At that moment Ashby, the Wells Fargo Agent, was nearer than ever before to the most brilliant capture of all his career.

Late the following afternoon, some five miles from the Mexican settlement, on a small tableland high above a black ravine which was thickly timbered with the giant trees of the Sierras, Ramerrez' band was awaiting the coming of the Maestro. It was not to be a long wait and they stood around smoking and talking in low tones. Suddenly, the sound of horses climbing was heard, and soon a horseman came in sight whose appearance had the effect of throwing them instantly into a state of excitement, one and all drawing their guns and making a dash for their horses, which were tied to trees. A moment later, however, another horseman appeared, and laughing boisterously at themselves they slid their guns back into their belts and retied their horses, for the man whom they recognised so quickly, the individual who saved the situation, as it were, was none other than Jose Castro, an ex-padrona of the bull-fights and the second in command to Ramerrez. He was a wiry, hard-faced and shifty-eyed Mexican, but was as thoroughly devoted to Ramerrez as he had been to the young leader's father. On the other hand, the man who had caused them to fear that a stranger had surprised them, and that they had been trapped, was Ramerrez or Johnson—the name that he had assumed for the dangerous work he was about to engage in—and they had failed to know him, dressed as he was in the very latest fashion prevailing among the Americans in Sacramento in '49. Nor was it to be wondered at, for on his head was a soft, brown hat—large, but not nearly the proportions of a sombrero; a plain, rough tweed coat and a waistcoat of a darker tan, which showed a blue flannel shirt beneath it; and his legs were encased in boots topped by dark brown leggings. In a word, his get-up resembled closely the type of American referred to disdainfully by the miners of that time as a Sacramento guy; whereas, the night before he had taken great pains to attire himself as gaudily as any of the Mexicans at the dance, and he had worn a short black jacket of a velvety material that was not unlike corduroy and covered with braid; his breeches were of the same stuff; above his boots were leather gaiters; and around his waist was a red sash.

It was now close to four o'clock in the afternoon and the band began their preparations for the raid. To the rear of the small, open space where they had been waiting was a fairly good-sized cave, in the opening of which they deposited various articles unnecessary for the expedition. It took only a short time to do this, and within half an hour from the time that their leader had so startled them by his strange appearance, the outlaws were ready to take the trail for Cloudy Mountain. One comprehensive glance the pseudo-American—and he certainly looked the part—shot at his picturesque, if rough-looking followers, not a few of whom showed red bandannas under their sombreros or around their necks— and then with a satisfied expression on his face—for he had a leader's pride in his men—he gave the signal and led the way along and down the steep trail from the tableland. And as from time to time he glanced back over his shoulders to where the men were coming along in single file, he could see that in every eye was a glint of exultation at the prospect of booty.

After they had gone about three miles they crossed the black ravine, and from there they began to ascend. Up and up they went, the path very hard on the horses, until finally they came to the top of a pass where it had been arranged that the band should await further instructions, none going on further save the two leaders. Here, saddle-girths and guns were inspected, the last orders given, and with a wave of the hand in response to the muttered wishes of good luck, Johnson,—for as such he will be known from this time on,—followed by Castro, made his way through the forest towards Cloudy Mountain.

For an hour or so Johnson rode along in that direction, checking the speed of his horse every time the sun came into view and showed that there was yet some time before sunset. Presently, he made a sign to Castro to take the lead, for he had never been in this locality before, and was relying on his subordinate to find a spot from which he could reconnoitre the scene of the proposed raid without the slightest danger of meeting any of the miners.

At a very sharp turn of the road to the left Castro struck off through the forest to the right and, within a few minutes, reached a place where the trees had thinned out and were replaced by the few scrubs that grew in a spot almost barren. A minute or so more and the two men, their horses tied, were able to get an uninterrupted view of Cloudy Mountain.

The scene before them was one of grandeur. Day was giving place to night, fall to winter, and yet at this hour all the winds were stilled. In the distance gleamed the snow-capped Sierras, range after range as far as the eye could see to the northwest; in the opposite direction there stood out against the steel-blue of the sky a succession of wooded peaks ever rising higher and higher until culminating in the faraway white mountains of the south; and below, they looked upon a ravine that was brownish-green until the rays of the departing orb touched the leaves with opal tints.

Now the fast-falling sun flung its banner of gorgeous colours across the western sky. Immediately a wonderful light played upon the fleecy cumuli gathered in the upper heavens of the east and changed them from pearl to brilliant scarlet. For a moment, also, the purple hills became wonderful piles of dull gold and copper; a moment more and the magic hand of the King of Day was withdrawn.

In front of them now, dark, gloomy and threatening rose Cloudy Mountain, from which the Mining Camp took its name; and on a plateau near its base the camp itself could plainly be seen. It consisted of a group of miners' cabins set among pines, firs and manzaneta bushes with two larger pine-slab buildings, and scattered around in various places were shafts, whose crude timber-hoists appeared merely as vague outlines in the fast-fading light. The distance to the camp from where they stood was not over three miles as the crow flies, but it appeared much less in the rarefied atmosphere.

As the two bandits stood on the edge of the precipice looking across and beyond the intervening gulch or ravine, here and there a light twinkled out from the cabins and, presently, a much stronger illumination shot forth from one of the larger and more pretentious buildings. Castro was quick to call his master's attention to it.

"There—that place with the light is The Palmetto Hotel!" he exclaimed. "And over there—the one with the larger light is The Polka Saloon!" For even as he spoke the powerful kerosene lamp of The Polka Saloon, flanked by a composition metal reflector, flashed out its light into the gloom enveloping the desolate, ominous-looking mountains.

Johnson regarded this building long and thoughtfully. Then his eyes made out a steep trail which zigzagged from The Polka Saloon up the barren slopes of the mountain until it reached a cabin perched on the very top, the steps and porch of which were held up by poles made of trees. There, also, a light could be seen, but dimly. It was a strange place for anyone to erect a dwelling-place, and he found himself wondering what manner of person dwelt there. Of one thing he was certain: whoever it was the mountains were loved for themselves, for no mere digger of gold would think of erecting a habitation in view of those strange, vast, and silent heights!

And as he meditated thus, he perceived that the far off Sierras were forming a background for a sinuous coil of smoke from the cabin. For some time he watched it curling up into the great arch of sky. It was as if he were hypnotised by it and, in a vague, shadowy way, he had a sense of being connected, somehow, with the little cabin and its recluse. Was this feeling that he had a premonition of danger? Was this a moment of foreboding and distrust of the situation yet to be revealed? For like most venturesome men he always had a moment before every one of his undertakings in which his instinct either urged him forward or held him back.

