“Lift his hand!” cried Sonora, looking as if for sanction at the newcomer, who stood in the centre of the room, calmly smoking a huge cigar.

Forcing up The Sidney Duck’s arms, Trinidad threw upon the table a deck of cards which he had found concealed about the other’s person, bursting out with: 

“There!  Look at that, the infernal, good-for-nothin’ cheat!”

“String ’im up!” suggested Sonora, and as before he shot a questioning look at the man, who was regarding the scene with bored interest.

“You bet!” shouted Trinidad, pulling at the Australian’s arm.

“For ’eaven’s sake, don’t, don’t, don’t!” wailed The Sidney Duck, terror-stricken.

The Sheriff of Manzaneta County, for such was the newcomer’s office, raised his steely grey eyes inquisitorially to Nick’s who, with a hostile stare at the Australian, emitted: 

“Chicken lifter!”

“String ’im!  String ’im!” insisted Trinidad, at the same time dragging the culprit towards the door.

“No, boys, no!” cried the unfortunate wretch, struggling uselessly to break away from his captors.

At this stage the Sheriff of Manzaneta County took a hand in the proceedings, and drawled out: 

“Well, gentlemen—­” He stopped short and seemingly became reflective.  Instantly, as was their wont whenever the Sheriff spoke, all eyes fixed themselves upon him.  Indeed, it needed but a second glance at this cool, deliberate individual to see how great was his influence upon them.  He was tall,—­fully six feet one,—­thin, and angular; his hair and moustache were black enough to bring out strongly the unhealthy pallor of his face; his eyes were steel grey and were heavily fringed and arched; his nose straight and his mouth hard, determined, but just, the lips of which were thin and drawn tightly over brilliantly-white teeth; and his soft, pale hands were almost feminine looking except for the unusual length of his fingers.  On his head was a black beaver hat with a straight brim; a black broadcloth suit—­cut after the “’Frisco” fashion of the day—­gave every evidence that its owner paid not a little attention to it.  From the bosom of his white, puffed shirt an enormous diamond, held in place by side gold chains, flashed forth; while glittering on his fingers was another stone almost as large.  Below his trousers could plainly be seen the highly-polished boots; the heels and instep being higher than those generally in use.  In a word, it was impossible not to get the impression that he was scrupulously immaculate and careful about his attire.  And his voice—­the voice that tells character as nothing else does—­was smooth and drawling, though fearlessness and sincerity could easily be detected in it.  Such was Mr. Jack Rance, Gambler and Sheriff of Manzaneta County.

“This is a case for you, Jack Rance,” suddenly spoke up Sonora.

“Yes,” chimed in Trinidad; and then as he gave the Australian a rough shake, he added:  “Here’s the Sheriff to take charge of you.”