IV

In the space of six months one can do little or much harm. The young

bandit,--for he had kept his oath to his father,--flattered himself that

he had done much. In all the mining camps of the Sierras the mere

mention of the name of Ramerrez brought forth execrations. Not a stage

started out with its precious golden freight without its passengers

having misgivings that they would be held up before reaching Sacramento.

Messengers armed with shotguns were always to be found at their post

beside the drivers; yet, despite all precautions, not a week passed

without a report that the stage out of this or that camp, had been

attacked and the passengers forced to surrender their money and

valuables. Under no circumstances, however, were any of Ramerrez’s own

countrymen molested. If, by any chance, the road agent made a mistake

and stopped a party of native Californians or Mexicans, they were at

once permitted to proceed on their way with the bandit-leader’s profuse

apologies.

But it was altogether different with Americans. The men of that race

were compelled to surrender their gold; although so far as he was

concerned, their women were exempt from robbery. As a matter of fact, he

had few chances to show his chivalry, since few women were living, at

that time, in the Sierras. Nevertheless, it happened in rare instances

that a stage was held up which contained one or two of them, and they

were never known to complain of his treatment. And so far, at least, he

had contrived to avoid any serious bloodshed. Two or three messengers,

it is true, had been slightly wounded; but that was the most that his

worst enemies could charge against him.

As for Ramerrez’s own attitude towards the life he was leading, it must

be confessed that, the plunge once taken, his days and nights were too

full of excitement and adventure to leave him time to brood. Somewhat to

his own surprise, he had inherited his father’s power of iron

domination. Young as he was, not one of his father’s seasoned band of

cutthroats ever questioned his right or his ability to command. At

first, no doubt, they followed him through a rude spirit of loyalty; but

after a short time it was because they had found in him all the

qualities of a leader of men, one whose plans never miscarried. Fully

two-thirds of the present band were vassals, as it were, in his family,

while all were of Spanish or Mexican descent. In truth, Ramerrez himself

was the only one among them who had any gringo blood in his veins. And

hence not a tale of the outlaw’s doings was complete without the

narrator insisting upon it that the leader of the band--the road agent

himself--closely resembled an American. One and all of his victims

agreed that he spoke with an American accent, while the few who had been

able to see his features on a certain occasion when the red bandanna,

which he wore about his face, had fallen, never failed to maintain that

he looked like an American.

As a matter of fact, Ramerrez not only bore the imprint of his mother’s

race in features and in speech, but the more he made war upon them, the

more he realised that it was without any real feeling of hostility. In

spite of his early training and in spite of his oath, he could not share

his father’s bitterness. True, the gringos had wrecked the fortunes of

his house; it was due to them that his sole inheritance was an outlaw’s

name and an outlaw’s leadership. And yet, despite it all, there was

another fact that he could not forget,--the fact that he himself was one

half gringo, one half the same race as that of the unforgotten Girl whom

he had met on the road to Sacramento. Indeed, it had been impossible to

forget her, for she had stirred some depth in him, the existence of

which he had never before suspected. He was haunted by the thought of

her attractive face, her blue eyes and merry, contagious laugh. For the

hundredth time he recalled his feelings on that glorious day when he had

intercepted her on the great highway. And with this memory would come a

sudden shame of himself and occupation,--a realisation of the barrier

which he had deliberately put between the present and the past. Up to

the hour when he had parted from her, and had remained spellbound,

seated on his horse at the fork of the roads, watching the vanishing

coach up to the last minute, he was still a Spanish gentleman, still

worthy in himself,--whatever his father had done,--to offer his love and

his devotion to a pure and honest girl. But now he was an outlaw, a road

agent going from one robbery to another, likely at any time to stain his

hand with the life-blood of a fellow man. And this pretence that he was

stealing in a righteous cause, that he was avenging the wrongs that had

been done to his countrymen,--why, it was the rankest hypocrisy! He knew

in his heart that vengeance and race hatred had nothing whatever to do

with it. It was because he loved it like a game, a game of unforeseen,

unguessed danger. The fever of it was in his blood, like strong

drink,--and with every day’s adventure, the thirst for it grew stronger.

