t waltz but I can polky.”
Once more Johnson bent his tall figure to the ground, and said:
“Then may I have the pleasure of the next polka?”
By this time Sonora had recovered from his astonishment. After giving vent to a grunt expressive of his contempt, he blurted out:
“That fellow’s too flip!”
But the idea had taken hold of the Girl, though she temporised shyly:
“Oh, I dunno! Makes me feel kind o’ foolish, you know, kind o’ retirin’ like a elk in summer.”
Johnson smiled in spite of himself.
“Elks are retiring,” was his comment as he againadvanced and offered his arm in an impressive and ceremonious manner.
“Well, I don’t like everybody’s hand on the back o’ my waist,” said the Girl, running her hands up and down her dress skirt. “But, somehow—” She stopped, and fixing her eyes recklessly on Rance, made a movement as if about to accept; but another look at Johnson’s preferred arm so embarrassed her that she sent a look of appeal to the rough fellows, who stood watching her with grinning faces.
“Oh, Lord, must I?” she asked; then, hanging back no longer, she suddenly flung herself into his arms with the cry: “Oh, come along!”
Promptly Johnson put his arm around the Girl’s waist, and breaking into a polka he swung her off to the dance-hall where their appearance was greeted with a succession of wild whoops from the men there, as well as from the hilarious boys, who had rushed pell-mell after them.
Left to himself and in a rage Rance began to pace the floor.
“Cleaned out—cleaned out for fair by a high-toned, fine-haired dog named Johnson! Well, I’ll be—” The sentence was never finished, his attention being caught and held by something which Nick was carrying in from the dance-hall.
“What’s that?” he demanded brusquely.
Nick’s eyes were twinkling when he answered:
“Johnson’s saddle.”
Rance could control himself no longer; with a sweep of his long arm he knocked the saddle out of the other’s hand, saying:
“Nick, I’ve a great notion to walk out of this door and never step my foot in here again.”
Nick did not answer at once. While he did not especially care for Rance he did not propose to let his patronage, which was not inconsiderable, go elsewhere without making an effort to hold it. Therefore, he thought a moment before picking up the saddle and placing it in the corner of the room.
“Aw, what you givin’ us, Rance! She’s only a-kiddin’ ’im,” at last he said consolingly.
The Sheriff was about to question this when a loud cry from outside arrested him.
“What’s that?” he asked with his eyes upon the door.
“Why that’s—that’s Ashby’s voice,” the barkeeper informed him; and going to the door, followed by Rance, as well as the men who, on hearing the cry, had rushed in from the dance-hall, he opened it, and they heard again the voice that they all recognised now as that of the Wells Fargo Agent.
“Come on!” he was saying gruffly.
“What the deuce is up?” inquired Trinidad simultaneously with the Deputy’s cry of “Bring him in!” And almost instantly the Deputy, followedby Ashby and others, entered, dragging along with him the unfortunate Jose Castro. The rough handling that he had received had not improved his appearance. His clothing, half Mexican, the rest of odds and ends, had been torn in several places. He looked oily, greasy and unwashed, while the eyes that looked around in affright had lost none of their habitual trickiness and sullenness.
And precisely as Castro appeared wholly different than when last seen in the company of his master, so, too, was Ashby metarmorphosed. His hat was on the back of his head; his coat looked as if he had been engaged in some kind of a struggle; his hair was ruffled and long locks straggled down over his forehead; while his face wore a brutal, savage, pitiless, nasty look.
By this time all the regular habitués of the saloon had come in and were crowding around the greaser with scowling, angry faces.
“The greaser on the trail!” gurgled Ashby in his glass, having left his prisoner for a moment to fortify himself with a drink of whisky.
Whereupon, the Sheriff advanced and, with rough hands, jerked the prisoner’s head brutally.
“Here you,” he said, “give us a look at your face.”
But the Sheriff had never seen him before. And in obedience to his commands to “Tie him up!” the Deputy and Billy Jackrabbit took a lariat from the wall and proceeded to bind their prisoner fast. When this was done Ashby called to Nick to serve him another drink, adding:
“Come on, boys!”
Instantly there was an exclamatory lining up at the bar, only Sonora, apparently, seeming disinclined to accept, which Ashby was quick to note. Turning to him quickly, he inquired:
“Say, my friend, don’t you drink?”
But no insult had been intended by Sonora’s omission; it was merely most inconsiderate on his part of the feelings of others; and, therefore, there was a note of apology in the voice that presently said:
“Oh, yes, Mr. Ashby, I’m with you all right.”
During this conversation the eyes of the greaser had been wandering all over the room. But as the men moved away from him to take their drinks he started violently and an expression of dismay crossed his features. “Ramerrez’ saddle!” he muttered to himself. “TheMaestro—he is taken!”
Just then there came a particularly loud burst of approval from the spectators of the dancing going on in the adjoining room, and instinctively the men at the bar half-turned towards the noise. The prisoner’s eyes followed their gaze and a fiendish grin replaced the look of dismay on his face. “No, he is there dancing with a girl,” he said under hisbreath. A moment later Nick let down the bear-skin curtain, shutting off completely the Mexican’s view of the dance-hall.
“Come, now, tell us what your name is?” The voice was Ashby’s who, together with the others, now surrounded the prisoner. “Speak up—who are you?”
“My name ees Jose Castro;” and then he added with a show of pride: “Ex-padronaof the bull-fights.”
“But the bull-fights are at Monterey! Why do you come to this place?”
All eyes instantly turned from the prisoner to Rance, who had asked the question while seated at the table, and from him they returned to the prisoner, most of the men giving vent to exclamations of anger in tones that made the greaser squirm, while Trinidad expressed the prevailing admiration of the Sheriff’s poser by crying out:
“That’s the talk—you bet! Why do you come here?”
Castro’s face wore an air of candour as he replied:
“To tell the Señor Sheriff I know where ees Ramerrez.”
Rance turned on the prisoner a grim look.
“You lie!” he vociferated, at the same time raising his hand to check the angry mutterings of the men that boded ill for the greaser.
“Nay,” denied Castro, strenuously, “pleanty Mexicanvaquero—my friend Peralta, Weelejos all weeth Ramerrez—so I know where ees.”
