But Mr. Jack Rance, the Sheriff of Manzaneta County, was never known to move otherwise than slowly, deliberately.  Taking from his pocket a smoothly-creased handkerchief he proceeded to dust languidly first one and then the other of his boots; and not until he had succeeded in flicking the last grain of dust from them did he take up the business in hand.

“Gentlemen, what’s wrong with the cyards?” he now began in his peculiar drawling voice.

Sonora pointed to the faro table.

“The Sidney Duck’s cheated!” he said—­an accusation which was responsible for a renewal of outcries and caused a number of men to pounce upon the faro dealer.

Trinidad ran a significant hand around his collar.

“String ’im!  Come on, you—!” once more he cried.  But on seeing the Sheriff raise a restraining hand he desisted from pulling the Australian along.

“Wait a minute!” commanded the Sheriff.

The miners with the prisoner in their midst stood stock-still.  Now the Sheriff’s features lost some of their usual inscrutability and for a moment became hard and stern.  Slowly he let his eyes wander comprehensively about the saloon:  first, they travelled to a small balcony—­reached by a ladder drawn down or up at will—­decorated with red calico curtains, garlands of cedar and bittersweet, while the railing was ornamented with a wildcat’s skin and a stuffed fawn’s head; from the ceiling with its strings of red peppers, onions and apples they fell on a stuffed grizzly bear, which stood at the entrance to the dance-hall, with a little green parasol in its paw and an old silk hat upon its head; from it they shifted to the gaudy bar with its paraphernalia of fancy glasses, show-cases of coloured liquors and its pair of scales for weighing the gold dust; and from that to a keg, the top of which could be withdrawn without engendering the slightest suspicion that it represented other than an ordinary receptacle for liquor.  Two notices tacked upon the wall also caught and held his glance, his eyes dwelling most affectionately on the one reading:  “A Real Home For The Boys.”

That there was such a thing as sentiment in the make-up of the Sheriff of Manzaneta County few people, perhaps, would have believed.  Nevertheless, at the thought that this placard inspired, he dismissed whatever inclination he might have had to deal leniently with the culprit, and calmly observed: 

“There is no reason, gentlemen, of being in a hurry.  I’ve got something to say about this.  I don’t forget, although I am the Sheriff of Manzaneta County, that I’m running four games.  But it’s men like The Sidney Duck here that casts reflections on square-minded, sporting men like myself.  And worse—­far worse, gentlemen, he casts reflections on The Polka, the establishment of the one decent woman in Cloudy.”

“You bet!” affirmed Nick, indignantly.

“Yes, a lady, d’you hear me?” stormed Sonora, addressing the prisoner; then:  “You lily-livered skunk!”