Yet, however personally daring, Ramerrez was the last person in the

world to trust to chance for his operations, more than was absolutely

necessary. He handled his men with shrewd judgment and strict

discipline. Furthermore, never was an attack made that was not the

outcome of a carefully matured plan. A prime factor in Ramerrez’ success

had from the first been the information which he was able to obtain

from the Mexicans, not connected with his band, concerning the places

that the miners used as temporary depositories for their gold; and it

was information of this sort that led Ramerrez and his men to choose a

certain Mexican settlement in the mountains as a base of operations:

namely, the tempting fact that a large amount of gold was stored nightly

in the Polka Saloon, at the neighbouring camp on Cloudy Mountain.

And there was still another reason.

Despite the fact that his heart had been genuinely touched by the many

and unusual attractions of the Girl, it is not intended to convey the

idea that he was austere or incapable of passion for anyone else. For

that was not so. Although, to give the bandit his due, he had remained

quite exemplary, when one considers his natural charm as well as the

fascination which his adventurous life had for his countrywomen.

Unfortunately, however, in one of his weak moments, he had foolishly

permitted himself to become entangled with a Mexican woman--Nina

Micheltoreña, by name--whose jealous nature now threatened to prove a

serious handicap to him. It was a particularly awkward situation in

which he found himself placed, inasmuch as this woman had furnished him

with much valuable information. In fact, it was she who had called his

attention to the probable spoils to be had in the American camp near

by. It can readily be imagined, therefore, that it was not without a

premonition of trouble to come that he sought the Mexican settlement

with the intention of paying her a hundred-fold for her valuable

assistance in the past and then be through with her for good and all.

* * * * *

The Mexican or greaser settlements had little in them that resembled

their American neighbours. In the latter there were few women, for the

long distance that the American pioneers had to travel before reaching

the gold-fields of California, the hardships that they knew had to be

encountered, deterred them from bringing their wives and daughters. But

with the Mexicans it was wholly different. The number of women in their

camps almost equalled that of the men, and the former could always be

seen, whenever the weather permitted, strolling about or sitting in the

doorways chatting with their neighbours, while children were everywhere.

In fact, everything about the Mexican settlements conveyed the

impression that they had come to stay--a decided contrast to the

transient appearance of the camps of the Americans.

It was one evening late in the fall that Ramerrez and his band halted

just outside of this particular Mexican settlement. And after

instructing his men where they should meet him the following day, he

sent them off to enjoy themselves for the night with their friends. For,

Ramerrez, although exercising restraint over his band, never failed to

see to it that they had their pleasures as well as their duties--a trait

in his character that had not a little to do with his great influence

over his men. And so it happened that he made his way alone up the main

street to the hall where a dance was going on.

The scene that met his eyes on entering the long, low room was a gay

one. It was a motley crowd gathered there in which the Mexicans, not

unnaturally, predominated. Here and there, however, were native

Californians, Frenchmen, Germans and a few Americans, the latter

conspicuous by the absence of colour in their dress; for with the

exception of an occasional coatless man in a red or blue shirt, they

wore faded, old, black coats,--frequently frock-coats, at that,--which

certainly contrasted unfavourably, at least so far as heightening the

gaiety of the scene was concerned, with the green velvet jackets,

brilliant waistcoats with gold filigree and silver buttons and red

sashes of the Mexicans. That there was not a man present but what was

togged out in his best and was armed, it goes without saying, even if

the weapons of the Mexicans were in the form of murderous knives

concealed somewhere about their persons instead of belts with guns and

knives openly displayed, as was the case with the Americans.

At the time of the outlaw’s entrance into the dance-hall the fandango

was over. But presently the fiddles, accompanied by guitars, struck up a

waltz, and almost instantly some twenty or more men and women took the

floor; those not engaged in dancing surrounding the dancers, clapping

their hands and shouting their applause. In order to see if the woman he

sought was present, it was necessary for Ramerrez to push to the very

front of the crowd of lookers-on, where he was not long in observing

that nearly all the women present were of striking appearance and danced

well; likewise, he noted, that none compared either in looks or grace

with Nina Micheltoreña who, he had to acknowledge, even if his feelings

for her were dead, was a superb specimen of a woman.

Good blood ran in the veins of Nina Micheltoreña. It is not in the

province of this story to tell how it was that a favourite in the best

circles of Monterey came to be living in a Mexican camp in the Sierras.

Suffice it to say that her fall from grace had been rapid, though her

dissolute career had in no way diminished her beauty. Indeed, her

features were well-nigh perfect, her skin transparently clear, if dark,

and her form was suppleness itself as she danced. And that she was the

undisputed belle of the evening was made apparent by the number of men

who watched her with eyes that marvelled at her grace when dancing, and

surrounded her whenever she stopped, each pleading with her to accept

him as a partner.