Suddenly he became conscious that his eyes no longer saw the smoke. He stared hard to glimpse it, but it was gone. And with a supreme effort he wrenched himself free from a sort of paralysis which was stealing away his senses.

Now the light in the cabin disappeared, and since the shades of night, for which he had been waiting, had fallen, he called to the impatient and wondering Castro, and together they went back to the trail.

But even as they crossed the gulch and reached the outskirts of the camp a great white moon rose from behind the Sierras. To Castro, hidden now in the pines, it meant nothing so long as it did not interfere with his purpose. As a matter of fact he was already listening intently to the bursts of song and shouts of revelry that came every now and then from the nearby saloon. But his master, unaccountably under the spell of the moon's mystery and romance, watched it until it shed its silvery and magic light upon the lone cabin on the top of Cloudy Mountain, which Fate had chosen for the decisive scene of his dramatic life.



V.

Inside The Polka, not a bit more, and not a bit less sardonic—it was this imperturbability which made him so resistless to most people—than he was prior to the banishment of The Sidney Duck, the Sheriff of Manzaneta County waited patiently until the returning puppets of his will had had time to compose themselves. It took them merely the briefest of periods, but it served to increase visibly the long ash at the end of Rance's cigar. At length he shot a hawk-like glance at Sonora and proposed a little game of poker.

"This time, gentlemen—" he said, with a significant pause and accent— "just for social recreation. What do you say?"

"I'm your Injun!" acquiesced Sonora, rubbing his hands together gleefully at the prospect of winning from the Sheriff, whom he liked none too well.

"That's me, too!" concurred Trinidad.

"Chips, then, Nick!" called out the Sheriff, quietly taking a seat at the table; while Sonora, bubbling over with spirits, hitched up his trousers in sailor fashion and executed an impromptu hornpipe, bellowing in his deep, base voice:

"I shipped aboard of a liner, boys—"

"Renzo, boys, renzo," finished Trinidad, falling in place at the table.

At this point the outside door was unexpectedly pushed open, inward, and the Deputy-Sheriff came into their midst.

"Ashby just rode in with his posse," he announced huskily to his superior.

The Sheriff flashed a look of annoyance and inquired of the gaunt, hollow-cheeked, muscular Deputy whose beaver overcoat was thrown open so that his gun and powder-flask showed plainly in his belt:

"Why, what's he doing here?"

"He's after Ramerrez," answered the Deputy, eyeing him intently.

Rance received this information in silence and went on with his shuffling of the cards; presently, unconcernedly, he remarked:

"Ramerrez—Oh, that's the polite road agent who has been visiting the other camps?"

"Yes; he's just turned into your county," declared the Deputy, meaningly.

"What?" Sonora looked dumbfounded.

The Deputy nodded and proceeded to the bar. And while he drained the contents of his glass, the Minstrel played on his banjo, much to the amusement of the men, who showed their appreciation by laughing heartily, the last bars of, "Pop Goes the Weasel."

"Hello, Sheriff!" greeted Ashby, coming in just as the merriment over the Minstrel's little joke had died away. Ashby's voice—quick, sharp and decisive was that of a man accustomed to ordering men, but his manner was suave, if a trifle gruff. Moreover, he was a man of whom it could be said, paradoxical as it may seem, that he was never known to be drunk nor ever known to be sober. It was plain from his appearance that he had been some time on the road.

Rance rose and politely extended his hand. And, although the greeting between the two men was none too cordial, yet in their look, as they eyed each other, was the respect which men have for others engaged more or less in the same business and in whom they recognise certain qualities which they have in common. In point of age Ashby was, perhaps, the senior. As far as reputation was concerned, both men were accounted nervy and square. Rance introduced him to Sonora and the others, saying:

"Boys, Mr. Ashby of Wells Fargo."

The latter had a pleasant word or two for the men; then, turning to the Deputy, he said:

"And how are you these days?"

"Fit. And yourself?"

"Same here." Turning now to the barkeeper, Ashby, with easy familiarity, added: "Say, Nick, give us a drink."

"Sure!" came promptly from the little barkeeper.

"Everybody'll have the same?" inquired Ashby, turning once more to the men.

"The same!" returned the men in chorus.

Thereupon, Nick briskly slapped down a bottle and four glasses before the Sheriff, and leaving him to do the honours, disappeared into the dance-hall.

"'Well, I trust the Girl who runs The Polka is well?" inquired Ashby, pushing his glass near the bottle.

"Fine as silk," vouched Sonora, adding in the next breath: "But, say, Mr. Ashby, how long you been chasm' up this road agent?"

"Oh, he only took to the road a few months ago," was Ashby's answer. "Wells Fargo have had me and a posse busy ever since. He's a wonder!"

"Must be to evade you," complimented Sonora, much to the discomfort of the Sheriff.

"Yes, I can smell a road agent in the wind," declared Ashby somewhat boastfully. "But, Rance, I expect to get that fellow right here in your county."

The Sheriff looked as if he scouted the idea, and was about to speak, but checked the word on his tongue. Then followed a short silence in which the Deputy, smiling a trifle derisively, went out of the saloon.

"Is this fellow a Spaniard?" questioned the Sheriff, drawling as usual, but at the same time jerking his thumb over his shoulder towards a placard on the wall, which read:

"FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS REWARD FOR THE ROAD AGENT RAMERREZ, OR INFORMATION LEADING TO HIS CAPTURE. (SIGNED) WELLS FARGO."

"No—can't prove it. The fact of his leading a crew of greasers and Spaniards signifies nothing. His name is assumed, I suppose."

"They say he robs you like a gentleman," remarked Rance with some show of interest.

"Well, look out for the greasers up the road!" was Ashby's warning as he emptied his glass and put it down before him.

"We don't let them pass through here," shrugged Rance, likewise putting down his glass on the table.

Ashby now picked up the whisky bottle and carried it over to the deserted faro table before which he settled himself comfortably in a chair.

"Well, boys, I've had a long ride—wake me up when The Pony Express goes through!" he called over his shoulder as he put his coat over him.

But no sooner was he comfortably ensconced for a snooze than Nick came bustling in with a kettle of boiling water and several glasses half-filled with whisky and lemon. Stopping before Ashby he said in his best professional manner:

"Re-gards of the Girl—hot whisky straight with lemming extract."

Ashby took up his glass, as did, in turn, the men at the other table. But it was Rance who, with arm uplifted, toasted:

"The Girl, gentlemen, the only Girl in Camp, the Girl I mean to make Mrs. Jack Rance!"

Confident that neither would catch him in the act, Nick winked first at Sonora and then at Trinidad. That the little barkeeper was successful in making the former, at least, believe that he possessed the Girl's affections was manifested by the big miner's next remark.

"That's a joke, Rance. She makes you look like a Chinaman."

Rance sprang to his feet, white with rage.

"You prove that!" he shouted.

"In what particular spot will you have it?" taunted Sonora, as his hand crept for his gun.

Simultaneously, every man in the room made a dash for cover. Nick ducked behind the bar, for, as he told himself when safely settled there, he was too old a bird to get anywhere near the line of fire when two old stagers got to making lead fly about. Nor was Trinidad slow in arriving at the other end of the bar where he caromed against Jake, who had dropped his banjo and was frantically trying to kick the spring of the iron shield in an endeavour to protect himself—a feat which, at last, he succeeded in performing. But, fortunately, for all concerned, as the two men stood eyeing each other, their hands on their hips ready to draw, Nick, from his position behind the bar, glimpsed through the window the Girl on the point of entering the saloon.

"Here comes the Girl!" he cried excitedly. "Aw, leave your guns alone— take your drinks, quick!"

For a fraction of a second the men looked sheepishly at one another, even Nick appearing a trifle uncomfortable, as he picked up the kettle and went off with it.

"Once more we're friends, eh, boys?" said Rance, with a forced laugh; and then as he lifted his glass high in the air, he gave the toast:

"The Girl!"

"The Girl!" repeated all—all save Ashby, whose snores by this time could be heard throughout the big room—and drained their glasses.



VI.

There was a general movement towards the bar when the fair proprietress of The Polka, who had lingered longer than usual in her little cabin on top of the mountain, breezily entered the place by the main door. In a coarse, blue skirt, and rough, white flannel blouse, cut away and held in place at the throat by a crimson ribbon, the Girl made a pretty picture; it was not difficult to see why the boys of Cloudy Mountain Camp had a feeling which fell little short of adoration for this sun-browned maid, with the spirit of the mountain in her eyes. That each in his own way had given her to understand that he was desperately smitten with her, goes without saying. But, although she accepted their rough homage as a matter of course, such a thought as falling in love with anyone of them had never entered her mind.

As far back, almost, as she could remember, the Girl had lived among them and had ever been a true comrade, sharing their disappointments and thrilling with their successes. Of a nature pure and simple, she was, nevertheless, frank and outspoken. Moreover, she knew to a dot what was meant when someone—bolder than his mates—stretched out his arms to her. One such exhibition on a man's part she was likely to forgive and forget, but the wrath and scorn that had blazed forth from her blue eyes on such an occasion had been sufficient to prevent a repetition of the offence. In short, unspoiled by their coarse flattery, and, to all appearances, happy and care-free, she attended to the running of The Polka wholly unsmirched by her environment.

But a keen observer would not have failed to detect that the Girl took a little less pleasure in her surroundings than she had taken in them before she had made the trip to Monterey. Downright glad, to use her own expression, as she had been on her return to see the boys of the camp and hear their boisterous shouts of welcome when the stage drew up in front of The Polka, she had to acknowledge that her home-coming was not quite what she expected. It was as if she had suddenly been startled out of a beautiful dream wherein she had been listening to the soft music of her lover's voice and brought face to face with the actualities of life, which, in her case, to say the least, were very real.

For hours after leaving her admirer sitting motionless on his horse on the great highway between Monterey and Sacramento, the Girl had indulged in some pertinent thoughts which, if the truth were known, were anything but complimentary to her behaviour. And, however successful she was later on in persuading herself that he would eventually seek her out, there was no question that at first she felt that the chances of her ever setting eyes on him again were almost negligible. All the more bitterly, therefore, did she regret her folly in not having told him where she lived; particularly so since she assured herself that not only was he the handsomest man that she had ever seen, but that he was the only one who had ever succeeded in chaining her attention. That he had been making love to her with his eyes, if not with words, she knew only too well—a fact that had been anything but displeasing to her. Indeed, far from having felt sorry that she had encouraged him, she, unblushingly, acknowledged to herself that, if she had the thing to do over again, she would encourage him still more.

Was she then a flirt? Not at all, in the common acceptation of the word. All her knowledge of the ways of the world had been derived from Mother Nature, who had supplied her with a quick and ready wit to turn aside, with a smile, the protestations of the boys; had taught her how to live on intimate terms with them and yet not be intimate; but when it came to playing at love, which every city maid of the same age is an adept at, she was strangely ignorant. Of a truth, then, it was something far broader and deeper that had entered into her heart—love. Not infrequently love comes as suddenly as this to young women who live in small mining camps or out-of-the-way places where the men are practically of a type; it is their unfamiliarity with the class which a stranger represents when he makes his appearance in their midst that is responsible, fully as much as his own personality, for their being attracted to him. It is not impossible, of course, that if the Girl had met him in Cloudy,—say as a miner there,—the result would have been precisely the same. But it is much more likely that the attendant conditions of their meeting aided him in appealing to her imagination, and in touching a chord in her nature which, under other circumstances, would not have responded in as many months as there were minutes on that eventful day.

Little wonder then, that as each succeeding mile travelled by the stage took her further and further away from him, something which, as yet, she did not dare to name, kept tugging at her heartstrings and which she endeavoured to overcome by listening to the stage driver's long-winded reminiscences and anecdotes concerning the country through which they were passing. But, although she made a brave effort to appear interested, it did not take him long to realise that something was on his passenger's mind and, being a wise man, he gradually relapsed into silence, with the result that, before the long journey ended at Cloudy Mountain, she had deceived herself into believing that she was certain to see her admirer again.

But as the days grew into weeks, the weeks into months, and the Girl neither saw nor heard anything of him, it was inevitable that the picture that he had left on her mind should begin to grow dim. Nevertheless, it was surprising what a knack his figure had of appearing before her at various times of the day and night, when she never failed to compare him with the miners in the camp, and, needless to say, unflatteringly to them. There came a time, it is true, when she was sorely tempted to tell one of them something of this new-found friend of hers; but rightly surmising the effect that her praising of her paragon would have upon the recipient of her confidences, she wisely resolved to lock up his image in her heart.

Of course, there were moments, too, when the Girl regretted that there was no other woman—some friend of her own sex in the camp—to whom she could confide her little romance. But since that boon was denied her, she took to seeking out the most solitary places to dream of him. In such moods she would climb to a high crag, a few feet from her cabin, and with a reminiscent and far-away look in her eyes she would sit for hours gazing at the great canyons and gorges, the broad forests and wooded hillsides, the waterfalls flashing silver in the distance, and, above all, at the wonderously-grand and snow-capped peaks of the main range.

