“Yes, comin’ an’ goin’,” smiled back the Girl. “You passed me a bunch o’ wild syringa over the wheel; you also asked me to go a-berryin’--” and here she paused long enough to glance up at him coquettishly before adding: “But I didn’t see it Mr. Johnson.” “I noticed that,” observed Johnson, laughing. “An’ when you went away you said--” The Girl broke off abruptly and replaced the candle on the bar; then with a shy, embarrassed look on her face she ended with: “Oh, I dunno.” “Yes, you do, yes, you do,” maintained Johnson. “I said I’ll think of you all the time--well, I’ve thought of you ever since.” There was a moment of embarrassment. Then: “Somehow I kind o’ tho’t you might drop in,” she said with averted eyes. “But as you didn’t--” She paused and summoned to her face a look which she believed would adequately reflect a knowledge of the proprieties. “O’ course,” she tittered out, “it wa’n’t my place to remember you--first.” “But I didn’t know where you lived--you never told me, you know,” contended the road agent, which contention so satisfied the Girl--for she remembered only too well that she had not told him--that she determined to show him further evidences of her regard. “Say, I got a special bottle here--best in the house. Will you...?” “Why--” The girl did not wait for him to finish his sentence, but quickly placed a bottle and glass before him. “My compliments,” she whispered, smiling. “You’re very kind--thanks,” returned the road agent, and proceeded to pour out a drink. Meanwhile, little of what was taking place had been lost on Jack Rance. As the whispered conversation continued, he grew more and more jealous, and at the moment that Johnson was on the point of putting the glass to his lips, Rance, rising quickly, went over to him and deliberately knocked the glass out of his hand. With a crash it fell to the floor. “Look here, Mr. Johnson, your ways are offensive to me!” he cried; “damned offensive! My name is Rance--Jack Rance. Your business here--your business?” And without waiting for the other’s reply he called out huskily: “Boys! Boys! Come in here!” At this sudden and unexpected summons in the Sheriff’s well-known voice there was a rush from the dance-hall; in an instant the good-natured, roistering crowd, nosing a fight, crowded to the bar, where the two men stood glaring at each other in suppressed excitement. “Boys,” declared the Sheriff, his eye never leaving Johnson’s face, “there’s a man here who won’t explain his business. He won’t tell--” “Won’t he?” cut in Sonora, blusteringly. “Well, we’ll see--we’ll make ’im!” There was a howl of execration from the bar. [Illustration: “Boys, I vouch to Cloudy for Mr. Johnson”] It moved the Girl to instant action. Quick as thought she turned and strode to where the cries were the most menacing--towards the boys who knew her best and ever obeyed her unquestioningly. “Wait a minute!” she cried, holding up her hand authoritatively. “I know the gent!”