Almost every colour of the rainbow had a place in her costume for the

occasion: The bodice was of light blue silk; the skirt orange;

encircling her small waist was a green sash; while her jet-black hair

was fastened with a crimson ribbon. Diamonds flashed from the earrings

in her ears as well as from the rings on her fingers. All in all, it was

scarcely to be wondered at that her charms stirred to the very depths

the fierce passion of the desperate characters about her.

That Ramerrez dreaded the interview which he had determined to have with

his confederate can easily be understood by anyone who has ever tried to

sever his relations with an enamoured woman. In fact the outlaw dreaded

it so much that he decided to postpone it as long as he could. And so,

after sauntering aimlessly about the room, and coming, unexpectedly,

across a woman of his acquaintance, he began to converse with her,

supposing, all the time, that Nina Micheltoreña was too occupied with

the worshippers at her shrine to perceive that he was in the dance-hall.

But it was decidedly a case of the wish being father to the thought:

Not a movement had he made since he entered that she was not cognisant

of it and, although she hated to acknowledge it to herself, deep down in

her heart she was conscious that he was not as thoroughly under the sway

of her dark eyes as she would have wished. Something had happened in the

last few weeks that had brought about a change in him, but just what it

was she was unable to determine. There were moments when she saw plainly

that he was much more occupied with his daring plans than he was with

thoughts of her. So far, it was true, there had been no evidences on his

part of any hesitation in confiding his schemes to her. Of that she was

positive. But, on the other hand, she had undoubtedly lost some of her

influence over him. It did not lessen her nervousness to realise that he

had been in the hall for some time without making any effort to see her.

Besides, the appointment had been of his own making, inasmuch as he had

sent word by one of his band that she should meet him to-night in this

place. Furthermore, she knew that he had in mind one of the boldest

projects he had yet attempted and needed, to insure success, every scrap

of knowledge that she possessed. In the meantime, while she waited for

him to seek her out, she resolved to show him the extent of her power to

fascinate others; and from that moment never had she seemed more

attractive and alluring to her admirers, in all of whom she appeared to

excite the fiercest of passions. In fact, one word whispered in an ear

by those voluptuous lips and marvellously sweet, musical voice, and the

recipient would have done her bidding, even had she demanded a man’s

life as the price of her favour.

It is necessary, however, to single out one man as proving an exception

to this sweeping assertion, although this particular person seemed no

less devoted than the other men present. He was plainly an American and

apparently a stranger to his countrymen as well as to the Mexicans. His

hair was white and closely cropped, the eyebrows heavy and very black,

the lips nervous and thin but denoting great determination, and the face

was tanned to the colour of old leather, sufficiently so as to be

noticeable even in a country where all faces were tanned, swarthy, and

dark. One would have thought that this big, heavy, but extremely-active

man whose clothes, notwithstanding the wear and tear of the road, were

plainly cut on “’Frisco” patterns, was precisely the person calculated

to make an impression upon a woman like Nina Micheltoreña; and, yet,

oddly enough, he was the only man in the room whose attentions seemed

distasteful to her. It could not be accounted for on the ground of his

nationality, for she danced gladly with others of his race. Nor did it

look like caprice on her part. On the contrary, there was an expression

on her face that resembled something like fear when she refused to be

cajoled into dancing with him. At length, finding her adamant, the man

left the room.

But as time went by and still Ramerrez kept aloof, Nina Micheltoreña’s

excitement began to increase immeasureably. To such a woman the outlaw’s

neglect could mean but one thing--another woman. And, finally, unable to

control herself any longer, she made her way to where the woman with

whom Ramerrez had been conversing was standing alone.

“What has the Señor been saying to you?” she demanded, jealousy and

ungovernable passion blazing forth from her eyes.

“Nothing of interest to you,” replied the other with a shrug of her

shoulders.

“It’s a lie!” burst from Nina’s lips. “I heard him making love to you! I

was standing near and heard every tone, every inflection of his voice! I

saw how he looked at you!” And so crazed was she by jealousy that her

face became distorted and almost ugly, if such a thing were possible,

and her great eyes filled with hatred.

The other woman laughed scornfully.

“Make your man stay away from me then--if you can,” she retorted.