At other times she would take the trail leading from the camp to the country below, and after wandering about aimlessly in the beautiful and mysterious forests, she would select some little glen through which a brook trickled and murmured underneath the ferns into a pool, and seating herself on a clump of velvet moss, the great sugar pines and firs forming a canopy over her head, she would whisper her secret thoughts and wild hopes to the gorgeously-plumed birds and saucy squirrels scampering all about her. The hours spent thus were as oases in her otherwise practical existence, and after a while she would return laden down with great bunches of ferns and wild flowers which, eventually, found a place on the walls of The Polka.

* * * * * *

Glancing at the bar to see that everything was to her satisfaction, the Girl greeted the boys warmly, almost rapturously with:

"Hello, boys! How's everythin'? Gettin' taken care of?"

"Hello, Girl!" sang out Sonora in what he considered was his most fetching manner. He had been the first to reach the coveted position opposite the Girl, although Handsome, who had followed her in, was leaning at the end of the bar nearest to the dance-hall.

"Hello, Sonora!" returned the Girl with an amused smile, for it was impossible with her keen sense of humour not to see Sonora's attempts to make himself irresistible to her. Nor did she fail to observe that Trinidad, likewise, had spruced himself up a little more than usual, with the same purpose in mind.

"Hello, Girl!" he said, strolling up to her with a ludicrous swagger.

"Hello, Trin!" came from the Girl, smilingly.

There was an awkward pause in which both Sonora and Trinidad floundered about in their minds for something to say; at length, a brilliant inspiration came to the former, and he asked:

"Say, Girl, make me a prairie oyster, will you?"

"All, right, Sonora, I'll fix you right up," returned the Girl, smiling to herself at his effort. But at the moment that she was reaching for a bottle back of the bar, a terrific whoop came from the dance-hall, and ever-watchful lest the boys' fun should get beyond her control, she called to her factotum to quiet things down in the next room, concluding warningly:

"They've had about enough."

When the barkeeper had gone to do her bidding, the Girl picked up an egg, and, poising it over a glass, she went on:

"Say, look 'ere, Sonora, before I crack this 'ere egg, I'd like to state that eggs is four bits apiece. Only two hens left—" She broke off short, and turning upon Handsome, who had been gradually sidling up until his elbows almost touched hers, she repulsed him a trifle impatiently:

"Oh, run away, Handsome!"

A flush of pleasure at Handsome's evident discomfiture spread over Sonora's countenance, and comical, indeed, to the Girl, was the majestic air he took on when he ordered recklessly:

"Oh, crack the egg—I'll stand for it."

But Sonora's fancied advantage over the others was of short duration, for the next instant Nick, stepping quickly forward with a drink, handed it to the Girl with the words:

"Regards of Blonde Harry."

Again Sonora experienced a feeling akin to jealousy at what he termed Blonde Harry's impudence. It almost immediately gave way to a paroxysm of chuckling; for, the Girl, quickly taking the glass from Nick's hand, flung its contents into a nearby receptacle.

"There—tell 'im that it hit the spot!" She laughed.

Nick roared with the others, but on the threshold of the dance-hall he paused, hesitated, and finally came back, and advised in a low tone:

"Throw around a few kind words, Girl—good for the bar."

The Girl surveyed the barkeeper with playful disapproval in her eye. However advantageous might be his method of working up trade, she disdained to follow his advice, and her laughing answer was:

"Oh, you Nick!"

The peal of laughter that rung in Nick's ears as he disappeared through the door, awakened Ashby and brought him instantly to his feet. Despite his size, he was remarkably quick in his movements, and in no time at all he was standing before the bar with a glass, which he had filled from the bottle that had stood in front of him on the table, and was saying:

"Compliments of Wells Fargo."

"Thank you," returned the Girl; and then while she shook the prairie oyster: "You see we live high-shouldered here."

"That's what!" put in Sonora with a broad grin.

"What cigars have you?" asked Ashby, at the conclusion of his round of drinks.

"Regalias, Auroras and Eurekas," reeled off the Girl with her eye upon Billy Jackrabbit, who had quietly come in and was sneaking about in an endeavour to find something worth pilfering.

"Oh, any will do," Ashby told her, with a smile; and while he was helping himself from a box of Regalias, Nick suddenly appeared, calling out excitedly:

"Man jest come in threatenin' to shoot up the furniture!"

"Who is it?" calmly inquired the Girl, returning the cigar-box to its place on the shelf.

"Old man Watson!"

"Leave 'im shoot,—he's good for it!"

"Nick! Nick!" yelled several voices in the dance-hall where old man Watson was surely having the time of his life.

And still the Girl paid not the slightest attention to the shooting or the cries of the men; what did concern her, however, was the fact that the Indian was drinking up the dregs in the whisky glasses on the faro table.

"Here, you, Billy Jackrabbit! What are you doin' here?" she exclaimed sharply, causing that generally imperturbable redskin to start perceptibly. "Did you marry my squaw yet?"

Billy Jackrabbit's face wore as stolid an expression as ever, when he answered:

"Not so much married squaw—yet."

"Not so much married . . ." repeated the Girl when the merriment, which his words provoked, had subsided. "Come 'ere, you thievin' redskin!" And when he had slid up to the bar, and she had extracted from his pockets a number of cigars which she knew had been pilfered, she added: "You git up to my cabin an' marry my squaw before I git there." And at another emphatic "Git!" the Indian, much to the amusement of all, started for the Girl's cabin.

"Here—here's your prairie oyster, Sonora," at last said the Girl; and then turning to the Sheriff and speaking to him for the first time, she called out gaily: "Hello, Rance!"

"Hello, Girl!" replied the Gambler without even a glance at her or ceasing to shuffle the cards.

Presently, Sonora pulled out a bag of gold-dust and told the Girl to clear the slate out of it. She was in the act of taking the sack when Nick, rushing into the room and jerking his thumb over his shoulder, said:

"Say, Girl, there's a fellow in there wants to know if we can help out on provisions."

"Sure; what does he want?" returned the Girl with a show of willingness to accommodate him.

"Bread."

"Bread? Does he think we're runnin' a bakery?"

"Then he asked for sardines."

"Sardines? Great Gilead! You tell 'im we have nothin' but straight provisions here. We got pickled oysters, smokin' tobacco an' the best whisky he ever saw," rapped out the Girl, proudly, and turned her attention to the slate.

"You bet!" vouched Trinidad with a nod, as Nick departed on his errand.

Finally, the Girl, having made her calculations, opened the counter drawer and brought forth some silver Mexican dollars, saying:

"Sonora, an' Mr. Ashby, your change!"

Ashby picked up his money, only to throw it instantly back on the bar, and say gallantly:

"Keep the change—buy a ribbon at The Ridge—compliments of Wells Fargo."

"Thank you," smiled the Girl, sweeping the money into the drawer, but her manner showed plainly that it was not an unusual thing for the patrons of The Polka to refuse to accept the change.

