And this from the Girl!  The little barkeeper had all the appearance of a man who thought the world was coming to an end.  He did not accept the Girl’s ultimatum until he had drawn down his face into an expression of mock solemnity and ejaculated half-aloud: 

“Moses, what’s come over ’er!”

Johnson took a few steps nearer the Girl and bowed low.

“In the presence of a lady I will take nothing,” he said impressively.  “But pardon me, you seem to be almost at home here.”

The girl leaned her elbows on the bar and her chin in her hands, and answered with a tantalising little laugh: 

“Who—­me?”

After a loud guffaw Nick took it upon himself to explain matters; turning to Johnson he said: 

“Why, she’s the Girl who runs The Polka!”

Johnson’s face wore a look of puzzled consternation; he saw no reason for levity.

“You . . .?”

“Yep,” nodded the Girl with a merry twinkle in her eyes.

Johnson’s face fell.

“She runs The Polka,” he murmured to himself.  Of all places to have chosen—­this!  So the thing he had dreaded had happened!

For odd as it unquestionably seemed to him that she should turn up as the proprietress of a saloon after months of searching high and low for her, it was not this reflection that was uppermost in his mind; on the contrary, it was the deeply humiliating thought that he had come upon her when about to ply his vocation.  Regret came swiftly that he had not thought to inquire who was the owner of The Polka Saloon.  Bitterly he cursed himself for his dense stupidity.  And yet, it was doubtful whether any of his band could have informed him.  All that they knew of the place was that the miners of Cloudy Mountain Camp were said to keep a large amount of placer gold there; all that he had done was to acquaint himself with the best means of getting it.  But his ruminations were soon dissipated by Rance, who had come so close that their feet almost touched, and was speaking in a voice that showed the quarrelsome frame of mind that he was in.

“You’re from The Crossing, the barkeeper said—­” he began, and then added pointedly:  “I don’t remember you.”

Johnson slowly turned from the Girl to the speaker and calmly corrected: 

“You’re mistaken; I said I rode over from The Crossing.”  And turning his back on the man he faced the Girl with:  “So, you run The Polka?”

“I’m the Girl—­the girl that runs The Polka,” she said, and to his astonishment seemed to glory in her occupation.

Presently, much to their delight, an opportunity came to them to exchange a word or two with each other without interruption.  For, Rance, as if revolving some plan of action in his mind, had turned on his heel and walked off a little way.  A moment more, however, and he was back again and more malevolently aggressive than ever.

“No strangers are allowed in this camp,” he said, glowering at Johnson; and then, his remark having passed unheeded by the other, he sneered:  “Perhaps you’re off the road; men often get mixed up when they’re visiting Nina Micheltorena on the back trail.”