"She says I'm to meet her to-morrow night at the Palmetto Restaurant,"
said Ashby to himself after the woman had lost herself in a crowd of
her own countrymen. "She will tell where I can put my hands on this
Ramerrez. Bah! It's too good to be true. Nevertheless, I'll be on hand,
my lady, for if anyone knows of this fellow's movements I'll wager you
do."

At that moment Ashby, the Wells Fargo Agent, was nearer than ever before
to the most brilliant capture of all his career.


Late the following afternoon, some five miles from the Mexican
settlement, on a small tableland high above a black ravine which was
thickly timbered with the giant trees of the Sierras, Ramerrez' band was
awaiting the coming of the _Maestro_. It was not to be a long wait and
they stood around smoking and talking in low tones. Suddenly, the sound
of horses climbing was heard, and soon a horseman came in sight whose
appearance had the effect of throwing them instantly into a state of
excitement, one and all drawing their guns and making a dash for their
horses, which were tied to trees. A moment later, however, another
horseman appeared, and laughing boisterously at themselves they slid
their guns back into their belts and retied their horses, for the man
whom they recognised so quickly, the individual who saved the situation,
as it were, was none other than Jose Castro, an ex-_padrona_ of the
bull-fights and the second in command to Ramerrez. He was a wiry,
hard-faced and shifty-eyed Mexican, but was as thoroughly devoted to
Ramerrez as he had been to the young leader's father. On the other hand,
the man who had caused them to fear that a stranger had surprised them,
and that they had been trapped, was Ramerrez or Johnson--the name that