“Well, you see, I figger it out this way, boss,” at last he answered, meeting him face to face frankly, earnestly, his foot the while resting on the other’s chair.  “Love’s like a drink that gits a hold on you an’ you can’t quit.  It’s a turn of the head or a touch of the hands, or it’s a half sort of smile, an’ you’re doped, doped, doped with a feelin’ like strong liquor runnin’ through your veins, an’ there ain’t nothin’ on earth can break it up once you’ve got the habit.  That’s love.”

Touched by the little barkeeper’s droll philosophy, the Sheriff dropped his head on his breast, while the hand which held the glass unconsciously fell to his side.

“I’ve got it,” went on Nick with enthusiasm; “you’ve got it; the boy’s got it; the Girl’s got it; the whole damn world’s got it.  It’s all the heaven there is on earth, an’ in nine cases out of ten it’s hell.”

Rance opened his lips to speak, but quickly drew them in tightly.  The next instant Nick touched him lightly on the shoulder and pointed to the empty glass in his hand, the contents having run out upon the floor.

With a mere glance at the empty glass Rance returned it to Nick.  Presently, then, he took out his watch and fell to studying its face intently, and only when he had finally returned the watch to his pocket did he voice what was in his mind.

“Well, Nick,” he said, “her road agent’s got off by now.”

Whereupon, the barkeeper, too, took out his watch and consulted it.

“Left Cloudy at three o’clock this morning—­five hours off . . .” was his brief comment.

Once more a silence fell upon the room.  Then, all of a sudden, the sound of horses’ hoofs and the murmur of rough voices came to their ears, and almost instantly a voice was heard to cry out: 

“Hello!”

“Hello!” came from an answering voice.

“Why, it’s The Pony Express got through at last!” announced Nick, incredulously; and so saying he took up the whisky bottle and glasses which lay on the teacher’s desk and dashed into the saloon.  He had barely left, however, than The Pony Express, muffled up to his ears and looking fit to brave the fiercest of storms, entered the room, hailing the boys with: 

“Hello, boys!  Letter for Ashby!”

The Deputy—­who with Trinidad and Sonora had come running in, the latter carrying a boot-leg and a stove-polishing brush in his hand—­took the letter and started in search of the Wells Fargo Agent who, Rance had told them, had gone to sleep.

“Well, boys, how d’you like bein’ snowed in for a week?” asked The Pony Express, warming himself by the stove; and then without waiting for an answer he rattled on:  “There’s a rumour at The Ridge that you all let Ramerrez freeze an’ missed a hangin’.  Say, they’re roarin’ at you, chaps!” And with a “So long, boys!” he strode out of the room.

Sonora started in hot pursuit after him, hollering out: