“Say, Rance, what’s the matter with you? We began this Academy game together--we boys an’ the Girl--an’ there’s a damn pretty piece of sentiment back of it. She’s taught some of us our letters, and--” “He’s a wearin’ mournin’ because Johnson didn’t fall alive into his hands,” interposed Trinidad with a laugh. “Is that it?” queried Sonora. “Ain’t it enough, Rance, that he must be lyin’ dead down some canyon, with his mouth full of snow?” A mocking smile was on Trinidad’s face as he asked the question. “You done all you could to git ’im,” went on Sonora as if there had been no interruption. “The boys is all satisfied he’s dead.” “Dead?” Rance fairly picked up the word. “Dead? Yes, he’s dead,” he declared tensely, and unconsciously arose and went over to the window where he stood motionless, gazing through the parted curtains at the snow-covered hills. Presently the boys saw a cynical smile spread over his face, and a moment later, he added: “The matter with me is that I’m a Chink.” This depreciation of himself was so thoroughly un-Rance like, that it brought forth great bursts of laughter from the men, but notwithstanding which, Rance went on to admit, in the same sullen tone, that it was all up with him and the Girl. “Throwed ’im!” whispered Trinidad to Sonora with a pleased look on his face. Sonora, likewise, was beaming with joy when almost instantly he turned to Nick with: “As sure’s you live she’s throwed ’im for me!” Nick, among his other accomplishments, had a faculty for dumbness and said nothing; but a smile which approached a grin formed on his face as he stood eyeing quizzically first one and then the other. Finally, picking up the empty glasses, he left the room. “Will old dog Tray remember me”--immediately sung out Trinidad, gleefully. While Sonora, in the seventh heaven of delight, began to caper about the room. Of a sudden Nick poked his head in through the door to inquire into the cause of their hilarity, but they ignored him completely. At the bar-room door, however, Sonora halted and, glancing over his shoulder in the Sheriff’s direction, he added in a most tantalising manner: “ ... for me!” But while Trinidad and Sonora were going out through one door the Deputy was entering through another. He was greatly agitated and carried in his hand the letter which The Pony Express had entrusted to his keeping for Ashby. “Why, Ashby’s skipped!” he announced uneasily. “Got off just after three this morning--posse and all.” A question was in Nick’s eyes as he turned upon the speaker with the interjection: “What!” And then as the Deputy made a dash for the bar-room, he added with a swift change of manner: “Help yourself, Dep.” But if Nick was slow to realise the situation, not so the Sheriff, who instantly awoke to the fact that the Wells Fargo Agent was on Johnson’s trail. His lips drew quickly back in a half-grin.