Notwithstanding that The Palmetto was the most pretentious building in
Cloudy, and was the only rooming and eating house that outwardly
asserted its right to be called an hotel, its saloon contrasted
unfavourably with its rival, The Polka. There was not the individuality
of the Girl there to charm away the impress of coarseness settled upon
it by the loafers, the habitual drunkards and the riffraff of the camp,
who were not tolerated elsewhere. In short, it did not have that certain
indefinable something which gave to The Polka Saloon an almost homelike
appearance, but was a drab, squalid, soulless place with nothing to
recommend it but its size.
In a small parlour pungent at all times with the odour of liquor,--but
used only on rare occasions, most of The Palmetto's patrons preferring
the even more stifling atmosphere of the bar-room,--the Wells Fargo
Agent had been watching and waiting ever since he had left The Polka
Saloon. On a table in front of him was a bottle, for it was a part of
Ashby's scheme of things to solace thus all such weary hours.
Although a shrewd judge of women of the Nina Micheltoreña type and by no
means unmindful of their mercurial temperament, Ashby, nevertheless, had
felt that she would keep her appointment with him. In the Mexican Camp
he had read the wild jealousy in her eyes, and had assumed, not
unnaturally, that there had been scarcely time for anything to occur
which would cause a revulsion of feeling on her part. But as the moments
went by, and still she did not put in an appearance, an expression of
keen disappointment showed itself on his face and, with mechanical
regularity, he carried out the liquid programme, shutting his eyes after
each drink for moments at a time yet, apparently, in perfect control of
his mind when he opened them again; and it was in one of these moments
that he heard a step outside which he correctly surmised to be that of
the Sheriff.
Without a word Rance walked into the room and over to the table and
helped himself to a drink from the bottle there, which action the Wells
Fargo Agent rightly interpreted as meaning that the posse had failed to
catch their quarry. At first a glint of satisfaction shone in Ashby's
eyes: not that he disliked Rance, but rather that he resented his
egotistical manner and evident desire to overawe all who came in contact
with him; and it required, therefore, no little effort on his part to
banish this look from his face and make up his mind not to mention the
subject in any manner.
For some time, therefore, the two officers sat opposite to each other
inhaling the stale odour of tobacco and spirits peculiar to this room,
with little or no ventilation. It was enough to sicken anyone, but both
men, accustomed to such places in the pursuit of their calling,
apparently thought nothing of it, the Sheriff seemingly absorbed in
contemplating the long ash at the end of his cigar, but, in reality,
turning over in his mind whether he should leave the room or not. At
length, he inaugurated a little contest of opinion.
"This woman isn't coming, that's certain," he declared, impatiently.
"I rather think she will; she promised not to fail me," was the other's
quiet answer; and he added: "In ten minutes you'll see her."
It was a rash remark and expressive of a confidence that he by no means
felt. As a matter of fact, it was induced solely by the cynical smile
which he perceived on the Sheriff's face.
"You, evidently, take no account of the fact that the lady may have
changed her mind," observed Rance, lighting a fresh cigar. "The Nina
Micheltoreñas are fully as privileged as others of their sex."
As he drained his glass Ashby gave the speaker a sharp glance; another
side of Rance's character had cropped out. Moreover, Ashby's quick
intuition told him that the other's failure to catch the outlaw was not
troubling him nearly as much as was the blow which his conceit had
probably received at the hands of the Girl. It was, therefore, in an
indulgent tone that he said:
"No, Rance, not this one nor this time. You mark my words, the woman is
through with Ramerrez. At least, she is so jealous that she thinks she
is. She'll turn up here, never fear; she means business."
The shoulders of Mr. Jack Rance strongly suggested a shrug, but the man
himself said nothing. They were anything but sympathetic companions,
these two officers, and in the silence that ensued Rance formulated
mentally more than one disparaging remark about the big man sitting
opposite to him. It is possible, of course, that the Sheriff's rebuff by
the Girl, together with the wild goose chase which he had recently taken
against his better judgment, had something to do with this bitterness;
but it was none the less true that he found himself wondering how Ashby
had succeeded in acquiring his great reputation. Among the things that
he held against him was his everlasting propensity to boast of his
achievements, to say nothing of the pedestal upon which the boys
insisted upon placing him. Was this Wells Fargo's most famous agent? Was
this the man whose warnings were given such credence that they stirred
even the largest of the gold camps into a sense of insecurity? And at
this Rance indulged again in a fit of mental merriment at the other's
expense.
But, although he would have denied it in toto, the truth of the matter
was that the Sheriff was jealous of Ashby. Witty, generous, and a high
liver, the latter was generally regarded as a man who fascinated women;
moreover, he was known to be a favourite--and here the shoe
pinched--with the Girl. True, the demands of his profession were such as
to prevent his staying long in any camp. Nevertheless, it seemed to
Rance that he contrived frequently to turn up at The Polka when the boys
were at the diggings.
After Ashby's observation the conversation by mutual, if unspoken,
consent, was switched into other channels. But it may be truthfully said
that Rance did not wholly recover his mental equilibrium until a door
was heard to open noiselessly and some whispered words in Spanish fell
upon their ears.
