“Who’s this, I wonder?”

But no sooner were the words spoken than a voice outside in the darkness sung out sharply: 

“Hello!”

“Hello!” instantly returned another voice, which the Girl recognised at once as being that of the Deputy.

“Big holdup last night at The Forks!” the first voice was now saying.

“Holdup!” repeated several voices outside in tones of excitement.

“Ramerrez—­” went on the first voice, at which ominous word all, including Ashby, began to exchange significant glances as they echoed: 

“Ramerrez!”

The name had barely died on their lips, however, than Nick precipitated himself into their midst and announced that The Pony Express had arrived, handing up to the Girl, at the same time, a bundle of letters and one paper.

“You see!” maintained Ashby, stoutly, as he watched her sort the letters; “I was right when I told you . . .”

“Look sharp!  There’s a greaser on the trail!” rang out warningly the voice of The Pony Express.

“A greaser!” exclaimed Rance, for the first time showing any interest in the proceedings; and then without looking up and after the manner of a man speaking to a good dog, he told the Deputy, who had followed Nick into the room: 

“Find him, Dep.”

For some time the Girl occupied herself with cashing in the chips which Nick brought to her—­a task which she performed with amazing correctness and speed considering that her knowledge of the science of mathematics had been derived solely from the handling of money at The Polka.  Now she went over to Sonora, who sat at a table reading.

“You got the newspaper, I see,” she observed.  “But you, Trin, I’m sorry you ain’t got nothin’,” she added, with a sad, little smile.

“So long!” hollered The Pony Express at that moment; whereupon, Ashby rushed over to the door and called after him: 

“Pony Express, I want you!” Satisfied that his command had been heard he retraced his footsteps and found Handsome peering eagerly over Sonora’s shoulder.

“So, Sonora, you’ve got a newspaper,” Handsome was saying.

“Yes, but the infernal thing’s two months old,” returned the other disgustedly.

Handsome laughed, and wheeling round was just in time to see the door flung open and a young fellow advance towards Ashby.

The Pony Express was a young man of not more than twenty years of age.  He was smooth-faced and unshaven and, needless to say, was light of build, for these riders were selected for their weight as well as for their nerve.  He wore a sombrero, a buckskin hunting-shirt, tight trousers tucked into high boots with spurs, all of which were weather-beaten and faded by wind, rain, dust and alkali.  A pair of Colt revolvers could be seen in his holsters, and he carried in his hands, which were covered with heavy gloves, a mail pouch—­it being the company’s orders not to let his muchilo of heavy leather out of his hands for a second.