“Oh, he only took to the road a few months ago,” was Ashby’s answer. “Wells Fargo have had me and a posse busy ever since. He’s a wonder!” “Must be to evade you,” complimented Sonora, much to the discomfort of the Sheriff. “Yes, I can smell a road agent in the wind,” declared Ashby somewhat boastfully. “But, Rance, I expect to get that fellow right here in your county.” The Sheriff looked as if he scouted the idea, and was about to speak, but checked the word on his tongue. Then followed a short silence in which the Deputy, smiling a trifle derisively, went out of the saloon. “Is this fellow a Spaniard?” questioned the Sheriff, drawling as usual, but at the same time jerking his thumb over his shoulder towards a placard on the wall, which read: “FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS REWARD FOR THE ROAD AGENT RAMERREZ, OR INFORMATION LEADING TO HIS CAPTURE. (SIGNED) WELLS FARGO.” “No--can’t prove it. The fact of his leading a crew of greasers and Spaniards signifies nothing. His name is assumed, I suppose.” “They say he robs you like a gentleman,” remarked Rance with some show of interest. “Well, look out for the greasers up the road!” was Ashby’s warning as he emptied his glass and put it down before him. “We don’t let them pass through here,” shrugged Rance, likewise putting down his glass on the table. Ashby now picked up the whisky bottle and carried it over to the deserted faro table before which he settled himself comfortably in a chair. “Well, boys, I’ve had a long ride--wake me up when The Pony Express goes through!” he called over his shoulder as he put his coat over him. But no sooner was he comfortably ensconced for a snooze than Nick came bustling in with a kettle of boiling water and several glasses half-filled with whisky and lemon. Stopping before Ashby he said in his best professional manner: “Re-gards of the Girl--hot whisky straight with lemming extract.” Ashby took up his glass, as did, in turn, the men at the other table. But it was Rance who, with arm uplifted, toasted: “The Girl, gentlemen, the only Girl in Camp, the Girl I mean to make Mrs. Jack Rance!” Confident that neither would catch him in the act, Nick winked first at Sonora and then at Trinidad. That the little barkeeper was successful in making the former, at least, believe that he possessed the Girl’s affections was manifested by the big miner’s next remark. “That’s a joke, Rance. She makes you look like a Chinaman.” Rance sprang to his feet, white with rage. “You prove that!” he shouted. “In what particular spot will you have it?” taunted Sonora, as his hand crept for his gun.