Now the Sheriff, as well as Ashby, had the detective instinct fully
developed; moreover, both men knew a few words of that language and had
an extreme curiosity to hear the conversation going on between a man and
a woman, who were standing just outside in a sort of hallway. As a
result, therefore, both officers sprang to the door with the hope--if
indeed it was Nina Micheltoreña as they surmised--that they might catch
a word or two which would give them a clue to what was likely to take
place at the coming interview. It came sooner than they expected.
". . . Ramerrez--Five thousand dollars!" reached their ears in a soft,
Spanish voice.
Ashby needed nothing more than this. In an instant, much to the
Sheriff's astonishment, and moving marvellously quick for a man of his
heavy build, he was out of the room, leaving Rance to face a woman with
a black mantilla thrown over her head who, presently, entered by another
door.
Nina Micheltoreña, for it was she, did not favour him with as much as an
icy look. Nor did the Sheriff give any sign of knowing her; a wise
proceeding as it turned out, for a quick turn of the head and a subtle
movement of the woman's shoulders told him that she was in anything but
a quiet state of mind. One glance towards the door behind him, however,
and the reason of her anger was all too plain: A Mexican was vainly
struggling in the clutches of Ashby.
"Why are you dragging him in?" Far from quailing before him as did her
confederate, she confronted Ashby with eyes that flashed fire. "He came
with me--"
Ashby cut her short.
"We don't allow greasers in this camp and--" he began in a throaty
voice.
"But he is waiting to take me back!" she objected, and then added: "I
wish him to wait for me outside, and unless you allow him to I'll go at
once." And with these words she made a movement towards the door.
Ashby laid one restraining hand upon her, while with the other he held
on to the Mexican. Of a sudden there had dawned upon him the conviction
that for once in his life he had made a grievous mistake. He had
thought, by the detention of her confederate, to have two strings to his
bow, but one glance at the sneeringly censorious expression on the
Sheriff's face convinced him that no information would be forthcoming
from the woman while in her present rebellious mood.
"All right, my lady," he said, for the time being yielding to her will,
"have your way." And turning now to the Mexican, he added none too
gently:
"Here you, get out!"
Whereupon the Mexican slunk out of the room.
"There's no use of your getting into a rage," went on Ashby, turning to
the woman in a slightly conciliatory manner. "I calculated that the
greaser would be in on the job, too."
All through this scene Rance had been sitting back in his chair chewing
his cigar in contemptuous silence, while his face wore a look of languid
insolence, a fact which, apparently, did not disturb the woman in the
least, for she ignored him completely.
"It was well for you, Señor Ashby, that you let him go. I tell you
frankly that in another moment I should have gone." And now throwing
back her mantilla she took out a cigarette from a dainty, little case
and lit it and coolly blew a cloud of smoke in Rance's face, saying: "It
depends on how you treat me--you, Mr. Jack Rance, as well as Señor
Ashby--whether we come to terms or not. Perhaps I had better go away
anyway," she concluded with a shrug of admirably simulated indifference.
This time Ashby sat perfectly still. It was not difficult to perceive
that her anger was decreasing with every word that she uttered; nor did
he fail to note how fluently she spoke English, a slight Spanish accent
giving added charm to her wonderfully soft and musical voice. How
gloriously beautiful, he told himself, she looked as she stood there,
voluptuous, compelling, alluring, the expression that had been almost
diabolical, gradually fading from her face. Was it possible, he asked
himself, that all this loveliness was soiled forever? He felt that there
was something pitiful in the fact that the woman standing before him
represented negotiable property which could be purchased by any
passer-by who had a few more nuggets in his possession than his
neighbour; and, perhaps, because of his knowledge of the piteous history
of this former belle of Monterey he put a little more consideration into
the voice that said:
"All right, Nina, we'll get down to business. What have you to say to
us?"
By this time Nina's passionate anger had burned itself out. In
anticipation, perhaps, of what she was about to do, she looked straight
ahead of her into space. It was not because she was assailed by some
transient emotion to forswear her treacherous desire for vengeance; she
had no illusion of that kind. Too vividly she recalled the road agent's
indifferent manner at their last interview for any feeling to dwell in
her heart other than hatred. It was that she was summoning to appear a
vision scarcely less attractive, however pregnant with tragedy, than
that of seeing herself avenged: a gay, extravagant career in Mexico or
Spain which the reward would procure for her. That was what she was
seeing, and with a pious wish for its confirmation she began to make
herself a fresh cigarette, rolling it dexterously with her white,
delicate fingers, and not until her task was accomplished and her full,
red lips were sending forth tiny clouds of smoke did she announce:
"Ramerrez was in Cloudy Mountain to-night."
But however much of a surprise this assertion was to both men, neither
gave vent to an exclamation. Instead Rance regarded his elegantly booted
feet; Ashby looked hard at the woman as if he would read the truth in
her eyes; while as for Nina, she continued to puff away at her little
cigarette after the manner of one that has appealed not in vain to the
magic power which can paint out the past and fill the blank with the
most beautiful of dreams.
