"Why, what's he doing here?"

"He's after Ramerrez," answered the Deputy, eyeing him intently.

Rance received this information in silence and went on with his
shuffling of the cards; presently, unconcernedly, he remarked:

"Ramerrez--Oh, that's the polite road agent who has been visiting the
other camps?"

"Yes; he's just turned into your county," declared the Deputy,
meaningly.

"What?" Sonora looked dumbfounded.

The Deputy nodded and proceeded to the bar. And while he drained the
contents of his glass, the Minstrel played on his banjo, much to the
amusement of the men, who showed their appreciation by laughing
heartily, the last bars of, "Pop Goes the Weasel."

"Hello, Sheriff!" greeted Ashby, coming in just as the merriment over
the Minstrel's little joke had died away. Ashby's voice--quick, sharp
and decisive was that of a man accustomed to ordering men, but his
manner was suave, if a trifle gruff. Moreover, he was a man of whom it
could be said, paradoxical as it may seem, that he was never known to be
drunk nor ever known to be sober. It was plain from his appearance that
he had been some time on the road.

Rance rose and politely extended his hand. And, although the greeting