Not to be outdone, Sonora quickly arose and went over to the counter where, pointing to his stack of silver dollars, he said:

"Girl, buy two ribbons at The Ridge;" and then with a significant glance towards Ashby, he added: "Fawn's my colour."

And again, as before, the voice that said, "Thank you," was colourless, while her eyes rested upon the ubiquitous Nick, who had entered with an armful of wood and was intent upon making the room warmer.

Rance snorted disapprovingly at Sonora's prodigality. That he considered that both his and Ashby's attentions to the Girl had gone far enough was made apparent by the severe manner in which he envisaged them and drawled out:

"Play cyards?"

But to that gentleman's surprise the men did not move. Instead, Ashby raising a warning finger to the Girl, went on to advise that she should bank with them oftener, concluding with:

"And then if this road agent Ramerrez should drop in, you won't lose so much—"

"The devil you say!" cut in Sonora; while Trinidad broke out into a scornful laugh.

"Oh, go on, Mr. Ashby!" smilingly scoffed the Girl. "I keep the specie in an empty keg now. But I've took to bankin' personally in my stockin'," she confided without the slightest trace of embarrassment.

"But say, we've got an awful pile this month," observed Nick, anxiously, leaving the fireplace and joining the little ring of men about her. "It makes me sort o' nervous—why, Sonora's got ten thousand alone fer safe keepin' in that keg an'—"

"—Ramerrez' band's everywhere," completed Ashby with a start, his quick and trained ear having caught the sound of horses' hoofs.

"But if a road agent did come here, I could offer 'im a drink an' he'd treat me like a perfect lady," contended the Girl, confidently.

"You bet he would, the durned old halibut!" was Sonora's comment, while Nick took occasion to ask the Girl for some tobacco.

"Solace or Honeydew?" she inquired, her hands already on the assortment of tobacco underneath the bar.

"Dew," was Nick's laconic answer.

And then it was that the Girl heard for the first time the sound of the galloping hoofs; startled for the moment, she inquired somewhat uneasily:

"Who's this, I wonder?"

But no sooner were the words spoken than a voice outside in the darkness sung out sharply:

"Hello!"

"Hello!" instantly returned another voice, which the Girl recognised at once as being that of the Deputy.

"Big holdup last night at The Forks!" the first voice was now saying.

"Holdup!" repeated several voices outside in tones of excitement.

"Ramerrez—" went on the first voice, at which ominous word all, including Ashby, began to exchange significant glances as they echoed:

"Ramerrez!"

The name had barely died on their lips, however, than Nick precipitated himself into their midst and announced that The Pony Express had arrived, handing up to the Girl, at the same time, a bundle of letters and one paper.

"You see!" maintained Ashby, stoutly, as he watched her sort the letters; "I was right when I told you . . ."

"Look sharp! There's a greaser on the trail!" rang out warningly the voice of The Pony Express.

"A greaser!" exclaimed Rance, for the first time showing any interest in the proceedings; and then without looking up and after the manner of a man speaking to a good dog, he told the Deputy, who had followed Nick into the room:

"Find him, Dep."

For some time the Girl occupied herself with cashing in the chips which Nick brought to her—a task which she performed with amazing correctness and speed considering that her knowledge of the science of mathematics had been derived solely from the handling of money at The Polka. Now she went over to Sonora, who sat at a table reading.

"You got the newspaper, I see," she observed. "But you, Trin, I'm sorry you ain't got nothin'," she added, with a sad, little smile.

"So long!" hollered The Pony Express at that moment; whereupon, Ashby rushed over to the door and called after him:

"Pony Express, I want you!" Satisfied that his command had been heard he retraced his footsteps and found Handsome peering eagerly over Sonora's shoulder.

"So, Sonora, you've got a newspaper," Handsome was saying.

"Yes, but the infernal thing's two months old," returned the other disgustedly.

Handsome laughed, and wheeling round was just in time to see the door flung open and a young fellow advance towards Ashby.

The Pony Express was a young man of not more than twenty years of age. He was smooth-faced and unshaven and, needless to say, was light of build, for these riders were selected for their weight as well as for their nerve. He wore a sombrero, a buckskin hunting-shirt, tight trousers tucked into high boots with spurs, all of which were weather-beaten and faded by wind, rain, dust and alkali. A pair of Colt revolvers could be seen in his holsters, and he carried in his hands, which were covered with heavy gloves, a mail pouch—it being the company's orders not to let his muchilo of heavy leather out of his hands for a second.

"You drop mail at the greaser settlement?" inquired Ashby in his peremptory and incisive manner.

"Yes, sir," quickly responded the young man; and then volunteered: "It's a tough place."

Ashby scrutinised the newcomer closely before going on with:

"Know a girl there named Nina Micheltorena?"

But before The Pony Express had time to reply the Girl interposed scornfully:

"Nina Micheltorena? Why, they all know 'er! She's one o' them Cachuca girls with droopy, Spanish eyes! Oh, ask the boys about 'er!" And with that she started to leave the room, stopping on her way to clap both Trinidad and Sonora playfully on the back. "Yes, ask the boys about 'er, they'll tell you!" And so saying she fled from the room, followed by the men she was poking fun at.

"Hold her letters, you understand?" instructed Ashby who, with the Sheriff, was alone now with The Pony Express.

"Yes, sir," he replied earnestly. A moment later there being no further orders forthcoming he hastily took his leave.

Ashby now turned his attention to Rance.

"Sheriff," said he, "to-night I expect to see this Nina Micheltorena either here or at The Palmetto."

Rance never raised an eyebrow.

"You do?" he remarked a moment later with studied carelessness. "Well, the boys had better look to their watches. I met that lady once."

Ashby shot him a look of inquiry.

"She's looking to that five thousand reward for Ramerrez," he told him.

Rance's interest was growing by leaps and bounds though he continued to riffle the cards.

"What? She's after that?"

"Sure thing. She knows something . . ." And having delivered himself of this Ashby strode over to the opposite side of the room where his coat and hat were hanging upon an elk horn. While putting them on he came face to face with the Girl who, having merely glanced in at the dance-hall, was returning to take up her duties behind the bar. "Well, I'll have a look at that greaser up the road," he said, addressing her, and then went on half-jocularly, half-seriously: "He may have his eye on the find in that stocking."

"You be darned!" was the Girl's parting shot at him as he went out into the night.

There was a long and impressive pause in which, apparently, the Sheriff was making up his mind to speak of matters scarcely incident to the situation that had gone before; while fully conscious that she was to be asked to give him an answer—she whose answer had been given many times—the Girl stood at the bar in an attitude of amused expectancy, and fussing with things there. At length, Rance, glancing shyly over his shoulder to make sure that they were alone, became all at once grave and his voice fell soft and almost caressingly.

