And precisely as Castro appeared wholly different than when last seen in the company of his master, so, too, was Ashby metamorphosed.  His hat was on the back of his head; his coat looked as if he had been engaged in some kind of a struggle; his hair was ruffled and long locks straggled down over his forehead; while his face wore a brutal, savage, pitiless, nasty look.

By this time all the regular habitues of the saloon had come in and were crowding around the greaser with scowling, angry faces.

“The greaser on the trail!” gurgled Ashby in his glass, having left his prisoner for a moment to fortify himself with a drink of whisky.

Whereupon, the Sheriff advanced and, with rough hands, jerked the prisoner’s head brutally.

“Here you,” he said, “give us a look at your face.”

But the Sheriff had never seen him before.  And in obedience to his commands to “Tie him up!” the Deputy and Billy Jackrabbit took a lariat from the wall and proceeded to bind their prisoner fast.  When this was done Ashby called to Nick to serve him another drink, adding: 

“Come on, boys!”

Instantly there was an exclamatory lining up at the bar, only Sonora, apparently, seeming disinclined to accept, which Ashby was quick to note.  Turning to him quickly, he inquired: 

“Say, my friend, don’t you drink?”

But no insult had been intended by Sonora’s omission; it was merely most inconsiderate on his part of the feelings of others; and, therefore, there was a note of apology in the voice that presently said: 

“Oh, yes, Mr. Ashby, I’m with you all right.”

During this conversation the eyes of the greaser had been wandering all over the room.  But as the men moved away from him to take their drinks he started violently and an expression of dismay crossed his features.  “Ramerrez’ saddle!” he muttered to himself. “The Maestro—­he is taken!”

Just then there came a particularly loud burst of approval from the spectators of the dancing going on in the adjoining room, and instinctively the men at the bar half-turned towards the noise.  The prisoner’s eyes followed their gaze and a fiendish grin replaced the look of dismay on his face.  “No, he is there dancing with a girl,” he said under his breath.  A moment later Nick let down the bearskin curtain, shutting off completely the Mexican’s view of the dance-hall.

“Come, now, tell us what your name is?” The voice was Ashby’s who, together with the others, now surrounded the prisoner.  “Speak up—­who are you?”

“My name ees Jose Castro;” and then he added with a show of pride:  “Ex-padrona of the bull-fights.”

“But the bull-fights are at Monterey!  Why do you come to this place?”

All eyes instantly turned from the prisoner to Rance, who had asked the question while seated at the table, and from him they returned to the prisoner, most of the men giving vent to exclamations of anger in tones that made the greaser squirm, while Trinidad expressed the prevailing admiration of the Sheriff’s poser by crying out: