“She says I’m to meet her to-morrow night at the Palmetto Restaurant,” said Ashby to himself after the woman had lost herself in a crowd of her own countrymen.  “She will tell where I can put my hands on this Ramerrez.  Bah!  It’s too good to be true.  Nevertheless, I’ll be on hand, my lady, for if anyone knows of this fellow’s movements I’ll wager you do.”

At that moment Ashby, the Wells Fargo Agent, was nearer than ever before to the most brilliant capture of all his career.

Late the following afternoon, some five miles from the Mexican settlement, on a small tableland high above a black ravine which was thickly timbered with the giant trees of the Sierras, Ramerrez’ band was awaiting the coming of the Maestro.  It was not to be a long wait and they stood around smoking and talking in low tones.  Suddenly, the sound of horses climbing was heard, and soon a horseman came in sight whose appearance had the effect of throwing them instantly into a state of excitement, one and all drawing their guns and making a dash for their horses, which were tied to trees.  A moment later, however, another horseman appeared, and laughing boisterously at themselves they slid their guns back into their belts and retied their horses, for the man whom they recognised so quickly, the individual who saved the situation, as it were, was none other than Jose Castro, an ex-padrona of the bull-fights and the second in command to Ramerrez.  He was a wiry, hard-faced and shifty-eyed Mexican, but was as thoroughly devoted to Ramerrez as he had been to the young leader’s father.  On the other hand, the man who had caused them to fear that a stranger had surprised them, and that they had been trapped, was Ramerrez or Johnson—­the name that he had assumed for the dangerous work he was about to engage in—­and they had failed to know him, dressed as he was in the very latest fashion prevailing among the Americans in Sacramento in ’49.  Nor was it to be wondered at, for on his head was a soft, brown hat—­large, but not nearly the proportions of a sombrero; a plain, rough tweed coat and a waistcoat of a darker tan, which showed a blue flannel shirt beneath it; and his legs were encased in boots topped by dark brown leggings.  In a word, his get-up resembled closely the type of American referred to disdainfully by the miners of that time as a Sacramento guy; whereas, the night before he had taken great pains to attire himself as gaudily as any of the Mexicans at the dance, and he had worn a short black jacket of a velvety material that was not unlike corduroy and covered with braid; his breeches were of the same stuff; above his boots were leather gaiters; and around his waist was a red sash.