"Say, Girl!"

The young woman addressed stole a look at him from under her lashes, all the while smiling a wise, little smile to herself, but not a word did she vouchsafe in reply.

Again Rance called to her over his shoulder:

"I say, Girl!"

The Girl took up a glass and began to polish it. At last she deigned to favour him with "Hm?" which, apparently, he did not hear, for again a silence fell upon them. Finally, unable to bear the suspense any longer, the Sheriff threw down his cards on the table, and facing her he said:

"Say, Girl, will you marry me?"

"Nope," returned the Girl with a saucy toss of the head.

Rance rose and strode over to the bar. Looking fixedly at her with his steely grey eyes he demanded the reason.

"'Cause you got a wife in Noo Orleans—or so the mountain breezes say," was her ready answer.

Rance gave no sign of having heard her. Throwing away the cigar he was smoking he asked in the most nonchalant manner:

"Give me some of them cigars—my kind."

Reaching for a box behind her the Girl placed it before him.

"Them's your kind, Jack."

From an inside pocket of his broadcloth coat Rance took out an elaborate cigar-case, filled it slowly, leaving out one cigar which he placed between his lips. When he had this one going satisfactorily he rested both elbows on the edge of the bar, and said bluntly:

"I'm stuck on you."

The Girl's lips parted a little mockingly.

"Thank you."

Rance puffed away for a moment or two in silence, and then with sudden determination he went on:

"I'm going to marry you."

"Think so?" questioned the Girl, drawing herself up proudly. And while Rance proceeded to relight his cigar, it having gone out, she plumped both elbows on the bar and looked him straight in the eye, and announced: "They ain't a man here goin' to marry me."

The scene had precisely the appearance of a struggle between two powerful wills. How long they would have remained with elbows almost touching and looking into each other's eyes it is difficult to determine; but an interruption came in the person of the barkeeper, who darted in, calling: "One good cigar!"

Instantly the Girl reached behind her for the box containing the choicest cigars, and handing one to Nick, she said:

"Here's your poison—three bits. Why look at 'em," she went on in the next breath to Rance; "there's Handsome with two wives I know of somewhere East. And—" She broke off short and ended with: "Nick, who's that cigar for?"

"Tommy," he told her.

"Here, give that back!" she cried quickly putting out her hand for it. "Tommy don't know a good cigar when he's smokin' it." And so saying she put the choice cigar back in its place among its fellows and handed him one from another box with the remark: "Same price, Nick."

Nick chuckled and went out.

"An' look at Trin with a widow in Sacramento. An' you—" The Girl broke off short and laughed in his face. "Oh, not one o' you travellin' under your own name!"

"One whisky!" ordered Nick, coming into the room with a rush. Without a word the Girl took down a bottle and poured it out for him while he stood quietly looking on, grinning from ear to ear. For Rance's weakness was known to him as it was to every other man in Manzaneta County, and he believed that the Sheriff had taken advantage of his absence to press his hopeless suit.

"Here you be!" sang out the Girl, and passed the glass over to him.

"He wants it with water," returned Nick, with a snicker.

With a contemptuous gesture the Girl put the bottle back on the shelf.

"No—no you don't; no fancy drinks here!" she objected.

"But he says he won't take it without water," protested Nick, though there was a twinkle in his eye. "He's a fellow that's jest rode in from The Crossin', so he says."

The Girl folded her arms and declared in a tone of finality:

"He'll take it straight or git."

"But he won't git," contended Nick chuckling. There was an ominous silence. Such behaviour was without a parallel in the annals of Cloudy. For much less than this, as the little barkeeper very well knew, many a man had been disciplined by the Girl. So, with his eyes fixed upon her face, he was already revelling in the situation by way of anticipation, and rejoicing in the coming requital for his own rebuff when the stranger had declined to leave as ordered. It was merely a question of his waiting for the words which would, as he put it, "take the fellow down a peg." They were soon forthcoming.

"You jest send 'im to me," commanded the Girl. "I'll curl his hair for him!"

Nick's face showed that the message was to his liking. It was evident, also, that he meant to lose no time in delivering it. A moment after he disappeared, Rance, who had been toying with a twenty dollar gold piece which he took from his pocket, turned to the Girl and said with great earnestness:

"Girl, I'll give you a thousand dollars on the spot for a kiss," which offer met with no response other than a nervous little laugh and the words:

"Some men invite bein' played."

The gambler shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, what are men made for?" said he, flinging the gold piece down on the bar in payment for the cigar.

"That's true," placidly commented the Girl, making the change.

Rance tried another tack.

"You can't keep on running this place alone; it's getting too big for you; too much money circulating through The Polka. You need a man behind you." All this was said in short, jerky sentences; moreover, when she placed his change in front of him he pushed it back almost angrily.

"Come now, marry me," again he pleaded.

"Nope."

"My wife won't know it."

"Nope."

"Now, see here, there's just one—"

"Nope—take it straight, Jack, nope . . ." interrupted the Girl. She had made up her mind that he had gone far enough; and firmly grabbing his hand she slipped his change into it.

Without a word the Sheriff dropped the coins into the cuspidor. The Girl saw the action and her eyes flashed with anger. The next moment, however, she looked up at him and said more gently than any time yet:

"No, Jack, I can't marry you. Ah, come along—start your game again—go on, Jack." And so saying she came out from behind the bar and went over to the faro table with: "Whoop la! Mula! Go! Good Lord, look at that faro table!"

But Rance was on the verge of losing control of himself. There was passion in his steely grey eyes when he advanced towards her, but although the Girl saw the look she did not flinch, and met it in a clear, straight glance.

"Look here, Jack Rance," she said, "let's have it out right now. I run The Polka 'cause I like it. My father taught me the business an', well, don't you worry 'bout me—I can look after m'self. I carry my little wepping"—and with that she touched significantly the little pocket of her dress. "I'm independent, I'm happy, The Polka's payin', an' it's bully!" she wound up, laughing. Then, with one of her quick changes of mood, she turned upon him angrily and demanded: "Say, what the devil do you mean by proposin' to me with a wife in Noo Orleans? Now, this is a respectable saloon, an' I don't want no more of it."

A look of gloom came into Rance's eyes.

"I didn't say anything—" he began.

"Push me that Queen," interrupted the Girl, sharply, gathering up the cards at the faro table, and pointing to one that was just beyond her reach. But when Rance handed it to her and was moving silently away, she added: "Ah, no offence, Jack, but I got other idees o' married life from what you have."

"Aw, nonsense!" came from the Sheriff in a voice that was not free from irritation.

