Men were continually coming in and going out, but no one paid the slightest attention to him, even though a succession of audible sighs escaped his lips.  At length he went over to the counter and took a sheet or two of the paper,—­which was kept there for the few who desired to write home,—­a quill-pen and ink; and picking up a small wooden box he seated himself upon it before a desk—­which had been built from a rude packing-case—­and began wearily and laboriously to write.

“The lone star now rises!”

It was the stentorian voice of the caller of the wheel-of-fortune.  One would have thought that the sound would have had the effect of a thunder-clap upon the figure at the desk; but he gave no sign whatever of having heard it; nor did he see the suspicious glance which Nick, entering at that moment, shot at Billy Jackrabbit who was stealing noiselessly towards the dance-hall where the whoops were becoming so frequent and evincing such exuberance of spirits that the ubiquitous, if generally unconcerned, Nick felt it incumbent to give an explanation of them.

“Boys from The Ridge cuttin’ up a bit,” he tendered apologetically, and took up a position at the end of the bar where he could command a view of both rooms.

As a partial acknowledgment that he had heard Nick’s communication, Sonora turned round slightly in his seat at the faro table and shot a glance towards the dance-hall.  Contempt showed on his rugged features when he turned round again and addressed the stocky, little man sitting at his elbow.

“Well, I don’t dance with men for partners!  When I shassay, Trin, I want a feminine piece of flesh an’ blood”—­he sneered, and then went on to amplify—­“with garters on.”

“You bet!” agreed his faithful, if laconic pal, on feeling the other’s playful dig in his ribs.

The subject of men dancing together was a never-ceasing topic of conversation between these two cronies.  But whatever the attitude of others Sonora knew that Trinidad would never fail him when it came to nice discriminations of this sort.  His reference to an article of feminine apparel, however, was responsible for his recalling the fact that he had not as yet received his daily assurance from the presiding genius of the bar that he stood well in the estimation of the only lady in the camp.  Therefore, leaving the table, he went over to Nick and whispered: 

“Has the Girl said anythin’ about me to-day, Nick?”

Now the role of confidential adviser to the boys was not a new one to the barkeeper, nor was anyone in the camp more familiar than he with their good qualities as well as their failings.  Every morning before going to work in the placers it was their custom to stop in at The Polka for their first drink—­which was, generally, “on the house.”  Invariably, Nick received them in his shirt-sleeves,—­for that matter he was the proud possessor of the sole “biled shirt” in the camp,—­and