The Wells Fargo man was the first to make any comment; he asked:
"You know this?" And then as she surveyed them through a scented cloud
and bowed her head, he added: "How do you know it?"
"That I shall not tell you," replied the woman, firmly.
Ashby made an impatient movement towards her with the question:
"Where was he?"
"Oh, come, Ashby!" put in Rance, speaking for the first time. "She's
putting up a game on us."
In a flash Nina wheeled around and with eyes that blazed advanced to the
table where the Sheriff was sitting. Indeed, there was something so
tigerish about the woman that the Sheriff, in alarm, quickly pushed back
his chair.
"I am not lying, Jack Rance." There was an evil glitter in her eye as
she watched a sarcastic smile playing around his lips. "Oh, yes, I know
you--you are the Sheriff," and so saying a peal of contemptuous
merriment burst from her, "and Ramerrez was in the camp not less than
two hours ago."
Ashby could hardly restrain his excitement.
"And you saw him?" came from him.
"Yes," was her answer.
Both men sprang to their feet; it was impossible to doubt any longer
that she spoke the truth.
"What's his game?" demanded Rance.
The woman answered his question with a question.
"How about the reward, Señor Ashby?"
"You needn't worry about that--I'll see that you get what's coming to
you," replied the Wells Fargo Agent already getting into his coat.
"But how are we to know?" inquired Rance, likewise getting ready to
leave. "Is he an American or a Mexican?"
"To-night he's an American, that is, he's dressed and looks like one.
But the reward--you swear you're playing fair?"
"On my honour," Ashby assured her.
The woman's face stood clear--cruelly clear in the light of the kerosene
lamp above her head. About her mouth and eyes there was a repellent
expression. Her mind, still working vividly, was reviewing the past; and
a bitter memory prompted the words which were said however with a smile
that was still seductive:
"Try to recall, Señor Ashby, what strangers were in The Polka to-night?"
At these ominous words the men started and regarded each other
questioningly. Their keen and trained intelligences were greatly
distressed at being so utterly in the dark. For an instant, it is true,
the thought of the greaser that Ashby had brought in rose uppermost in
their minds, but only to be dismissed quickly when they recalled the
woman's words concerning the way that the road agent was dressed. A
moment more, however, and a strange thought had fastened itself on one
of their active minds--a thought which, although persisting in forcing
itself upon the Sheriff's consideration, was in the end rejected as
wholly improbable. But who was it then? In his intensity Rance let his
cigar go out.
"Ah!" at last he cried. "Johnson, by the eternal!"
"Johnson?" echoed Ashby, wholly at sea and surprised at the look of
corroboration in Nina's eyes.
"Yes, Johnson," went on Rance, insistently. Why had he not seen at once
that it was Johnson who was the road agent! There could be no mistake!
"You weren't there," he explained hurriedly, "when he came in and began
flirting with the Girl and--"
"Ramerrez making love to the Girl?" broke in Ashby. "Ye Gods!"
"The Girl? So that's the woman he's after now!" Nina laughed bitterly.
"Well, she's not destined to have him for long, I can tell you!" And
with that she reached out for the bottle on the table and poured herself
a small glass of whisky and swallowed it. When she turned her lips were
tightly shut over her brilliant teeth, a thousand thoughts came rushing
into her brain. There was no longer any compunction--she would strike
now and deep. Through her efforts alone the man would be captured, and
she gloried in the thought.
"Here--here is something that will interest you!" she said; and putting
her hand in her bosom drew out a soiled, faded photograph. "There--that
will settle him for good and all! Never again will he boast of trifling
with Nina Micheltoreña--with me, a Micheltoreña in whose veins runs the
best and proudest blood of California!"
Ashby fairly snatched the photograph out of her hand and, after one look
at it, passed it over to the Sheriff.
"Good of him, isn't it?" sneered Nina; and then seemingly trying by her
very vehemence to impress upon herself the impossibility of his ever
being anything but an episode in her life, she added: "I hate him!"
The picture was indeed an excellent one. It represented Ramerrez in the
gorgeous dress of a _caballero_--and the outlaw was a fine specimen of
that spectacular class of men. But Rance studied the photograph only
long enough to be sure that no mistake was possible. With a quick
movement he put it away in his pocket and looked long and hard at the
figure of the degraded woman standing before him and revelling in her
treachery. In that time he forgot that anyone had ever entertained a
kind thought about her; he forgot that she once was respected as well as
admired; he was conscious only of regarding her with a far deeper
disgust and repugnance than he held towards others much her inferior in
birth and education. But, presently, his face grew a shade whiter, if
that were possible, and he cursed himself for not having thought of the
danger to which the Girl might even now be exposed. In less than a
minute, therefore, both men stood ready for the work before them. But on
the threshold just before going out into the fierce storm that had burst
during the last few minutes, he paused and called back:
"You Mexican devil! If any harm comes to the Girl, I'll strangle you
with my own hands!" And not waiting to hear the woman's mocking laughter
he passed out, followed by Ashby, into the storm.