Part 8

All eyes instantly turned from the prisoner to Rance, who had asked the question while seated at the table, and from him they returned to the prisoner, most of the men giving vent to exclamations of anger in tones that made the greaser squirm, while Trinidad expressed the prevailing admiration of the Sheriff’s poser by crying out:

“That’s the talk--you bet! Why do you come here?”

Castro’s face wore an air of candour as he replied:

“To tell the Señor Sheriff I know where ees Ramerrez.”

Rance turned on the prisoner a grim look.

“You lie!” he vociferated, at the same time raising his hand to check the angry mutterings of the men that boded ill for the greaser.

“Nay,” denied Castro, strenuously, “pleanty Mexican _vaquero_--my friend Peralta, Weelejos all weeth Ramerrez--so I know where ees.”

Rance advanced and shot a finger in his face.

“You’re one of his men yourself!” he cried hotly. But if he had hoped by his accusation to take the man off his guard, it was eminently unsuccessful, for the look on the greaser’s face was innocence itself when he declared:

“No, no, Señor Sheriff.”

Rance reflected a moment; suddenly, then, he took another tack.

“You see that man there?” he queried, pointing to the Wells Fargo Agent. “That is Ashby. He is the man that pays out that reward you’ve heard of.” Then after a pause to let his words sink in, he demanded gruffly: “Where is Ramerrez’ camp?”

At once the prisoner became voluble.

“Come with me one mile, Señor,” he said, “and by the soul of my mother, the blessed Maria Saltaja, we weel put a knife into hees back.”

“One mile, eh?” repeated Rance, coolly.

The miners looked incredulous.

“If I tho’t--” began Sonora, but Rance rudely cut in with:

“Where is this trail?”

“Up the Madrona Canyada,” was the greaser’s instant reply.

At this juncture a Ridge boy, who had pushed aside the bear-skin curtain and was gazing with mouth wide open at the proceedings, suddenly cried out:

“Why, hello, boys! What’s the--” He got no further. In a twinkling and with cries of “Shut up! Git!” the men made for the intruder and bodily threw him out of the room. When quiet was restored Rance motioned to the prisoner to proceed.

“Ramerrez can be taken--too well taken,” declared the Mexican, gaining confidence as he went on, “if many men come with me--in forty minutes there--back.”

Rance turned to Ashby and asked him what he thought about it.

“I don’t know what to think,” was the Wells Fargo Agent’s reply. “But it certainly is curious. This is the second warning--intimation that we have had that he is somewhere in this vicinity.”

“And this Nina Micheltoreña--you say she is coming here to-night?”

Ashby nodded assent.

“All the same, Rance,” he maintained, “I wouldn’t go. Better drop in to The Palmetto later.”

“What? Risk losin’ ’im?” exclaimed Sonora, who had been listening intently to their conversation.

“We’ll take the chance, boys, in spite of Ashby’s advice,” Rance said decisively. It was with not a little surprise that he heard the shouts with which his words were approved by all save the Wells Fargo Agent.

Now the miners made a rush for their coats, hats and saddles, while from all sides came the cries of, “Come on, boys! Careful--there! Ready--Sheriff!”

Gladly, cheerfully, Nick, too, did what he could to get the men started by setting up the drinks for all hands, though he remarked as he did so:

“It’s goin’ to snow, boys; I don’t like the sniff in the air.”

But even the probability of encountering a storm--which in that altitude was something decidedly to be reckoned with--did not deter the men from proceeding to make ready for the road agent’s capture. In an incredibly short space of time they had loaded up and got their horses together, and from the harmony in their ranks while carrying out orders, it was evident that not a man there doubted the success of their undertaking.

“We’ll git this road agent!” sung out Trinidad, going out through the door.

“Right you are, pard!” agreed Sonora; but at the door he called back to the greaser: “Come on, you oily, garlic-eatin’, red-peppery, dog-trottin’, sun-baked son of a skunk!”

“Come on, you...!” came simultaneously from the Deputy, now untying the rope which bound the prisoner.

The greaser’s teeth were chattering; he begged:

“One dreenk--I freeze....”

Turning to Nick the Deputy told him to give the man a drink, adding as he left the room:

“Watch him--keep your eye on him a moment for me, will you?”

Nick nodded; and then regarding the Mexican with a contemptuous look, he asked:

“What’ll you have?”

