Headed by Rance, the men quickly filed in and deposited their lanterns on the floor. It was evident that they had found the storm most severe, for their boots were soaked through and their heavy buffalo overcoats, caps and ear-muffs were covered with snow, which all, save Rance, proceeded to remove by shaking their shoulders and stamping their feet. The latter, however, calmly took off his gloves, pulled out a beautifully-creased handkerchief from his pocket, and began slowly to flick off the snow from his elegant mink overcoat before hanging it carefully upon a peg on the wall. After that he went over to the table and warmed his hands over the lighted candle there. Meanwhile, Sonora, his nose, as well as his hands which with difficulty he removed from his heavy fur mittens, showing red and swollen from the effects of the biting cold, had gone over to the fire, where he ejaculated: “Ouf, I’m cold! Glad you’re safe, Girl!” “Yes, Girl, The Polka’s had a narrow squeak,” observed Nick, stamping his feet which, as well as his legs, were wrapped with pieces of blankets for added warmth. 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.