Rance advanced and shot a finger in his face.
“You’re one of his men yourself!” he cried hotly. But if he had hoped by his accusation to take the man off his guard, it was eminently unsuccessful, for the look on the greaser’s face was innocence itself when he declared:
“No, no, Señor Sheriff.”
Rance reflected a moment; suddenly, then, he took another tack.
“You see that man there?” he queried, pointing to the Wells Fargo Agent. “That is Ashby. He is the man that pays out that reward you’ve heard of.” Then after a pause to let his words sink in, he demanded gruffly: “Where is Ramerrez’ camp?”
At once the prisoner became voluble.
“Come with me one mile, Señor,” he said, “and by the soul of my mother, the blessed Maria Saltaja, we weel put a knife into hees back.”
“One mile, eh?” repeated Rance, coolly.
The miners looked incredulous.
“If I tho’t—” began Sonora, but Rance rudely cut in with:
“Where is this trail?”
“Up the Madrona Canyada,” was the greaser’s instant reply.
At this juncture a Ridge boy, who had pushed aside the bear-skin curtain and was gazing with mouth wide open at the proceedings, suddenly cried out:
“Why, hello, boys! What’s the—” He got no further. In a twinkling and with cries of “Shut up! Git!” the men made for the intruder and bodily threw him out of the room. When quiet was restored Rance motioned to the prisoner to proceed.
“Ramerrez can be taken—too well taken,” declared the Mexican, gaining confidence as he went on, “if many men come with me—in forty minutes there—back.”
Rance turned to Ashby and asked him what he thought about it.
“I don’t know what to think,” was the Wells Fargo Agent’s reply. “But it certainly is curious. This is the second warning—intimation that we have had that he is somewhere in this vicinity.”
“And this Nina Micheltoreña—you say she is coming here to-night?”
Ashby nodded assent.
“All the same, Rance,” he maintained, “I wouldn’t go. Better drop in to The Palmetto later.”
“What? Risk losin’ ’im?” exclaimed Sonora, who had been listening intently to their conversation.
“We’ll take the chance, boys, in spite of Ashby’s advice,” Rance said decisively. It was with not a little surprise that he heard the shouts with which his words were approved by all save the Wells Fargo Agent.
Now the miners made a rush for their coats, hats and saddles, while from all sides came the cries of, “Come on, boys! Careful—there! Ready—Sheriff!”
Gladly, cheerfully, Nick, too, did what he could to get the men started by setting up the drinks for all hands, though he remarked as he did so:
“It’s goin’ to snow, boys; I don’t like the sniff in the air.”
But even the probability of encountering a storm—which in that altitude was something decidedly to be reckoned with—did not deter the men from proceeding to make ready for the road agent’s capture. In an incredibly short space of time they had loaded up and got their horses together, and from the harmony in their ranks while carrying out orders, it was evident that not a man there doubted the success of their undertaking.
“We’ll git this road agent!” sung out Trinidad, going out through the door.
“Right you are, pard!” agreed Sonora; but at the door he called back to the greaser: “Come on, you oily, garlic-eatin’, red-peppery, dog-trottin’, sun-baked son of a skunk!”
“Come on, you...!” came simultaneously from the Deputy, now untying the rope which bound the prisoner.
The greaser’s teeth were chattering; he begged:
“One dreenk—I freeze....”
Turning to Nick the Deputy told him to give the man a drink, adding as he left the room:
“Watch him—keep your eye on him a moment for me, will you?”
Nick nodded; and then regarding the Mexican with a contemptuous look, he asked:
“What’ll you have?”
The Mexican rose to his feet and began hesitatingly:
“Geeve me—” He paused; and then, starting with the thought that had come to him, he shot a glance at the dance-hall and called out loudly, rolling his r’s even more pronouncedly than is the custom with his race: “Aguardiente! Aguardiente!”
“Sit down!” ordered Nick, vaguely conscious that there was something in the greaser’s voice that was not there before.
The greaser obeyed, but not until he knew for a certainty that his voice had been heard by his master.
“So you did bring in my saddle, eh, Nick?” asked the road agent, coming quickly, but unconcernedly into the room and standing behind his man.
Up to this time, Nick’s eyes had not left theprisoner, but with the appearance on the scene of Johnson, he felt that his responsibility ceased in a measure. He turned and gave his attention to matters pertaining to the bar. As a consequence, he did not see the look of recognition that passed between the two men, nor did he hear the whispered dialogue in Spanish that followed.
“Maestro! Ramerrez!” came in whispered tones from Castro.
“Speak quickly—go on,” came likewise in whispered tones from the road agent.
“I let them take me according to your bidding,” went on Castro.
“Careful, Jose, careful,” warned his master while stooping to pick up his saddle, which he afterwards laid on the faro table. It was while he was thus engaged that Nick came over to the prisoner with a glass of liquor, which he handed to him gruffly with:
“Here!”
At that moment several voices from the dance-hall called somewhat impatiently: “Nick, Nick!”
“Oh, The Ridge boys are goin’!” he said, and seeming intuitively to know what was wanted he made for the bar. But before acceding to their wishes, he turned to Johnson, took out his gun and offered it to him with the words: “Say, watch this greaser for a moment, will you?”
“Certainly,” responded Johnson, quickly,declining the other’s pistol by touching his own holster significantly. “Tell the Girl you pressed me into service,” he concluded with a smile.
“Sure.” But on the point of going, the little barkeeper turned to him and confided: “Say, the Girl’s taken an awful fancy to you.”
“No?” deprecated the road agent.
“Yes,” affirmed Nick. “Drop in often—great bar!”
Johnson smiled an assent as the other went out of the room leaving master and man together.
“Now, then, Jose, go on,” he said, when they were alone.
“Bueno!Our men await the signal in the bushes close by. I will lead the Sheriff far off—then I will slip away. You quietly rob the place and fly—it is death for you to linger—Ashby is here.”
“Ashby!” The road agent started in alarm.
“Ashby—” reiterated Castro and stopped on seeing that Nick had returned to see that all was well.