The Mexican rose to his feet and began hesitatingly:

“Geeve me--” He paused; and then, starting with the thought that had come to him, he shot a glance at the dance-hall and called out loudly, rolling his r’s even more pronouncedly than is the custom with his race: “Aguardiente! Aguardiente!”

“Sit down!” ordered Nick, vaguely conscious that there was something in the greaser’s voice that was not there before.

The greaser obeyed, but not until he knew for a certainty that his voice had been heard by his master.

“So you did bring in my saddle, eh, Nick?” asked the road agent, coming quickly, but unconcernedly into the room and standing behind his man.

Up to this time, Nick’s eyes had not left the prisoner, but with the appearance on the scene of Johnson, he felt that his responsibility ceased in a measure. He turned and gave his attention to matters pertaining to the bar. As a consequence, he did not see the look of recognition that passed between the two men, nor did he hear the whispered dialogue in Spanish that followed.

“_Maestro! Ramerrez!_” came in whispered tones from Castro.

“Speak quickly--go on,” came likewise in whispered tones from the road agent.

“I let them take me according to your bidding,” went on Castro.

“Careful, Jose, careful,” warned his master while stooping to pick up his saddle, which he afterwards laid on the faro table. It was while he was thus engaged that Nick came over to the prisoner with a glass of liquor, which he handed to him gruffly with:

“Here!”

At that moment several voices from the dance-hall called somewhat impatiently: “Nick, Nick!”

“Oh, The Ridge boys are goin’!” he said, and seeming intuitively to know what was wanted he made for the bar. But before acceding to their wishes, he turned to Johnson, took out his gun and offered it to him with the words: “Say, watch this greaser for a moment, will you?”

“Certainly,” responded Johnson, quickly, declining the other’s pistol by touching his own holster significantly. “Tell the Girl you pressed me into service,” he concluded with a smile.

“Sure.” But on the point of going, the little barkeeper turned to him and confided: “Say, the Girl’s taken an awful fancy to you.”

“No?” deprecated the road agent.

“Yes,” affirmed Nick. “Drop in often--great bar!”

Johnson smiled an assent as the other went out of the room leaving master and man together.

“Now, then, Jose, go on,” he said, when they were alone.

“_Bueno!_ Our men await the signal in the bushes close by. I will lead the Sheriff far off--then I will slip away. You quietly rob the place and fly--it is death for you to linger--Ashby is here.”

“Ashby!” The road agent started in alarm.

“Ashby--” reiterated Castro and stopped on seeing that Nick had returned to see that all was well.

“All right, Nick, everything’s all right,” Johnson reassured him.

The outlaw’s position remained unchanged until Nick had withdrawn. From where he stood he now saw for the first time the preparations that were being made for his capture: the red torchlights and white candle-lighted lanterns which were reflected through the windows; and a moment more he heard the shouts of the miners calling to one another. Of a sudden he was aroused to a consciousness, at least, of their danger by Castro’s warning:

“By to-morrow’s twilight you must be safe in your rancho.”

The road agent shook his head determinedly.

“No, we raid on.”

Castro was visibly excited.

“There are a hundred men on your track.”

Johnson smiled.

“Oh, one minute’s start of the devil does me, Jose.”

“Ah, but I fear the woman--Nina Micheltoreña--I fear her terribly. She is close at hand--knowing all, angry with you, and jealous--and still loving you.”

“Loving me? Oh, no, Jose! Nina, like you, loves the spoils, not me. No, I raid on....”

A silence fell upon the two men, which was broken by Sonora calling out:

“Bring along the greaser, Dep!”

“All right!” answered the loud voice of the Deputy.

“You hear--we start,” whispered Castro to his master. “Give the signal.” And notwithstanding, the miners were coming through the door for him and stood waiting, torches in hand, he contrived to finish: “Antonio awaits for it. Only the woman and her servant will stay behind here.”

“Adios!” whispered the master.

“Adios!” returned his man simultaneously with the approach of the Deputy towards them.

It was then that the Girl’s gay, happy voice floated in on them from the dance-hall; she cried out:

“Good-night, boys, good-night! Remember me to The Ridge!”

“You bet we will! So long! Whoop! Whooppee!” chorussed the men, while the Deputy, grabbing the Mexican by the collar, ordered him to, “Come on!”

