Now the miners made a rush for their coats, hats and saddles, while from all sides came the cries of, “Come on, boys!  Careful—­there!  Ready—­Sheriff!”

Gladly, cheerfully, Nick, too, did what he could to get the men started by setting up the drinks for all hands, though he remarked as he did so: 

“It’s goin’ to snow, boys; I don’t like the sniff in the air.”

But even the probability of encountering a storm—­which in that altitude was something decidedly to be reckoned with—­did not deter the men from proceeding to make ready for the road agent’s capture.  In an incredibly short space of time they had loaded up and got their horses together, and from the harmony in their ranks while carrying out orders, it was evident that not a man there doubted the success of their undertaking.

“We’ll git this road agent!” sung out Trinidad, going out through the door.

“Right you are, pard!” agreed Sonora; but at the door he called back to the greaser:  “Come on, you oily, garlic-eatin’, red-peppery, dog-trottin’, sunbaked son of a skunk!”

“Come on, you . . .!” came simultaneously from the Deputy, now untying the rope which bound the prisoner.

The greaser’s teeth were chattering; he begged: 

“One dreenk—­I freeze . . .”

Turning to Nick the Deputy told him to give the man a drink, adding as he left the room: 

“Watch him—­keep your eye on him a moment for me, will you?”

Nick nodded; and then regarding the Mexican with a contemptuous look, he asked: 

“What’ll you have?”

The Mexican rose to his feet and began hesitatingly: 

“Geeve me—­” He paused; and then, starting with the thought that had come to him, he shot a glance at the dance-hall and called out loudly, rolling his r’s even more pronouncedly than is the custom with his race:  “Aguardiente!  Aguardiente!”

“Sit down!” ordered Nick, vaguely conscious that there was something in the greaser’s voice that was not there before.

The greaser obeyed, but not until he knew for a certainty that his voice had been heard by his master.

“So you did bring in my saddle, eh, Nick?” asked the road agent, coming quickly, but unconcernedly into the room and standing behind his man.

Up to this time, Nick’s eyes had not left the prisoner, but with the appearance on the scene of Johnson, he felt that his responsibility ceased in a measure.  He turned and gave his attention to matters pertaining to the bar.  As a consequence, he did not see the look of recognition that passed between the two men, nor did he hear the whispered dialogue in Spanish that followed.

“Maestro!  Ramerrez!” came in whispered tones from Castro.

“Speak quickly—­go on,” came likewise in whispered tones from the road agent.

“I let them take me according to your bidding,” went on Castro.

“Careful, Jose, careful,” warned his master while stooping to pick up his saddle, which he afterwards laid on the faro table.  It was while he was thus engaged that Nick came over to the prisoner with a glass of liquor, which he handed to him gruffly with: