“Is this fellow a Spaniard?” questioned the Sheriff, drawling as usual, but at the same time jerking his thumb over his shoulder towards a placard on the wall, which read: 

“FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS REWARD
FOR THE ROAD AGENT RAMERREZ,
OR INFORMATION LEADING TO HIS
CAPTURE. 

                (SIGNED) WELLS FARGO.”

“No—­can’t prove it.  The fact of his leading a crew of greasers and Spaniards signifies nothing.  His name is assumed, I suppose.”

“They say he robs you like a gentleman,” remarked Rance with some show of interest.

“Well, look out for the greasers up the road!” was Ashby’s warning as he emptied his glass and put it down before him.

“We don’t let them pass through here,” shrugged Rance, likewise putting down his glass on the table.

Ashby now picked up the whisky bottle and carried it over to the deserted faro table before which he settled himself comfortably in a chair.

“Well, boys, I’ve had a long ride—­wake me up when The Pony Express goes through!” he called over his shoulder as he put his coat over him.

But no sooner was he comfortably ensconced for a snooze than Nick came bustling in with a kettle of boiling water and several glasses half-filled with whisky and lemon.  Stopping before Ashby he said in his best professional manner: 

“Re-gards of the Girl—­hot whisky straight with lemming extract.”

Ashby took up his glass, as did, in turn, the men at the other table.  But it was Rance who, with arm uplifted, toasted: 

“The Girl, gentlemen, the only Girl in Camp, the Girl I mean to make Mrs. Jack Rance!”

Confident that neither would catch him in the act, Nick winked first at Sonora and then at Trinidad.  That the little barkeeper was successful in making the former, at least, believe that he possessed the Girl’s affections was manifested by the big miner’s next remark.

“That’s a joke, Rance.  She makes you look like a Chinaman.”

Rance sprang to his feet, white with rage.

“You prove that!” he shouted.

“In what particular spot will you have it?” taunted Sonora, as his hand crept for his gun.

Simultaneously, every man in the room made a dash for cover.  Nick ducked behind the bar, for, as he told himself when safely settled there, he was too old a bird to get anywhere near the line of fire when two old stagers got to making lead fly about.  Nor was Trinidad slow in arriving at the other end of the bar where he caromed against Jake, who had dropped his banjo and was frantically trying to kick the spring of the iron shield in an endeavour to protect himself—­a feat which, at last, he succeeded in performing.  But, fortunately, for all concerned, as the two men stood eyeing each other, their hands on their hips ready to draw, Nick, from his position behind the bar, glimpsed through the window the Girl on the point of entering the saloon.