The Girl glanced up at him quickly. Her mind was not the abode of hardened convictions, but was tender to sentiment, and something in his manner at once softening her, she said:

"Nonsense? I dunno 'bout that. You see—" and her eyes took on a far away look—"I had a home once an' I ain't forgot it—a home up over our little saloon down in Soledad. I ain't forgot my father an' my mother an' what a happy kepple they were. Lord, how they loved each other—it was beautiful!"

Despite his seemingly callous exterior, there was a soft spot in the gambler's heart. Every word that the Girl uttered had its effect on him. Now his hands, which had been clenched, opened out and a new light came into his eyes. Suddenly, however, it was replaced by one of anger, for the door, at that moment, was hesitatingly pushed open, and The Sidney Duck stood with his hand on the knob, snivelling:

"Oh, Miss, I—"

The Girl fairly flew over to him.

"Say, I've heard about you! You git!" she cried; and when she was certain that he was gone she came back and took a seat at the table where she continued, in the same reminiscent vein as before: "I can see mother now fussin' over father an' pettin' 'im, an' father dealin' faro—Ah, he was square! An' me a kid, as little as a kitten, under the table sneakin' chips for candy. Talk 'bout married life—that was a little heaven! Why, mother tho't so much o' that man, she was so much heart an' soul with 'im that she learned to be the best case-keeper you ever saw. Many a sleeper she caught! You see, when she played, she was playin' for the ol' man." She stopped as if overcome with emotion, and then added with great feeling: "I guess everybody's got some remembrance o' their mother tucked away. I always see mine at the faro table with her foot snuggled up to Dad's, an' the light o' lovin' in her eyes. Ah, she was a lady . . .!" Impulsively she rose and walked over to the bar. "No," she went on, when behind it once more, "I couldn't share that table an' The Polka with any man—unless there was a heap o' carin' back of it. No, I couldn't, Jack, I couldn't . . ."

By this time the Sheriff's anger had completely vanished; dejection was plainly written on every line of his face.

"Well, I guess the boys were right; I am a Chinaman," he drawled out.

At once the Girl was all sympathy.

"Oh, no you're not, Jack!" she protested, speaking as tenderly as she dared without encouraging him.

Rance was quick to detect the change in her voice. Now he leaned over the end of the bar and said in tones that still held hope:

"Once when I rode in here it was nothing but Jack, Jack, Jack Rance. By the Eternal, I nearly got you then!"

"Did you?" The Girl was her saucy self again.

Rance ignored her manner, and went on:

"Then you went on that trip to Sacramento and Monterey and you were different."

In spite of herself the Girl started, which Rance's quick eye did not fail to note.

"Who's the man?" he blazed.

For answer the Girl burst out into a peal of laughter. It was forced, and the man knew it.

"I suppose he's one o' them high-toned, Sacramento shrimps!" he burst out gruffly; then he added meaningly: "Do you think he'd have you?"

At those words a wondering look shone in the Girl's eyes, and she asked in all seriousness:

"What's the matter with me? Is there anythin' 'bout me a high-toned gent would object to?" And then as the full force of the insult was borne in upon her she stepped out from behind the bar, and demanded: "Look here, Jack Rance, ain't I always been a perfect lady?"

Rance laughed discordantly.

"Oh, heaven knows your character's all right!" And so saying he seated himself again at the table.

The girl flared up still more at this; she retorted:

"Well, that ain't your fault, Jack Rance!" But the words were hardly out of her mouth than she regretted having spoken them. She waited a moment, and then as he did not speak she murmured an "Adios, Jack," and took up her position behind the bar where, if Rance had been looking, he would have seen her start on hearing a voice in the next room and fix her eyes in a sort of fascinated wonder, on a man who, after parting the pelt curtain, came into the saloon with just a suggestion of swagger in his bearing.



VII.

"Where's the man who wanted to curl my hair?"

Incisive and harsh, with scarcely a trace of the musical tones she recollected so well, as was Johnson's voice, it deceived the Girl not an instant. Even before she was able to get a glimpse of his face it did not fail to tell her that the handsome caballero, with whom she had ridden on that never-to-be-forgotten day on the Monterey road, was standing before her. That his attire now, as might be expected, was wholly different from what it had been then, it never occurred to her to note; for, to tell the truth, she was vainly struggling to suppress the joy that she felt at seeing him again, and before she was aware of it there slipped through her lips:

"Why, howdy do, stranger!"

At the sound of her voice Johnson wheeled round in glad surprise and amazement; but the quick look of recognition that he flashed upon her wholly escaped the Sheriff whose attitude was indicative of keen resentment at this intrusion, and whose eyes were taking in the newcomer from head to foot.

"We're not much on strangers here," he blurted out at last.

Johnson turned on his heel and faced the speaker. An angry retort rose to his lips, but he checked it. Although, perhaps, not fully appreciating his action, he was, nevertheless, not unaware that, from the point of view of the Polka, his refusal to take his whisky straight might be regarded as nothing less than an insult. And now that it was too late he was inclined, however much he resented an attempt to interfere in a matter which he believed concerned himself solely, to regret the provocation and challenging words of his entrance if only because of a realisation that a quarrel would be likely to upset his plans. On the other hand, with every fraction of a second that passed he was conscious of becoming more and more desirous of humbling the man standing before him and scrutinising him so insolently; moreover, he felt intuitively that the eyes of the Girl were on him as well as on the other principal to this silent but no less ominous conflict going on, and such being the case it was obviously impossible for him to withdraw from the position he had taken. As a sort of compromise, therefore, he said, tentatively:

"I'm the man who wanted water in his whisky."

"You!" exclaimed the Girl; and then added reprovingly: "Oh, Nick, this gentleman takes his whisky as he likes it!"

And this from the Girl! The little barkeeper had all the appearance of a man who thought the world was coming to an end. He did not accept the Girl's ultimatum until he had drawn down his face into an expression of mock solemnity and ejaculated half-aloud:

"Moses, what's come over 'er!"

Johnson took a few steps nearer the Girl and bowed low.

"In the presence of a lady I will take nothing," he said impressively. "But pardon me, you seem to be almost at home here."

The girl leaned her elbows on the bar and her chin in her hands, and answered with a tantalising little laugh:

"Who—me?"

After a loud guffaw Nick took it upon himself to explain matters; turning to Johnson he said:

"Why, she's the Girl who runs The Polka!"

Johnson's face wore a look of puzzled consternation; he saw no reason for levity.

"You . . .?"

"Yep," nodded the Girl with a merry twinkle in her eyes.

Johnson's face fell.

"She runs The Polka," he murmured to himself. Of all places to have chosen—this! So the thing he had dreaded had happened!

