At this point Trinidad inquired of the Girl whether she meant to infer that honesty was not the best policy, and by way of illustration, he went on to say: 

“S’posin’ my watch had no works an’ I was to sell it to the Sheriff for one hundred dollars.  Would you have much respect for me?”

For the briefest part of a second the Girl seemed to be reflecting.

“I’d have more respect for you than for the Sheriff,” she answered succinctly.

“Hurrah!  Whoopee!  Whoop!” yelled the men, who were delighted both with what she said as well as her pert way of saying it.

It was in the midst of these shouts that Billy Jackrabbit and Wowkle, unobserved by the others, quietly stole into the room and squatted themselves down under the blackboard.  When the merriment had subsided Rance rose and took the floor.  His face was paler than usual, though his voice was calm when presently he said: 

“Well, bein’ Sheriff, I’m careful about my company—­I’ll sit in the bar.  Cheats and road agents”—­and here he paused meaningly and glanced from The Sidney Duck to the Girl—­“ar’n’t jest in my line.  I walk in the open road with my head up and my face to the sun, and whatever I’ve pulled up, you’ll remark I’ve always played square and stood by the cyards.”

“I know, I know,” observed the Girl and fell wearily into her seat; the next instant she went on more confidently:  “An’ that’s the way to travel—­in the straight road.  But if ever I don’t travel that road, or you—­”

“You always will, you bet,” observed Nick with feeling.

“You bet she will!” shouted the others.

“But if I don’t,” continued the Girl, insistently, “I hope there’ll be someone to lead me back—­back to the right road.  ’Cause remember, Rance, some of us are lucky enough to be born good, while others have to be ’lected.”

“That’s eloquence!” cried Sonora, moved almost to tears; while Rance took a step forward as if about to make some reply; but the next instant, his head held no longer erect and his face visibly twitching, he passed into the bar-room.

A silence reigned for a time, which was broken at last by the Girl announcing with great solemnity: 

“If anybody can sing ’My Country ‘Tis,’ Academy’s opened.”

At this request, really of a physical nature, and advanced in a spirit of true modesty, all present, curiously enough, seemed to have lost their voices and nudged one another in an endeavour to get the hymn started.  Someone insisted that Sonora should go ahead, but that worthy pupil objected giving as his excuse, obviously a paltry one and trumped up for the occasion, that he did not know the words.  There was nothing to it, therefore, but that the Indians should render the great American anthem.  And so, standing stolidly facing the others, their high-pitched, nasal voices presently began: 

   “My country ’tis of thee,
    Sweet land of liberty,
    Of thee I sing.”