Sonora breathed on his badly nipped fingers before answering: “Well, two greasers jest now were pretty positive before they quit.” Instantly the Girl’s head went up in the air. “Greasers!” she ejaculated scornfully, while her eyes unfalteringly met Rance’s steady gaze. “But the woman knew him,” was the Sheriff’s vindictive thrust. The Girl started; her face went white. “The woman--the woman d’you say?” “Why, yes, it was a woman that first tol’ them that Ramerrez was in the camp to rob The Polka,” Sonora informed her, though his tone showed plainly his surprise at being compelled to repeat a thing which, he wrongly believed, she already knew. “We saw her at The Palmetto,” leered Rance. “And we missed the reward,” frowned Ashby; at which Rance quickly turned upon the speaker with: “But Ramerrez is trapped.” There was a moment’s startled pause in which the Girl struggled with her passions; at last, she ventured: “Who’s this woman?” The Sheriff laughed discordantly. “Why, the woman of the back trail,” he sneered. “Nina Micheltoreña! Then she does know ’im--it’s true--it goes through me!” unwittingly burst from the Girl’s lips. The Sheriff, evidently, found the situation amusing, for he laughed outright. “He’s the sort of a man who polkas with you first and then cuts your throat,” was his next stab. The Girl turned upon him with eyes flashing and retorted: “Well, it’s my throat, ain’t it?” “Well I’ll be!--” The Sheriff’s sentence was left unfinished, for Nick, quickly pulling him to one side, whispered: “Say, Rance, the Girl’s cut up because she vouched for ’im. Don’t rub it in.” Notwithstanding, Rance, to the Girl’s query of “How did this Nina Micheltoreña know it?” took a keen delight in telling her: “She’s his girl.” “His girl?” repeated the Girl, mechanically. “Yes. She gave us his picture,” went on Rance; and taking the photograph out of his pocket, he added maliciously, “with love written on the back of it.” A glance at the photograph, which she fairly snatched out of his hands, convinced the Girl of the truthfulness of his assertion. With a movement of pain she threw it upon the floor, crying out bitterly: “Nina Micheltoreña! Nina Micheltoreña!” Turning to Ashby with an abrupt change of manner she said contritely: “I’m sorry, Mr. Ashby, I vouched for ’im.” The Wells Fargo Agent softened at the note in the Girl’s voice; he was about to utter some comforting words to her when suddenly she spoke again. “I s’pose they had one o’ them little lovers’ quarrels an’ that made ’er tell you, eh?” She laughed a forced little laugh, though her heart was beating strangely as she kept on: “He’s the kind o’ man who sort o’ polkas with every girl he meets.” And at this she began to laugh almost hysterically. Rance, who resented her apologising to anyone but himself, stood scowling at her. “What are you laughing at?” he questioned.