By this time Nina’s passionate anger had burned itself out.  In anticipation, perhaps, of what she was about to do, she looked straight ahead of her into space.  It was not because she was assailed by some transient emotion to forswear her treacherous desire for vengeance; she had no illusion of that kind.  Too vividly she recalled the road agent’s indifferent manner at their last interview for any feeling to dwell in her heart other than hatred.  It was that she was summoning to appear a vision scarcely less attractive, however pregnant with tragedy, than that of seeing herself avenged:  a gay, extravagant career in Mexico or Spain which the reward would procure for her.  That was what she was seeing, and with a pious wish for its confirmation she began to make herself a fresh cigarette, rolling it dexterously with her white, delicate fingers, and not until her task was accomplished and her full, red lips were sending forth tiny clouds of smoke did she announce: 

“Ramerrez was in Cloudy Mountain to-night.”

But however much of a surprise this assertion was to both men, neither gave vent to an exclamation.  Instead Rance regarded his elegantly booted feet; Ashby looked hard at the woman as if he would read the truth in her eyes; while as for Nina, she continued to puff away at her little cigarette after the manner of one that has appealed not in vain to the magic power which can paint out the past and fill the blank with the most beautiful of dreams.

The Wells Fargo man was the first to make any comment; he asked: 

“You know this?” And then as she surveyed them through a scented cloud and bowed her head, he added:  “How do you know it?”

“That I shall not tell you,” replied the woman, firmly.

Ashby made an impatient movement towards her with the question: 

“Where was he?”

“Oh, come, Ashby!” put in Rance, speaking for the first time.  “She’s putting up a game on us.”

In a flash Nina wheeled around and with eyes that blazed advanced to the table where the Sheriff was sitting.  Indeed, there was something so tigerish about the woman that the Sheriff, in alarm, quickly pushed back his chair.

“I am not lying, Jack Rance.”  There was an evil glitter in her eye as she watched a sarcastic smile playing around his lips.  “Oh, yes, I know you—­you are the Sheriff,” and so saying a peal of contemptuous merriment burst from her, “and Ramerrez was in the camp not less than two hours ago.”

Ashby could hardly restrain his excitement.

“And you saw him?” came from him.

“Yes,” was her answer.

Both men sprang to their feet; it was impossible to doubt any longer that she spoke the truth.

“What’s his game?” demanded Rance.

The woman answered his question with a question.

“How about the reward, Senor Ashby?”

“You needn’t worry about that—­I’ll see that you get what’s coming to you,” replied the Wells Fargo Agent already getting into his coat.