“Ramerrez—­Oh, that’s the polite road agent who has been visiting the other camps?”

“Yes; he’s just turned into your county,” declared the Deputy, meaningly.

“What?” Sonora looked dumbfounded.

The Deputy nodded and proceeded to the bar.  And while he drained the contents of his glass, the Minstrel played on his banjo, much to the amusement of the men, who showed their appreciation by laughing heartily, the last bars of, “Pop Goes the Weasel.”

“Hello, Sheriff!” greeted Ashby, coming in just as the merriment over the Minstrel’s little joke had died away.  Ashby’s voice—­quick, sharp and decisive was that of a man accustomed to ordering men, but his manner was suave, if a trifle gruff.  Moreover, he was a man of whom it could be said, paradoxical as it may seem, that he was never known to be drunk nor ever known to be sober.  It was plain from his appearance that he had been some time on the road.

Rance rose and politely extended his hand.  And, although the greeting between the two men was none too cordial, yet in their look, as they eyed each other, was the respect which men have for others engaged more or less in the same business and in whom they recognise certain qualities which they have in common.  In point of age Ashby was, perhaps, the senior.  As far as reputation was concerned, both men were accounted nervy and square.  Rance introduced him to Sonora and the others, saying: 

“Boys, Mr. Ashby of Wells Fargo.”

The latter had a pleasant word or two for the men; then, turning to the Deputy, he said: 

“And how are you these days?”

“Fit.  And yourself?”

“Same here.”  Turning now to the barkeeper, Ashby, with easy familiarity, added:  “Say, Nick, give us a drink.”

“Sure!” came promptly from the little barkeeper.

“Everybody’ll have the same?” inquired Ashby, turning once more to the men.

“The same!” returned the men in chorus.

Thereupon, Nick briskly slapped down a bottle and four glasses before the Sheriff, and leaving him to do the honours, disappeared into the dance-hall.

“’Well, I trust the Girl who runs The Polka is well?” inquired Ashby, pushing his glass near the bottle.

“Fine as silk,” vouched Sonora, adding in the next breath:  “But, say, Mr. Ashby, how long you been chasm’ up this road agent?”

“Oh, he only took to the road a few months ago,” was Ashby’s answer.  “Wells Fargo have had me and a posse busy ever since.  He’s a wonder!”

“Must be to evade you,” complimented Sonora, much to the discomfort of the Sheriff.

“Yes, I can smell a road agent in the wind,” declared Ashby somewhat boastfully.  “But, Rance, I expect to get that fellow right here in your county.”

The Sheriff looked as if he scouted the idea, and was about to speak, but checked the word on his tongue.  Then followed a short silence in which the Deputy, smiling a trifle derisively, went out of the saloon.