The situation was not without its humorous side to the road agent; he could not resist following the crowd to the door where he stood and watched his would-be captors silently mount; listened to the Sheriff give the word, which was immediately followed by the sound of horses grunting as they sprang forward into the darkness in a desperate effort to escape the maddening pain of the descending quirts and cruel spurs. It was a scene to set the blood racing through the veins, viewed in any light; and not until the yells of the men had grown indistinct, and all that could be heard was the ever-decreasing sound of rushing hoofs, did the outlaw turn back into the saloon over which there hung a silence which, by contrast, he found strangely depressing.

VIII

There was a subtle change, an obvious lack of warmth in Johnson’s manner, which the Girl was quick to feel upon returning to the now practically deserted saloon.

“Don’t it feel funny here--kind o’ creepy?” She gave the words a peculiar emphasis, which made Johnson flash a quick, inquisitorial look at her; and then, no comment being forthcoming, she went on to explain: “I s’pose though that’s ’cause I don’t remember seein’ the bar so empty before.”

A somewhat awkward silence followed, which at length was broken by the Girl, who ordered:

“Lights out now! Put out the candle here, too, Nick!” But while the little barkeeper proceeded to carry out her instructions she turned to Johnson with an eager, frank expression on her face, and said: “Oh, you ain’t goin’, are you?”

“No--not yet--no--” stammered Johnson, half-surprisedly, half-wonderingly.

The Girl’s face wore a pleased look as she answered:

“Oh, I’m so glad o’ that!”

Another embarrassing silence followed. At last Nick made a movement towards the window, saying:

“I’m goin’ to put the shutters up.”

“So early? What?” The Girl looked her surprise.

“Well, you see, the boys are out huntin’ Ramerrez, and there’s too much money here....” said Nick in a low tone.

The Girl laughed lightly.

“Oh, all right--cash in--but don’t put the head on the keg--I ain’t cashed in m’self yet.”

Rolling the keg to one side of the room, Nick beckoned to the Girl to come close to him, which she did; and pointing to Johnson, who was strolling about the room, humming softly to himself, he whispered:

“Say, Girl, know anythin’ about--about him?”

But very significant as was Nick’s pantomime, which included the keg and Johnson, it succeeded only in bringing forth a laugh from the Girl, and the words:

“Oh, sure!”

Nevertheless, the faithful guardian of the Girl’s interests sent a startled glance of inquiry about the room, and again asked:

“All right, eh?”

The Girl ignored the implication contained in the other’s glance, and answered “Yep,” in such a tone of finality that Nick, reassured at last, began to put things ship-shape for the night. This took but a moment or two, however, and then he quietly disappeared.

“Well, Mr. Johnson, it seems to be us a-keepin’ house here to-night, don’t it?” said the Girl, alone now with the road agent.

Her observation might easily have been interpreted as purposely introductory to an intimate scene, notwithstanding that it was made in a thoroughly matter-of-fact tone and without the slightest trace of coquetry. But Johnson did not make the mistake of misconstruing her words, puzzled though he was to find a clue to them. His curiosity about her was intense, and it showed plainly in the voice that said presently:

“Isn’t it strange how things come about? Strange that I should have looked everywhere for you and in the end find you here--at The Polka.”

Johnson’s emphasis on his last words sent a bright red rushing over her, colouring her neck, her ears and her broad, white forehead.

“Anythin’ wrong with The Polka?”

Johnson was conscious of an indiscreet remark; nevertheless he ventured:

“Well, it’s hardly the place for a young woman like you.”

The Girl made no reply to this but busied herself with the closing-up of the saloon. Johnson interpreted her silence as a difference of opinion. Nevertheless, he repeated with emphasis:

“It is decidedly no place for you.”

“How so?”

“Well, it’s rather unprotected, and--”

“Oh, pshaw!” interrupted the Girl somewhat irritably. “I tol’ Ashby only to-night that I bet if a rud agent come in here I could offer ’im a drink an’ he’d treat me like a perfect lady.” She stopped and turned upon him impulsively with: “Say, that reminds me, won’t you take somethin’?”

Before answering, Johnson shot her a quick look of inquiry to see whether there was not a hidden meaning in her words. Of course there was not, the remark being impelled by a sudden consciousness that he might consider her inhospitable. Nevertheless, her going behind the bar and picking up a bottle came somewhat as a relief to him.

“No, thank you,” at last he said; and then as he leaned heavily on the bar: “But I would very much like to ask you a question.”

