the things that he held against him was his everlasting propensity to boast of his achievements, to say nothing of the pedestal upon which the boys insisted upon placing him.  Was this Wells Fargo’s most famous agent?  Was this the man whose warnings were given such credence that they stirred even the largest of the gold camps into a sense of insecurity?  And at this Rance indulged again in a fit of mental merriment at the other’s expense.

But, although he would have denied it in toto, the truth of the matter was that the Sheriff was jealous of Ashby.  Witty, generous, and a high liver, the latter was generally regarded as a man who fascinated women; moreover, he was known to be a favourite—­and here the shoe pinched—­with the Girl.  True, the demands of his profession were such as to prevent his staying long in any camp.  Nevertheless, it seemed to Rance that he contrived frequently to turn up at The Polka when the boys were at the diggings.

After Ashby’s observation the conversation by mutual, if unspoken, consent, was switched into other channels.  But it may be truthfully said that Rance did not wholly recover his mental equilibrium until a door was heard to open noiselessly and some whispered words in Spanish fell upon their ears.

Now the Sheriff, as well as Ashby, had the detective instinct fully developed; moreover, both men knew a few words of that language and had an extreme curiosity to hear the conversation going on between a man and a woman, who were standing just outside in a sort of hallway.  As a result, therefore, both officers sprang to the door with the hope—­if indeed it was Nina Micheltorena as they surmised—­that they might catch a word or two which would give them a clue to what was likely to take place at the coming interview.  It came sooner than they expected.

“. . .  Ramerrez—­Five thousand dollars!” reached their ears in a soft, Spanish voice.

Ashby needed nothing more than this.  In an instant, much to the Sheriff’s astonishment, and moving marvellously quick for a man of his heavy build, he was out of the room, leaving Rance to face a woman with a black mantilla thrown over her head who, presently, entered by another door.

Nina Micheltorena, for it was she, did not favour him with as much as an icy look.  Nor did the Sheriff give any sign of knowing her; a wise proceeding as it turned out, for a quick turn of the head and a subtle movement of the woman’s shoulders told him that she was in anything but a quiet state of mind.  One glance towards the door behind him, however, and the reason of her anger was all too plain:  A Mexican was vainly struggling in the clutches of Ashby.

“Why are you dragging him in?” Far from quailing before him as did her confederate, she confronted Ashby with eyes that flashed fire.  “He came with me—­”

Ashby cut her short.

“We don’t allow greasers in this camp and—­” he began in a throaty voice.