For odd as it unquestionably seemed to him that she should turn up as the proprietress of a saloon after months of searching high and low for her, it was not this reflection that was uppermost in his mind; on the contrary, it was the deeply humiliating thought that he had come upon her when about to ply his vocation. Regret came swiftly that he had not thought to inquire who was the owner of The Polka Saloon. Bitterly he cursed himself for his dense stupidity. And yet, it was doubtful whether any of his band could have informed him. All that they knew of the place was that the miners of Cloudy Mountain Camp were said to keep a large amount of placer gold there; all that he had done was to acquaint himself with the best means of getting it. But his ruminations were soon dissipated by Rance, who had come so close that their feet almost touched, and was speaking in a voice that showed the quarrelsome frame of mind that he was in.

"You're from The Crossing, the barkeeper said—" he began, and then added pointedly: "I don't remember you."

Johnson slowly turned from the Girl to the speaker and calmly corrected:

"You're mistaken; I said I rode over from The Crossing." And turning his back on the man he faced the Girl with: "So, you run The Polka?"

"I'm the Girl—the girl that runs The Polka," she said, and to his astonishment seemed to glory in her occupation.

Presently, much to their delight, an opportunity came to them to exchange a word or two with each other without interruption. For, Rance, as if revolving some plan of action in his mind, had turned on his heel and walked off a little way. A moment more, however, and he was back again and more malevolently aggressive than ever.

"No strangers are allowed in this camp," he said, glowering at Johnson; and then, his remark having passed unheeded by the other, he sneered: "Perhaps you're off the road; men often get mixed up when they're visiting Nina Micheltorena on the back trail."

"Oh, Rance!" protested the Girl.

But Johnson, though angered, let the insinuation pass unnoticed, and went on to say that he had stopped in to rest his horse and, perhaps, if invited, try his luck at a game of cards. And with this intimation he crossed over to the poker table where he picked up the deck that Rance had been using.

Rance hesitated, and finally followed up the stranger until he brought up face to face with him.

"You want a game, eh?" he drawled, coolly impudent. "I haven't heard your name, young man."

"Name," echoed the Girl with a cynical laugh. "Oh, names out here—"

"My name's Johnson—" spoke up the man, throwing down the cards on the table.

"Is what?" laughed the Girl, saucily, and, apparently, trying to relieve the strained situation by her bantering tone.

"—Of Sacramento," he finished easily.

"Of Sacramento," repeated the Girl in the same jesting manner as before; then, quickly coming out from behind the bar, she went over to him and put out her hand, saying:

"I admire to know you, Mr. Johnson o' Sacramento."

Johnson bowed low over her hand.

"Thank you," he said simply.

"Say, Girl, I—" began Rance, fuming at her behaviour.

"Oh, sit down, Rance!" The interruption came from the Girl as she pushed him lightly out of her way; then, perching herself up on one end of the faro table, at which Johnson had taken a seat, she ventured:

"Say, Mr. Johnson, do you know what I think o' you?"

Johnson eyed her uncertainly, while Rance's eyes blazed as she blurted out:

"Well, I think you staked out a claim in a etiquette book." And then before Johnson could answer her, she went on to say: "So you think you can play poker?"

"That's my conviction," Johnson told her, smilingly.

"Out o' every fifty men who think they can play poker one ain't mistaken," was the Girl's caustic observation. The next instant, however, she jumped down from the table and was back at her post, where, fearful lest he should think her wanting in hospitality, she proposed: "Try a cigar, Mr. Johnson?"

"Thank you," he said, rising, and following her to the bar.

"Best in the house—my compliments."

"You're very kind," said Johnson, taking the candle that she had lighted for him; then, when his cigar was going, and in a voice that was intended for her alone, he went on: "So you remember me?"

"If you remember me," returned the Girl, likewise in a low tone.

"What the devil are they talking about anyway?" muttered Rance to himself as he stole a glance at them over his shoulder, though he kept on shuffling the cards.

"I met you on the road to Monterey," said Johnson with a smile.

"Yes, comin' an' goin'," smiled back the Girl. "You passed me a bunch o' wild syringa over the wheel; you also asked me to go a-berryin'—" and here she paused long enough to glance up at him coquettishly before adding: "But I didn't see it, Mr. Johnson."

"I noticed that," observed Johnson, laughing.

"An' when you went away you said—" The Girl broke off abruptly and replaced the candle on the bar; then with a shy, embarrassed look on her face she ended with: "Oh, I dunno."

"Yes, you do, yes, you do," maintained Johnson. "I said I'll think of you all the time—well, I've thought of you ever since."

There was a moment of embarrassment. Then:

"Somehow I kind o' tho't you might drop in," she said with averted eyes. "But as you didn't—" She paused and summoned to her face a look which she believed would adequately reflect a knowledge of the proprieties. "O' course," she tittered out, "it wa'n't my place to remember you—first."

"But I didn't know where you lived—you never told me, you know," contended the road agent, which contention so satisfied the Girl—for she remembered only too well that she had not told him—that she determined to show him further evidences of her regard.

Say, I got a special bottle here—best in the house. Will you . . .?"

"Why—"

The girl did not wait for him to finish his sentence, but quickly placed a bottle and glass before him.

"My compliments," she whispered, smiling.

"You're very kind—thanks," returned the road agent, and proceeded to pour out a drink.

Meanwhile, little of what was taking place had been lost on Jack Rance. As the whispered conversation continued, he grew more and more jealous, and at the moment that Johnson was on the point of putting the glass to his lips, Rance, rising quickly, went over to him and deliberately knocked the glass out of his hand.

With a crash it fell to the floor.

"Look here, Mr. Johnson, your ways are offensive to me!" he cried; "damned offensive! My name is Rance—Jack Rance. Your business here—your business?" And without waiting for the other's reply he called out huskily: "Boys! Boys! Come in here!"

At this sudden and unexpected summons in the Sheriff's well-known voice there was a rush from the dance-hall; in an instant the good-natured, roistering crowd, nosing a fight, crowded to the bar, where the two men stood glaring at each other in suppressed excitement.

"Boys," declared the Sheriff, his eye never leaving Johnson's face, "there's a man here who won't explain his business. He won't tell—"

"Won't he?" cut in Sonora, blusteringly. "Well, we'll see—we'll make 'im!"

There was a howl of execration from the bar. 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 Handsome stood 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 again advanced 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 proffered 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, followed by 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 metamorphosed. 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 habitues 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. "The Maestro—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 his breath. A moment later Nick let down the bearskin 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-padrona of 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 Senor 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 Mexican vaquero—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, Senor 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, Senor," 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 Micheltorena—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', sunbaked 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 the prisoner, 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-hail 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 reflected through 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 Micheltorena—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 to finish: "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.



VIII.

There was 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 a moment 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 features in 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 a good 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, would have 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 her favourite 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."