Instantly, to his great surprise, the Girl was eyeing him with mingled reproach and coquetry. So he was going to do it! Was it possible that he thought so lightly of her, she wondered. With all her heart she wished that he would not make the same mistake that others had.

“I know what it is--every stranger asks it--but I didn’t think you would. You want to know if I am decent? Well, I am, you bet!” she returned, a defiant note creeping into her voice as she uttered the concluding words.

“Oh, Girl, I’m not blind!” His eyes quailed before the look that flamed in hers. “And that was not the question.”

Instinctively something told the Girl that the man spoke the truth, but notwithstanding which, she permitted her eyes to express disbelief and “Dear me suz!” fell from her lips with an odd little laugh. On the other hand, Johnson declined to treat the subject other than seriously. He had no desire, of course, to enlarge upon the unconventionality of her attitude, but he felt that his feelings towards her, even if they were only friendly, justified him in giving her a warning. Moreover, he refused to admit to himself that this was a mere chance meeting. He had a consciousness, vague, but nevertheless real that, at last, after all his searching, Fate had brought him face to face with the one woman in all the world for him. Unknown to himself, therefore, there was a sort of jealous proprietorship in his manner towards her as he now said:

“What I meant was this: I am sorry to find you here almost at the mercy of the passer-by, where a man may come, may drink, may rob you if he will--” and here a flush of shame spread over his features in spite of himself--“and where, I daresay, more than one has laid claim to a kiss.”

The Girl turned upon him in good-natured contempt.

“There’s a good many people claimin’ things they never git. I’ve got my first kiss to give.”

Once more a brief silence fell upon them in which the Girl busied herself with her cash box. She was not unaware that his eyes were upon her, but she was by no means sure that he believed her words. Nor could she tell herself, unfortunately for her peace of mind, that it made no difference to her.

“Have you been here long?” suddenly he asked.

“Yep.”

“Lived in The Polka?”

“Nope.”

“Where do you live?”

“Cabin up the mountain a little ways.”

“Cabin up the mountain a little ways,” echoed Johnson, reflectively. The next instant the little figure before him had faded from his sight and instead there appeared a vision of the little hut on the top of Cloudy Mountain. Only a few hours back he had stood on the precipice which looked towards it, and had felt a vague, indefinable something, had heard a voice speak to him out of the vastness which he now believed to have been her spirit calling to him.

“You’re worth something better than this,” after a while he murmured with the tenderness of real love in his voice.

“What’s better’n this?” questioned the Girl with a toss of her pretty blonde head. “I ain’t a-boastin’ but if keepin’ this saloon don’t give me sort of a position ’round here I dunno what does.”

But the next moment there had flashed through her mind a new thought concerning him. She came out from behind the bar and confronted him with the question:

“Look ’ere, you ain’t one o’ them exhorters from the Missionaries’ Camp, are you?”

The road agent smiled.

“My profession has its faults,” he acknowledged, “but I am not an exhorter.”

But still the Girl was nonplussed, and eyed him steadily for a moment or two.

“You know I can’t figger out jest exactly what you are?” she admitted smilingly.

“Well, try ...” he suggested, slightly colouring under her persistent gaze.

“Well, you ain’t one o’ us.”

“No?”

“Oh, I can tell--I can spot my man every time. I tell you, keepin’ saloon’s a great educator.” And so saying she plumped herself down in a chair and went on very seriously now: “I dunno but what it’s a good way to bring up girls--they git to know things. Now,” and here she looked at him long and earnestly, “I’d trust you.”

Johnson was conscious of a guilty feeling, though he said as he took a seat beside her:

“You would trust me?”

The Girl nodded an assent and observed in a tone that was intended to be thoroughly conclusive:

“Notice I danced with you to-night?”

“Yes,” was his brief reply, though the next moment he wondered that he had not found something more to say.

“I seen from the first that you were the real article.”

“I beg your pardon,” he said absently, still lost in thought.

“Why, that was a compliment I handed out to you,” returned the Girl with a pained look on her face.

“Oh!” he ejaculated with a faint little smile.

Now the Girl, who had drawn up her chair close to his, leaned over and said in a low, confidential voice:

“Your kind don’t prevail much here. I can tell--I got what you call a quick eye.”

As might be expected Johnson flushed guiltily at this remark. No different, for that matter, would have acted many a man whose conscience was far clearer.

“Oh, I’m afraid that men like me prevail--prevail, as you say,--almost everywhere,” he said, laying such stress on the words that it would seem almost impossible for anyone not to see that they were shot through with self-depreciation.

The Girl gave him a playful dig with her elbow.

“Go on! What are you givin’ me! O’ course they don’t...!” She laughed outright; but the next instant checking herself, went on with absolute ingenuousness: “Before I went on that trip to Monterey I tho’t Rance here was the genuine thing in a gent, but the minute I kind o’ glanced over you on the road I--I seen he wasn’t.” She stopped, a realisation having suddenly been borne in upon her that perhaps she was laying her heart too bare to him. To cover up her embarrassment, therefore, she took refuge, as before, in hospitality, and rushing over to the bar she called to Nick to come and serve Mr. Johnson with a drink, only to dismiss him the moment he put his head through the door with: “Never mind, I’ll help Mr. Johnson m’self.” Turning to her visitor again, she said: “Have your whisky with water, won’t you?”

“But I don’t--” began Johnson in protest.

“Say,” interrupted the Girl, falling back into her favourite position of resting both elbows on the bar, her face in her hands, “I’ve got you figgered out. You’re awful good or awful bad.” A remark which seemed to amuse the man, for he laughed heartily.

“Now, what do you mean by that?” presently he asked.

“Well, I mean so good that you’re a teetotaller, or so bad that you’re tired o’ life an’ whisky.”

Johnson shook his head.

“On the contrary, although I’m not good, I’ve lived and I’ve liked life pretty well. It’s been bully!”

Surprised and delighted with his enthusiasm, the Girl raised her eyes to his, which look he mistook--not unnaturally after all that had been said--for one of encouragement. A moment more and the restraint that he had exercised over himself had vanished completely.

“So have you liked it, Girl,” he went on, trying vainly to get possession of her hand, “only you haven’t lived, you haven’t lived--not with your nature. You see I’ve got a quick eye, too.”

To Johnson’s amazement she flushed and averted her face. Following the direction of her eyes he saw Nick standing in the door with a broad grin on his face.

“You git, Nick! What do you mean by...?” cried out the Girl in a tone that left no doubt in the minds of her hearers that she was annoyed, if not angry, at the intrusion.

Nick disappeared into the dance-hall as though shot out of a gun; whereupon, the Girl turned to Johnson with:

“I haven’t lived? That’s good!”

Johnson’s next words were insinuating, but his voice was cold in comparison with the fervent tones of a moment previous.

“Oh, you know!” was what he said, seating himself at the poker table.

“No, I don’t,” contradicted the Girl, taking a seat opposite him.

“Yes, you do,” he insisted.

“Well, say it’s an even chance I do an’ an even chance I don’t,” she parried.

Once more the passion in the man was stirring.

“I mean,” he explained in a voice that barely reached her, “life for all it’s worth, to the uttermost, to the last drop in the cup, so that it atones for what’s gone before, or may come after.”

The Girl’s face wore a puzzled look as she answered:

“No, I don’t believe I know what you mean by them words. Is it a--” She cut her sentence short, and springing up, cried out: “Oh, Lord--Oh, excuse me, I sat on my gun!”

Johnson looked at her, genuine amusement depicted on his face.

“Look here,” said the Girl, suddenly perching herself upon the table, “I’m goin’ to make you an offer.”

“An offer?” Johnson fairly snatched the words out of her mouth. “You’re going to make me an offer?”

“It’s this,” declared the Girl with a pleased look on her face. “If ever you need to be staked--”

Johnson eyed her uncomprehendingly.

“Which o’ course you don’t,” she hastened to add. “Name your price. It’s yours jest for the style I git from you an’ the deportment.”

“Deportment? Me?” A half-grin formed over Johnson’s face as he asked the question; then he said: “Well, I never heard before that my society was so desirable. Apart from the financial aspect of this matter, I--”

“Say,” broke in the Girl, gazing at him in helpless admiration, “ain’t that great? Ain’t that great? Oh, you got to let me stand treat!”

“No, really I would prefer not to take anything,” responded Johnson, putting a restraining hand on her as she was about to leap from the table.

At that moment Nick’s hurried footsteps reached their ears. Turning, the Girl, with a swift gesture, waved him back. There was a brief silence, then Johnson spoke:

“Say, Girl, you’re like finding some new kind of flower.”