“That fellow’s too flip!”

But the idea had taken hold of the Girl, though she temporised shyly: 

“Oh, I dunno!  Makes me feel kind o’ foolish, you know, kind o’ retirin’ like a elk in summer.”

Johnson smiled in spite of himself.

“Elks are retiring,” was his comment as he again advanced and offered his arm in an impressive and ceremonious manner.

“Well, I don’t like everybody’s hand on the back o’ my waist,” said the Girl, running her hands up and down her dress skirt.  “But, somehow—­” She stopped, and fixing her eyes recklessly on Rance, made a movement as if about to accept; but another look at Johnson’s proffered arm so embarrassed her that she sent a look of appeal to the rough fellows, who stood watching her with grinning faces.

“Oh, Lord, must I?” she asked; then, hanging back no longer, she suddenly flung herself into his arms with the cry:  “Oh, come along!”

Promptly Johnson put his arm around the Girl’s waist, and breaking into a polka he swung her off to the dance-hall where their appearance was greeted with a succession of wild whoops from the men there, as well as from the hilarious boys, who had rushed pell-mell after them.

Left to himself and in a rage Rance began to pace the floor.

“Cleaned out—­cleaned out for fair by a high-toned, fine-haired dog named Johnson!  Well, I’ll be—­” The sentence was never finished, his attention being caught and held by something which Nick was carrying in from the dance-hall.

“What’s that?” he demanded brusquely.

Nick’s eyes were twinkling when he answered: 

“Johnson’s saddle.”

Rance could control himself no longer; with a sweep of his long arm he knocked the saddle out of the other’s hand, saying: 

“Nick, I’ve a great notion to walk out of this door and never step my foot in here again.”

Nick did not answer at once.  While he did not especially care for Rance he did not propose to let his patronage, which was not inconsiderable, go elsewhere without making an effort to hold it.  Therefore, he thought a moment before picking up the saddle and placing it in the corner of the room.

“Aw, what you givin’ us, Rance!  She’s only a-kiddin’ ’im,” at last he said consolingly.

The Sheriff was about to question this when a loud cry from outside arrested him.

“What’s that?” he asked with his eyes upon the door.

“Why that’s—­that’s Ashby’s voice,” the barkeeper informed him; and going to the door, followed by Rance, as well as the men who, on hearing the cry, had rushed in from the dance-hall, he opened it, and they heard again the voice that they all recognised now as that of the Wells Fargo Agent.

“Come on!” he was saying gruffly.

“What the deuce is up?” inquired Trinidad simultaneously with the Deputy’s cry of “Bring him in!” And almost instantly the Deputy, followed by Ashby and others, entered, dragging along with him the unfortunate Jose Castro.  The rough handling that he had received had not improved his appearance.  His clothing, half Mexican, the rest of odds and ends, had been torn in several places.  He looked oily, greasy and unwashed, while the eyes that looked around in affright had lost none of their habitual trickiness and sullenness.