“That’s the talk—­you bet!  Why do you come here?”

Castro’s face wore an air of candour as he replied: 

“To tell the Senor Sheriff I know where ees Ramerrez.”

Rance turned on the prisoner a grim look.

“You lie!” he vociferated, at the same time raising his hand to check the angry mutterings of the men that boded ill for the greaser.

“Nay,” denied Castro, strenuously, “pleanty Mexican vaquero—­my friend Peralta, Weelejos all weeth Ramerrez—­so I know where ees.”

Rance advanced and shot a finger in his face.

“You’re one of his men yourself!” he cried hotly.  But if he had hoped by his accusation to take the man off his guard, it was eminently unsuccessful, for the look on the greaser’s face was innocence itself when he declared: 

“No, no, Senor Sheriff.”

Rance reflected a moment; suddenly, then, he took another tack.

“You see that man there?” he queried, pointing to the Wells Fargo Agent.  “That is Ashby.  He is the man that pays out that reward you’ve heard of.”  Then after a pause to let his words sink in, he demanded gruffly:  “Where is Ramerrez’ camp?”

At once the prisoner became voluble.

“Come with me one mile, Senor,” he said, “and by the soul of my mother, the blessed Maria Saltaja, we weel put a knife into hees back.”

“One mile, eh?” repeated Rance, coolly.

The miners looked incredulous.

“If I tho’t—­” began Sonora, but Rance rudely cut in with: 

“Where is this trail?”

“Up the Madrona Canyada,” was the greaser’s instant reply.

At this juncture a Ridge boy, who had pushed aside the bear-skin curtain and was gazing with mouth wide open at the proceedings, suddenly cried out: 

“Why, hello, boys!  What’s the—­” He got no further.  In a twinkling and with cries of “Shut up!  Git!” the men made for the intruder and bodily threw him out of the room.  When quiet was restored Rance motioned to the prisoner to proceed.

“Ramerrez can be taken—­too well taken,” declared the Mexican, gaining confidence as he went on, “if many men come with me—­in forty minutes there—­back.”

Rance turned to Ashby and asked him what he thought about it.

“I don’t know what to think,” was the Wells Fargo Agent’s reply.  “But it certainly is curious.  This is the second warning—­intimation that we have had that he is somewhere in this vicinity.”

“And this Nina Micheltorena—­you say she is coming here to-night?”

Ashby nodded assent.

“All the same, Rance,” he maintained, “I wouldn’t go.  Better drop in to The Palmetto later.”

“What?  Risk losin’ ’im?” exclaimed Sonora, who had been listening intently to their conversation.

“We’ll take the chance, boys, in spite of Ashby’s advice,” Rance said decisively.  It was with not a little surprise that he heard the shouts with which his words were approved by all save the Wells Fargo Agent.