“All right, Nick, everything’s all right,” Johnson reassured him.
The outlaw’s position remained unchanged until Nick had withdrawn. From where he stood he now saw for the first time the preparations that were being made for his capture: the red torchlights and white candle-lighted lanterns which were reflectedthrough the windows; and a moment more he heard the shouts of the miners calling to one another. Of a sudden he was aroused to a consciousness, at least, of their danger by Castro’s warning:
“By to-morrow’s twilight you must be safe in your rancho.”
The road agent shook his head determinedly.
“No, we raid on.”
Castro was visibly excited.
“There are a hundred men on your track.”
Johnson smiled.
“Oh, one minute’s start of the devil does me, Jose.”
“Ah, but I fear the woman—Nina Micheltoreña—I fear her terribly. She is close at hand—knowing all, angry with you, and jealous—and still loving you.”
“Loving me? Oh, no, Jose! Nina, like you, loves the spoils, not me. No, I raid on....”
A silence fell upon the two men, which was broken by Sonora calling out:
“Bring along the greaser, Dep!”
“All right!” answered the loud voice of the Deputy.
“You hear—we start,” whispered Castro to his master. “Give the signal.” And notwithstanding, the miners were coming through the door for him and stood waiting, torches in hand, he contrived tofinish: “Antonio awaits for it. Only the woman and her servant will stay behind here.”
“Adios!” whispered the master.
“Adios!” returned his man simultaneously with the approach of the Deputy towards them.
It was then that the Girl’s gay, happy voice floated in on them from the dance-hall; she cried out:
“Good-night, boys, good-night! Remember me to The Ridge!”
“You bet we will! So long! Whoop! Whooppee!” chorussed the men, while the Deputy, grabbing the Mexican by the collar, ordered him to, “Come on!”
The situation was not without its humorous side to the road agent; he could not resist following the crowd to the door where he stood and watched his would-be captors silently mount; listened to the Sheriff give the word, which was immediately followed by the sound of horses grunting as they sprang forward into the darkness in a desperate effort to escape the maddening pain of the descending quirts and cruel spurs. It was a scene to set the blood racing through the veins, viewed in any light; and not until the yells of the men had grown indistinct, and all that could be heard was the ever-decreasing sound of rushing hoofs, did the outlaw turn back into the saloon over which there hung a silence which, by contrast, he found strangely depressing.
Therewas a subtle change, an obvious lack of warmth in Johnson’s manner, which the Girl was quick to feel upon returning to the now practically deserted saloon.
“Don’t it feel funny here—kind o’ creepy?” She gave the words a peculiar emphasis, which made Johnson flash a quick, inquisitorial look at her; and then, no comment being forthcoming, she went on to explain: “I s’pose though that’s ’cause I don’t remember seein’ the bar so empty before.”
A somewhat awkward silence followed, which at length was broken by the Girl, who ordered:
“Lights out now! Put out the candle here, too, Nick!” But while the little barkeeper proceeded to carry out her instructions she turned to Johnson with an eager, frank expression on her face, and said: “Oh, you ain’t goin’, are you?”
“No—not yet—no—” stammered Johnson, half-surprisedly, half-wonderingly.
The Girl’s face wore a pleased look as she answered:
“Oh, I’m so glad o’ that!”
Another embarrassing silence followed. At last Nick made a movement towards the window, saying:
“I’m goin’ to put the shutters up.”
“So early? What?” The Girl looked her surprise.
“Well, you see, the boys are out huntin’ Ramerrez, and there’s too much money here....” said Nick in a low tone.
The Girl laughed lightly.
“Oh, all right—cash in—but don’t put the head on the keg—I ain’t cashed in m’self yet.”
Rolling the keg to one side of the room, Nick beckoned to the Girl to come close to him, which she did; and pointing to Johnson, who was strolling about the room, humming softly to himself, he whispered:
“Say, Girl, know anythin’ about—about him?”
But very significant as was Nick’s pantomime, which included the keg and Johnson, it succeeded only in bringing forth a laugh from the Girl, and the words:
“Oh, sure!”
Nevertheless, the faithful guardian of the Girl’s interests sent a startled glance of inquiry about the room, and again asked:
“All right, eh?”
The Girl ignored the implication contained in the other’s glance, and answered “Yep,” in such a tone of finality that Nick, reassured at last, began to put things ship-shape for the night. This took but amoment or two, however, and then he quietly disappeared.
“Well, Mr. Johnson, it seems to be us a-keepin’ house here to-night, don’t it?” said the Girl, alone now with the road agent.
Her observation might easily have been interpreted as purposely introductory to an intimate scene, notwithstanding that it was made in a thoroughly matter-of-fact tone and without the slightest trace of coquetry. But Johnson did not make the mistake of misconstruing her words, puzzled though he was to find a clue to them. His curiosity about her was intense, and it showed plainly in the voice that said presently:
“Isn’t it strange how things come about? Strange that I should have looked everywhere for you and in the end find you here—at The Polka.”
Johnson’s emphasis on his last words sent a bright red rushing over her, colouring her neck, her ears and her broad, white forehead.
“Anythin’ wrong with The Polka?”
Johnson was conscious of an indiscreet remark; nevertheless he ventured:
“Well, it’s hardly the place for a young woman like you.”
The Girl made no reply to this but busied herself with the closing-up of the saloon. Johnson interpreted her silence as a difference of opinion. Nevertheless, he repeated with emphasis:
“It is decidedly no place for you.”
“How so?”
“Well, it’s rather unprotected, and—”
“Oh, pshaw!” interrupted the Girl somewhat irritably. “I tol’ Ashby only to-night that I bet if a rud agent come in here I could offer ’im a drink an’ he’d treat me like a perfect lady.” She stopped and turned upon him impulsively with: “Say, that reminds me, won’t you take somethin’?”
Before answering, Johnson shot her a quick look of inquiry to see whether there was not a hidden meaning in her words. Of course there was not, the remark being impelled by a sudden consciousness that he might consider her inhospitable. Nevertheless, her going behind the bar and picking up a bottle came somewhat as a relief to him.
“No, thank you,” at last he said; and then as he leaned heavily on the bar: “But I would very much like to ask you a question.”
Instantly, to his great surprise, the Girl was eyeing him with mingled reproach and coquetry. So he was going to do it! Was it possible that he thought so lightly of her, she wondered. With all her heart she wished that he would not make the same mistake that others had.
“I know what it is—every stranger asks it—but I didn’t think you would. You want to know if I am decent? Well, I am, you bet!” she returned, a defiant note creeping into her voice as she uttered the concluding words.
“Oh, Girl, I’m not blind!” His eyes quailed before the look that flamed in hers. “And that was not the question.”
Instinctively something told the Girl that the man spoke the truth, but notwithstanding which, she permitted her eyes to express disbelief and “Dear me suz!” fell from her lips with an odd little laugh. On the other hand, Johnson declined to treat the subject other than seriously. He had no desire, of course, to enlarge upon the unconventionality of her attitude, but he felt that his feelings towards her, even if they were only friendly, justified him in giving her a warning. Moreover, he refused to admit to himself that this was a mere chance meeting. He had a consciousness, vague, but nevertheless real that, at last, after all his searching, Fate had brought him face to face with the one woman in all the world for him. Unknown to himself, therefore, there was a sort of jealous proprietorship in his manner towards her as he now said:
“What I meant was this: I am sorry to find you here almost at the mercy of the passer-by, where a man may come, may drink, may rob you if he will—” and here a flush of shame spread over his featuresin spite of himself—“and where, I daresay, more than one has laid claim to a kiss.”
The Girl turned upon him in good-natured contempt.
“There’s a good many people claimin’ things they never git. I’ve got my first kiss to give.”
Once more a brief silence fell upon them in which the Girl busied herself with her cash box. She was not unaware that his eyes were upon her, but she was by no means sure that he believed her words. Nor could she tell herself, unfortunately for her peace of mind, that it made no difference to her.
“Have you been here long?” suddenly he asked.
“Yep.”
“Lived in The Polka?”
“Nope.”
“Where do you live?”
“Cabin up the mountain a little ways.”
“Cabin up the mountain a little ways,” echoed Johnson, reflectively. The next instant the little figure before him had faded from his sight and instead there appeared a vision of the little hut on the top of Cloudy Mountain. Only a few hours back he had stood on the precipice which looked towards it, and had felt a vague, indefinable something, had heard a voice speak to him out of the vastness which he now believed to have been her spirit calling to him.
“You’re worth something better than this,” after a while he murmured with the tenderness of real love in his voice.
“What’s better’n this?” questioned the Girl with a toss of her pretty blonde head. “I ain’t a-boastin’ but if keepin’ this saloon don’t give me sort of a position ’round here I dunno what does.”
But the next moment there had flashed through her mind a new thought concerning him. She came out from behind the bar and confronted him with the question:
“Look ’ere, you ain’t one o’ them exhorters from the Missionaries’ Camp, are you?”
The road agent smiled.
“My profession has its faults,” he acknowledged, “but I am not an exhorter.”
But still the Girl was nonplussed, and eyed him steadily for a moment or two.
“You know I can’t figger out jest exactly what you are?” she admitted smilingly.
“Well, try ...” he suggested, slightly colouring under her persistent gaze.
“Well, you ain’t one o’ us.”
“No?”
“Oh, I can tell—I can spot my man every time. I tell you, keepin’ saloon’s a great educator.” And so saying she plumped herself down in a chair and went on very seriously now: “I dunno but what it’s agood way to bring up girls—they git to know things. Now,” and here she looked at him long and earnestly, “I’d trust you.”
Johnson was conscious of a guilty feeling, though he said as he took a seat beside her:
“You would trust me?”
The Girl nodded an assent and observed in a tone that was intended to be thoroughly conclusive:
“Notice I danced with you to-night?”
“Yes,” was his brief reply, though the next moment he wondered that he had not found something more to say.
“I seen from the first that you were the real article.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said absently, still lost in thought.
“Why, that was a compliment I handed out to you,” returned the Girl with a pained look on her face.
“Oh!” he ejaculated with a faint little smile.
Now the Girl, who had drawn up her chair close to his, leaned over and said in a low, confidential voice:
“Your kind don’t prevail much here. I can tell—I got what you call a quick eye.”
As might be expected Johnson flushed guiltily at this remark. No different, for that matter, wouldhave acted many a man whose conscience was far clearer.
“Oh, I’m afraid that men like me prevail—prevail, as you say,—almost everywhere,” he said, laying such stress on the words that it would seem almost impossible for anyone not to see that they were shot through with self-depreciation.
The Girl gave him a playful dig with her elbow.
“Go on! What are you givin’ me! O’ course they don’t...!” She laughed outright; but the next instant checking herself, went on with absolute ingenuousness: “Before I went on that trip to Monterey I tho’t Rance here was the genuine thing in a gent, but the minute I kind o’ glanced over you on the road I—I seen he wasn’t.” She stopped, a realisation having suddenly been borne in upon her that perhaps she was laying her heart too bare to him. To cover up her embarrassment, therefore, she took refuge, as before, in hospitality, and rushing over to the bar she called to Nick to come and serve Mr. Johnson with a drink, only to dismiss him the moment he put his head through the door with: “Never mind, I’ll help Mr. Johnson m’self.” Turning to her visitor again, she said: “Have your whisky with water, won’t you?”
“But I don’t—” began Johnson in protest.
“Say,” interrupted the Girl, falling back into herfavourite position of resting both elbows on the bar, her face in her hands, “I’ve got you figgered out. You’re awful good or awful bad.” A remark which seemed to amuse the man, for he laughed heartily.
“Now, what do you mean by that?” presently he asked.
“Well, I mean so good that you’re a teetotaller, or so bad that you’re tired o’ life an’ whisky.”
Johnson shook his head.
“On the contrary, although I’m not good, I’ve lived and I’ve liked life pretty well. It’s been bully!”
Surprised and delighted with his enthusiasm, the Girl raised her eyes to his, which look he mistook—not unnaturally after all that had been said—for one of encouragement. A moment more and the restraint that he had exercised over himself had vanished completely.
“So have you liked it, Girl,” he went on, trying vainly to get possession of her hand, “only you haven’t lived, you haven’t lived—not with your nature. You see I’ve got a quick eye, too.”
To Johnson’s amazement she flushed and averted her face. Following the direction of her eyes he saw Nick standing in the door with a broad grin on his face.
“You git, Nick! What do you mean by...?” cried out the Girl in a tone that left no doubt in the minds of her hearers that she was annoyed, if not angry, at the intrusion.
Nick disappeared into the dance-hall as though shot out of a gun; whereupon, the Girl turned to Johnson with:
“I haven’t lived? That’s good!”
Johnson’s next words were insinuating, but his voice was cold in comparison with the fervent tones of a moment previous.
“Oh, you know!” was what he said, seating himself at the poker table.
“No, I don’t,” contradicted the Girl, taking a seat opposite him.
“Yes, you do,” he insisted.
“Well, say it’s an even chance I do an’ an even chance I don’t,” she parried.
Once more the passion in the man was stirring.
“I mean,” he explained in a voice that barely reached her, “life for all it’s worth, to the uttermost, to the last drop in the cup, so that it atones for what’s gone before, or may come after.”
The Girl’s face wore a puzzled look as she answered:
“No, I don’t believe I know what you mean by them words. Is it a—” She cut her sentence short, and springing up, cried out: “Oh, Lord—Oh, excuse me, I sat on my gun!”
Johnson looked at her, genuine amusement depicted on his face.
“Look here,” said the Girl, suddenly perching herself upon the table, “I’m goin’ to make you an offer.”
“An offer?” Johnson fairly snatched the words out of her mouth. “You’re going to make me an offer?”
“It’s this,” declared the Girl with a pleased look on her face. “If ever you need to be staked—”
Johnson eyed her uncomprehendingly.
“Which o’ course you don’t,” she hastened to add. “Name your price. It’s yours jest for the style I git from you an’ the deportment.”
“Deportment? Me?” A half-grin formed over Johnson’s face as he asked the question; then he said: “Well, I never heard before that my society was so desirable. Apart from the financial aspect of this matter, I—”
“Say,” broke in the Girl, gazing at him in helpless admiration, “ain’t that great? Ain’t that great? Oh, you got to let me stand treat!”
“No, really I would prefer not to take anything,” responded Johnson, putting a restraining hand on her as she was about to leap from the table.
At that moment Nick’s hurried footsteps reached their ears. Turning, the Girl, with a swift gesture,waved him back. There was a brief silence, then Johnson spoke:
“Say, Girl, you’re like finding some new kind of flower.”
A slight laugh of confusion was his answer. The next moment, however, she went on, speaking very slowly and seriously: “Well, we’re kind o’ rough up here, but we’re reachin’ out.”
Johnson noted immediately the change in her voice. There was no mistaking the genuineness of her emotion, nor the wistful look in her eyes. It was plain that she yearned for someone who would teach her the ways of the outside world; and when the man looked at the Girl with the lamp-light softening her features, he felt her sincerity and was pleased by her confidence.
“Now, I take it,” continued the Girl with a vague, dreamy look on her face, “that’s what we’re all put on this earth for—everyone of us—is to rise ourselves up in the world—to reach out.”
“That’s true, that’s true,” returned Johnson with gentle and perfect sympathy. “I venture to say that there isn’t a man who hasn’t thought seriously about that. I have. If only one knew how to reach out for something one hardly dares even hope for. Why, it’s like trying to catch the star shining just ahead.”
The Girl could not restrain her enthusiasm.
“That’s the cheese! You’ve struck it!”
At this juncture Nick appeared and refused to be ordered away. At length, the Girl inquired somewhat impatiently:
“Well, what is it, Nick?”
“I’ve been tryin’ to say,” announced the barkeeper, whose face wore an expression of uneasiness as he pointed to the window, “that I have seen an ugly-lookin’ greaser hanging around outside.”
“A greaser!” exclaimed the Girl, uneasily. “Let me look.” And with that she made a movement towards the window, but was held back by Johnson’s detaining hand. All too well did he know that the Mexican was one of his men waiting impatiently for the signal. So, with an air of concern, for he did not intend that the Girl should run any risk, however remote, he said authoritatively:
“Don’t go!”
“Why not?” demanded the Girl.
Johnson sat strangely silent.
“I’ll bolt the windows!” cried Nick. Hardly had he disappeared into the dance-hall when a low whistle came to their ears.
“The signal—they’re waiting,” said Johnson under his breath, and shot a quick look of inquiry at the Girl to see whether she had heard the sound. A look told him that she had, and was uneasy over it.
“Don’t that sound horrid?” said the Girl, reaching the bar in a state of perturbation. “Say, I’m awful glad you’re here. Nick’s so nervous. He knows what a lot o’ money I got. Why, there’s a little fortune in that keg.”
Johnson started; then rising slowly he went over to the keg and examined it with interest.
“In there?” he asked, with difficulty concealing his excitement.
“Yes; the boys sleep around it nights,” she went on to confide.
Johnson looked at her curiously.
“But when they’re gone—isn’t that rather a careless place to leave it?”
Quietly the Girl came from behind the bar and went over and stood beside the keg; when she spoke her eyes flashed dangerously.
“They’d have to kill me before they got it,” she said, with cool deliberation.
“Oh, I see—it’s your money.”
“No, it’s the boys’.”
A look of relief crossed Johnson’s features.
“Oh, that’s different,” he contended; and then brightening up somewhat, he went on: “Now, I wouldn’t risk my life for that.”
“Oh, yes, you would, yes, you would,” declared the Girl with feeling. A moment later she was down on her knees putting bag after bag of theprecious gold-dust and coins into the keg. When they were all in she closed the lid, and putting her foot down hard to make it secure, she repeated: “Oh, yes, you would, if you seen how hard they got it. When I think of it, I nearly cry.”
Johnson had listened absorbedly, and was strangely affected by her words. In her rapidly-filling eyes, in the wave of colour that surged in her cheeks, in the voice that shook despite her efforts to control it, he read how intense was her interest in the welfare of the miners. How the men must adore her!
