Unconsciously, at his words, the Girl’s eyes travelled to the bed; then, drawing her robe snugly about her, and seating herself, she asked with suppressed excitement: 

“Why, Nick, what’s the matter?  What’s—­”

Rance took it upon himself to do the answering.  Sauntering over to the Girl, he drawled out: 

“It takes you a long time to get up, seems to me.  You haven’t so much on, either,” he went on, piercing her with his eyes.

Smilingly and not in the least disconcerted by the Sheriff’s remark, the Girl picked up a rug from the floor and wound it about her knees.

“Well?” she interrogated.

“Well, we was sure that you was in trouble,” put in Sonora.  “My breath jest stopped.”

“Me?  Me in trouble, Sonora?” A little laugh that was half-gay, half-derisive, accompanied her words.

“See here, that man Ramerrez—­” followed up Rance with a grim look.

“—­feller you was dancin’ with,” interposed Sonora, but checked himself instantly lest he wound the Girl’s feelings.

Whereupon, Rance, with no such compunctions, became the spokesman, a grimace of pleasure spreading over his countenance as he thought of the unpleasant surprise he was about to impart.  Stretching out his stiffened fingers over the blaze, he said in his most brutal tones: 

“Your polkying friend is none other than Ramerrez.”

The Girl’s eyes opened wide, but they did not look at the Sheriff.  They looked straight before her.

“I warned you, girl,” spoke up Ashby, “that you should bank with us oftener.”

The Girl gave no sign of having heard him.  Her slender figure seemed to have shrunken perceptibly as she stared stupidly, uncomprehendingly, into space.

“We say that Johnson was—­” repeated Rance, impatiently.

“—­what?” fell from the Girl’s lips, her face pale and set.

“Are you deaf?” demanded Rance; and then, emphasising every word, he rasped out:  “The fellow you’ve been polkying with is the man that has been asking people to hold up their hands.”

“Oh, go on—­you can’t hand me out that!” Nevertheless the Girl looked wildly about the room.

Angrily Rance strode over to her and sneered bitingly: 

“You don’t believe it yet, eh?”

“No, I don’t believe it yet!” rapped out the Girl, laying great stress upon the last word.  “I know he isn’t.”

“Well, he is Ramerrez, and he did come to The Polka to rob it,” retorted the Sheriff.

All at once the note of resentment in the Girl’s voice became positive; she flared back at him, though she flushed in spite of herself.

“But he didn’t rob it!”

“That’s what gits me,” fretted Sonora.  “He didn’t.”

“I should think it would git you,” snapped back the Girl, both in her look and voice rebuking him for his words.

It was left to Ashby to spring another surprise.