Unconsciously the Girl arose, and said:
“There’s somethin’ awful pretty in the way the boys hold out before they strike it, somethin’ awful pretty in the face o’ rocks, an’ clay an’ alkali. Oh, Lord, what a life it is anyway! They eat dirt, they sleep in dirt, they breathe dirt ’til their backs are bent, their hands twisted an’ warped. They’re all wind-swept an’ blear-eyed I tell you, an’ some o’ them jest lie down in their sweat beside the sluices, an’ they don’t never rise up again. I’ve seen ’em there!” She paused reminiscently; then, pointing to the keg, she went on haltingly: “I got some money there of Ol’ Brownie’s. He was lyin’ out in the sun on a pile o’ clay two weeks ago, an’ I guess the only clean thing about him was his soul, an’ he was quittin’, quittin’, quittin’, right there on the clay,an’ quittin’ hard. Oh, so hard!” Once more she stopped and covered her face with her hands as if to shut out the horror of it all. Presently she had herself under control and resumed: “Yes, he died—jest like a dog. You wanted to shoot ’im to help ’im along quicker. Before he went he sez to me: ‘Girl, give it to my ol’ woman.’ That was all he said, an’ he went. She’ll git it, all right.”
With every word that the Girl uttered, the iron had entered deeper into Johnson’s soul. Up to the present time he had tried to regard his profession, if he looked at it at all, from the point of view which he inherited from his father. It was not, in all truthfulness, what he would have chosen; it was something that, at times, he lamented; but, nevertheless, he had practised it and had despoiled the miners with but few moments of remorse. But now, he was beginning to look upon things differently. In a brief space of time a woman had impelled him to see his actions in their true light; new ambitions and desires awakened, and he looked downward as if it were impossible to meet her honest eye.
“An’ that’s what aches you,” the Girl was now saying. “There ain’t one o’ them men workin’ for themselves alone—the Lord never put it into no man’s heart to make a beast or a pack-horse o’ himself, except for some woman or some child.” She halted a moment, and throwing up her hands impulsively, she cried: “Ain’t it wonderful—ain’t it wonderful that instinct? Ain’t it wonderful what a man’ll do when it comes to a woman—ain’t it wonderful?” Once more she waited as if expecting him to corroborate her words; but he remained strangely silent. A moment later when he raised his troubled eyes, he saw that hers were dry and twinkling.
“Well, the boys use me as a—a sort of lady bank,” presently she said; and then added with another quick change of expression, and in a voice that showed great determination: “You bet I’ll drop down dead before anyone’ll get a dollar o’ theirs outer The Polka!”
Impulsively the road agent’s hand went out to her, and with it went a mental resolution that so far as he was concerned no hard-working miner of Cloudy Mountain need fear for his gold!
“That’s right,” was what he said. “I’m with you—I’d like to see anyone get that.” He dropped her hand and laid his on the keg; then with a voice charged with much feeling, he added: “Girl, I wish to Heaven I could talk more with you, but I can’t. By daybreak I must be a long ways off. I’m sorry—I should have liked to have called at your cabin.”
The Girl shot him a furtive glance.
“Must you be a-movin’ so soon?” she asked.
“Yes; I’m only waiting till the posse gets backand you’re safe.” And even as he spoke his trained ear caught the sound of horses hoofs. “Why, they’re coming now!” he exclaimed with suppressed excitement, and his eyes immediately fastened themselves on his saddle.
The Girl looked her disappointment when she said:
“I’m awfully sorry you’ve got to go. I was goin’ to say—” She stopped, and began to roll the keg back to its place. Now she took the lantern from the bar and placed it on the keg; then turning to him once more she went on in a voice that was distinctly persuasive: “If you didn’t have to go so soon, I would like to have you come up to the cabin to-night an’ we would talk o’ reachin’ out up there. You see, the boys will be back here—we close The Polka at one—any time after....”
Hesitatingly, helplessly, Johnson stared at the Girl before him. His acceptance, he realised only too well, meant a pleasant hour or two for him, of which there were only too few in the mad career that he was following, and he wanted to take advantage of it; on the other hand, his better judgment told him that already he should be on his way.
“Why, I—I should ride on now.” He began and then stopped, the next moment, however, he threw down his hat on the table in resignation and announced: “I’ll come.”
“Oh, good!” cried the Girl, making no attempt to conceal her delight. “You can use this,” she went on, handing him the lantern. “It’s the straight trail up; you can’t miss it. But I say, don’t expect too much o’ me—I’ve only had thirty-two dollars’ worth o’ education.” Despite her struggle to control herself, her voice broke and her eyes filled with tears. “P’r’aps if I’d had more,” she kept on, regretfully, “why, you can’t tell what I might have been. Say, that’s a terrible tho’t, ain’t it? What we might a been—an’ I know it when I look at you.”
Johnson was deeply touched at the Girl’s distress, and his voice broke, too, as he said:
“Yes, what we might have been is a terrible thought, and I know it, Girl, when I look at you—when I look at you.”
“You bet!” ejaculated the Girl. And then to Johnson’s consternation she broke down completely, burying her face in her hands and sobbing out: “Oh, ’tain’t no use, I’m rotten, I’m ignorant, I don’t know nothin’ an’ I never knowed it ’till to-night! The boys always tol’ me I knowed so much, but they’re such damn liars!”
In an instant Johnson was beside her, patting her hand caressingly; she felt the sympathy in his touch and was quick to respond to it.
“Don’t you care, Girl, you’re all right,” he told her, choking back with difficulty the tears in his ownvoice. “Your heart’s all right, that’s the main thing. And as for your looks? Well, to me you’ve got the face of an angel—the face—” He broke off abruptly and ended with: “Oh, but I must be going now!”
A moment more and he stood framed in the doorway, his saddle in one hand and the Girl’s lantern in the other, torn by two emotions which grappled with each other in his bosom. “Johnson, what the devil’s the matter with you?” he muttered half-aloud; then suddenly pulling himself together he stumbled rather than walked out of The Polka into the night.
Motionless and trying to check her sobs, the Girl remained where he had left her; but a few minutes later, when Nick entered, all trace of her tears had disappeared.
“Nick,” said she, all smiles now, “run over to The Palmetto restaurant an’ tell ’em to send me up two charlotte rusks an’ a lemming turnover—a good, big, fat one—jest as quick as they can—right up to the cabin for supper.”
“He says I have the face of an angel,” is what the Girl repeated over and over again to herself when perched up again on the poker table after the wondering barkeeper had departed on her errand, and for a brief space of time her countenance reflected the joy that Johnson’s parting words had imprintedon her heart. But in the Girl’s character there was an element too prosaic, and too practical, to permit her thoughts to dwell long in a region lifted far above the earth. It was inevitable, therefore, that the notion should presently strike her as supremely comic and, quickly leaping to the floor, she let out the one word which, however adequately it may have expressed her conflicting emotions, is never by any chance to be found in the vocabulary of angels in good standing.
Notwithstandingthat The Palmetto was the most pretentious building in Cloudy, and was the only rooming and eating house that outwardly asserted its right to be called an hotel, its saloon contrasted unfavourably with its rival, The Polka. There was not the individuality of the Girl there to charm away the impress of coarseness settled upon it by the loafers, the habitual drunkards and the riffraff of the camp, who were not tolerated elsewhere. In short, it did not have that certain indefinable something which gave to The Polka Saloon an almost homelike appearance, but was a drab, squalid, soulless place with nothing to recommend it but its size.
In a small parlour pungent at all times with the odour of liquor,—but used only on rare occasions, most of The Palmetto’s patrons preferring the even more stifling atmosphere of the bar-room,—the Wells Fargo Agent had been watching and waiting ever since he had left The Polka Saloon. On a table in front of him was a bottle, for it was a part of Ashby’s scheme of things to solace thus all such weary hours.
Although a shrewd judge of women of the Nina Micheltoreña type and by no means unmindful of their mercurial temperament, Ashby, nevertheless,had felt that she would keep her appointment with him. In the Mexican Camp he had read the wild jealousy in her eyes, and had assumed, not unnaturally, that there had been scarcely time for anything to occur which would cause a revulsion of feeling on her part. But as the moments went by, and still she did not put in an appearance, an expression of keen disappointment showed itself on his face and, with mechanical regularity, he carried out the liquid programme, shutting his eyes after each drink for moments at a time yet, apparently, in perfect control of his mind when he opened them again; and it was in one of these moments that he heard a step outside which he correctly surmised to be that of the Sheriff.
Without a word Rance walked into the room and over to the table and helped himself to a drink from the bottle there, which action the Wells Fargo Agent rightly interpreted as meaning that the posse had failed to catch their quarry. At first a glint of satisfaction shone in Ashby’s eyes: not that he disliked Rance, but rather that he resented his egotistical manner and evident desire to overawe all who came in contact with him; and it required, therefore, no little effort on his part to banish this look from his face and make up his mind not to mention the subject in any manner.
For some time, therefore, the two officers sat opposite to each other inhaling the stale odour of tobacco and spirits peculiar to this room, with little or no ventilation. It was enough to sicken anyone, but both men, accustomed to such places in the pursuit of their calling, apparently thought nothing of it, the Sheriff seemingly absorbed in contemplating the long ash at the end of his cigar, but, in reality, turning over in his mind whether he should leave the room or not. At length, he inaugurated a little contest of opinion.
“This woman isn’t coming, that’s certain,” he declared, impatiently.
“I rather think she will; she promised not to fail me,” was the other’s quiet answer; and he added: “In ten minutes you’ll see her.”
It was a rash remark and expressive of a confidence that he by no means felt. As a matter of fact, it was induced solely by the cynical smile which he perceived on the Sheriff’s face.
“You, evidently, take no account of the fact that the lady may have changed her mind,” observed Rance, lighting a fresh cigar. “The Nina Micheltoreñas are fully as privileged as others of their sex.”
As he drained his glass Ashby gave the speaker a sharp glance; another side of Rance’s character had cropped out. Moreover, Ashby’s quick intuition told him that the other’s failure to catch the outlaw was not troubling him nearly as much as was theblow which his conceit had probably received at the hands of the Girl. It was, therefore, in an indulgent tone that he said:
“No, Rance, not this one nor this time. You mark my words, the woman is through with Ramerrez. At least, she is so jealous that she thinks she is. She’ll turn up here, never fear; she means business.”
The shoulders of Mr. Jack Rance strongly suggested a shrug, but the man himself said nothing. They were anything but sympathetic companions, these two officers, and in the silence that ensued Rance formulated mentally more than one disparaging remark about the big man sitting opposite to him. It is possible, of course, that the Sheriff’s rebuff by the Girl, together with the wild goose chase which he had recently taken against his better judgment, had something to do with this bitterness; but it was none the less true that he found himself wondering how Ashby had succeeded in acquiring his great reputation. Among the things that he held against him was his everlasting propensity to boast of his achievements, to say nothing of the pedestal upon which the boys insisted upon placing him. Was this Wells Fargo’s most famous agent? Was this the man whose warnings were given such credence that they stirred even the largest of the goldcamps into a sense of insecurity? And at this Rance indulged again in a fit of mental merriment at the other’s expense.
But, although he would have denied it in toto, the truth of the matter was that the Sheriff was jealous of Ashby. Witty, generous, and a high liver, the latter was generally regarded as a man who fascinated women; moreover, he was known to be a favourite—and here the shoe pinched—with the Girl. True, the demands of his profession were such as to prevent his staying long in any camp. Nevertheless, it seemed to Rance that he contrived frequently to turn up at The Polka when the boys were at the diggings.
After Ashby’s observation the conversation by mutual, if unspoken, consent, was switched into other channels. But it may be truthfully said that Rance did not wholly recover his mental equilibrium until a door was heard to open noiselessly and some whispered words in Spanish fell upon their ears.
Now the Sheriff, as well as Ashby, had the detective instinct fully developed; moreover, both men knew a few words of that language and had an extreme curiosity to hear the conversation going on between a man and a woman, who were standing just outside in a sort of hallway. As a result, therefore, both officers sprang to the door with the hope—ifindeed it was Nina Micheltoreña as they surmised—that they might catch a word or two which would give them a clue to what was likely to take place at the coming interview. It came sooner than they expected.
“ ... Ramerrez—Five thousand dollars!” reached their ears in a soft, Spanish voice.
Ashby needed nothing more than this. In an instant, much to the Sheriff’s astonishment, and moving marvellously quick for a man of his heavy build, he was out of the room, leaving Rance to face a woman with a black mantilla thrown over her head who, presently, entered by another door.
Nina Micheltoreña, for it was she, did not favour him with as much as an icy look. Nor did the Sheriff give any sign of knowing her; a wise proceeding as it turned out, for a quick turn of the head and a subtle movement of the woman’s shoulders told him that she was in anything but a quiet state of mind. One glance towards the door behind him, however, and the reason of her anger was all too plain: A Mexican was vainly struggling in the clutches of Ashby.
“Why are you dragging him in?” Far from quailing before him as did her confederate, she confronted Ashby with eyes that flashed fire. “He came with me—”
Ashby cut her short.
“We don’t allow greasers in this camp and—” he began in a throaty voice.
“But he is waiting to take me back!” she objected, and then added: “I wish him to wait for me outside, and unless you allow him to I’ll go at once.” And with these words she made a movement towards the door.
Ashby laid one restraining hand upon her, while with the other he held on to the Mexican. Of a sudden there had dawned upon him the conviction that for once in his life he had made a grievous mistake. He had thought, by the detention of her confederate, to have two strings to his bow, but one glance at the sneeringly censorious expression on the Sheriff’s face convinced him that no information would be forthcoming from the woman while in her present rebellious mood.
“All right, my lady,” he said, for the time being yielding to her will, “have your way.” And turning now to the Mexican, he added none too gently: “Here you, get out!”
Whereupon the Mexican slunk out of the room.
“There’s no use of your getting into a rage,” went on Ashby, turning to the woman in a slightly conciliatory manner. “I calculated that the greaser would be in on the job, too.”
All through this scene Rance had been sitting back in his chair chewing his cigar in contemptuous silence, while his face wore a look of languid insolence, a fact which, apparently, did not disturb the woman in the least, for she ignored him completely.
“It was well for you, Señor Ashby, that you let him go. I tell you frankly that in another moment I should have gone.” And now throwing back her mantilla she took out a cigarette from a dainty, little case and lit it and coolly blew a cloud of smoke in Rance’s face, saying: “It depends on how you treat me—you, Mr. Jack Rance, as well as Señor Ashby—whether we come to terms or not. Perhaps I had better go away anyway,” she concluded with a shrug of admirably simulated indifference.
This time Ashby sat perfectly still. It was not difficult to perceive that her anger was decreasing with every word that she uttered; nor did he fail to note how fluently she spoke English, a slight Spanish accent giving added charm to her wonderfully soft and musical voice. How gloriously beautiful, he told himself, she looked as she stood there, voluptuous, compelling, alluring, the expression that had been almost diabolical, gradually fading from her face. Was it possible, he asked himself, that all this loveliness was soiled forever? He felt that there was something pitiful in the fact that the woman standing before him represented negotiable propertywhich could be purchased by any passer-by who had a few more nuggets in his possession than his neighbour; and, perhaps, because of his knowledge of the piteous history of this former belle of Monterey he put a little more consideration into the voice that said:
“All right, Nina, we’ll get down to business. What have you to say to us?”
By this time Nina’s passionate anger had burned itself out. In anticipation, perhaps, of what she was about to do, she looked straight ahead of her into space. It was not because she was assailed by some transient emotion to forswear her treacherous desire for vengeance; she had no illusion of that kind. Too vividly she recalled the road agent’s indifferent manner at their last interview for any feeling to dwell in her heart other than hatred. It was that she was summoning to appear a vision scarcely less attractive, however pregnant with tragedy, than that of seeing herself avenged: a gay, extravagant career in Mexico or Spain which the reward would procure for her. That was what she was seeing, and with a pious wish for its confirmation she began to make herself a fresh cigarette, rolling it dexterously with her white, delicate fingers, and not until her task was accomplished and her full, red lips were sending forth tiny clouds of smoke did she announce:
“Ramerrez was in Cloudy Mountain to-night.”
But however much of a surprise this assertion was to both men, neither gave vent to an exclamation. Instead Rance regarded his elegantly booted feet; Ashby looked hard at the woman as if he would read the truth in her eyes; while as for Nina, she continued to puff away at her little cigarette after the manner of one that has appealed not in vain to the magic power which can paint out the past and fill the blank with the most beautiful of dreams.
The Wells Fargo man was the first to make any comment; he asked:
“You know this?” And then as she surveyed them through a scented cloud and bowed her head, he added: “How do you know it?”
“That I shall not tell you,” replied the woman, firmly.
Ashby made an impatient movement towards her with the question:
“Where was he?”
“Oh, come, Ashby!” put in Rance, speaking for the first time. “She’s putting up a game on us.”
In a flash Nina wheeled around and with eyes that blazed advanced to the table where the Sheriff was sitting. Indeed, there was something so tigerish about the woman that the Sheriff, in alarm, quickly pushed back his chair.
“I am not lying, Jack Rance.” There was an evil glitter in her eye as she watched a sarcastic smileplaying around his lips. “Oh, yes, I know you—you are the Sheriff,” and so saying a peal of contemptuous merriment burst from her, “and Ramerrez was in the camp not less than two hours ago.”
Ashby could hardly restrain his excitement.
“And you saw him?” came from him.
“Yes,” was her answer.
Both men sprang to their feet; it was impossible to doubt any longer that she spoke the truth.
“What’s his game?” demanded Rance.
The woman answered his question with a question.
“How about the reward, Señor Ashby?”
“You needn’t worry about that—I’ll see that you get what’s coming to you,” replied the Wells Fargo Agent already getting into his coat.
“But how are we to know?” inquired Rance, likewise getting ready to leave. “Is he an American or a Mexican?”
“To-night he’s an American, that is, he’s dressed and looks like one. But the reward—you swear you’re playing fair?”