At that the infuriated Nina drew a knife and cried:

“Swear to me that you’ll not see him to-night, or--”

The sentence was never finished. Quick as lightning Ramerrez stepped in

and caught Nina’s upraised arm. For one instant her eyes flashed fire at

him; another, and submissive to his will, she slipped the knife

somewhere in the folds of her dress and the attention that she had

succeeded in attracting was diverted elsewhere. Those who had rushed up

expecting a tragedy returned, once more, to their dancing.

“I have been looking for you, Nina,” he said, taking her to one side. “I

want to speak with you.”

Nina laughed airily, but only another woman would have been able to

detect the danger lurking in that laugh.

“Have you just come in?” she inquired casually. “It is generally not

difficult to find me when there is dancing.” And then with a significant

smile: “But perhaps there were so many men about me that I was

completely hidden from the view of the Señor.”

Ramerrez bowed politely his belief in the truth of her words; then he

said somewhat seriously:

“I see a vacant table over in the corner where we can talk without

danger of being overheard. Come!” He led the way, the woman following

him, to a rough table of pine at the farther end of the room where,

immediately, a bottle and two glasses were placed before them. When they

had pledged each other, Ramerrez went on to say, in a low voice, that he

had made the appointment in order to deliver to her her share for the

information that led to his successful holdup of the stage at a place

known as “The Forks,” a few miles back; and taking from his pocket a

sack of gold he placed it on the table before her.

There was a silence in which Nina made no movement to pick up the gold;

whereupon, Ramerrez repeated a little harshly:

“Your share.”

Slowly the woman rose, picking up the sack as she did so, and with a

request that he await her, she made her way over to the bar where she

handed it to the Mexican in charge with a few words of instruction. In

another moment she was again seated at the table with him.

“Why did you send for me to meet you here?” she now asked. “Why did you

not come to my room--surely you knew that there was danger here?”

Carelessly, Ramerrez let his eyes wander about the room; no one was

paying the slightest attention to them and, apparently, there being

nothing to fear, he answered:

“From whom?”

For a brief space of time the woman looked at him as if she would ferret

out his innermost thoughts; at length, she said with a shrug of the

shoulders:

“Few here are to be thoroughly trusted. The woman you were with--she

knows you?”

“I never met her but once before,” was his laconic rejoinder.

Nina eyed him suspiciously; at last she was satisfied that he spoke the

truth, but there was still that cold, abstracted manner of his to be

explained. However, cleverly taking her cue from him she inquired in

business-like tones:

“And how about The Polka Saloon--the raid on Cloudy Mountain Camp?”

A shade of annoyance crossed Ramerrez’ face.

“I have decided to give that up--at least for a time.”

Again Nina regarded him curiously; when she spoke there was a suspicious

gleam in her eyes, though she said lightly:

“Perhaps you’re right--it will not be an easy job.”

“Far from it,” quickly agreed the man. “But the real reason is, that I

have planned to go below for a while.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed.

“You are going away then?”

“Yes.”

“And what about me? Do I go with you?”

Ramerrez laughed uneasily.

“It is impossible. The fact is, it is best that this should be our last

meeting.” And seeing the change that came over her face he went on in

more conciliatory tones: “Now, Nina, be reasonable. It is time that we

understood each other. This interview must be final.”

“And you came here to tell me this?” blazed the woman, scowling darkly

upon him. And for the moment she looked all that she was reputed to

be--a dangerous woman!

Receiving no answer, she spoke again.

“But you said that you would love me always?”

The man flushed.

“Did I say that once? What a memory you have!”

“And you never meant it?”

“I suppose so--at the time.”

“Then you don’t love me any more?”

Ramerrez made no answer.

For some moments Nina sat perfectly still. Her mind was busy trying to

determine upon the best course to pursue. At length she decided to make

one more attempt to see whether he was really in earnest. And if

not....

“But to-night,” she hazarded, leaning far over the table and putting her

face close to his, her eyes the while flooded with voluptuousness, “you

will come with me to my room?”

Ramerrez shook his head.

“No, Nina, all that is over.”

The woman bit her lips with vexation.

“Are you made of stone? What is the matter with you to-night? Is there

anything wrong with my beauty? Have you seen anyone handsomer than I

am?”

“No....”

“Then why not come? You don’t hate?”

“I don’t hate you in the least, but I won’t go to your room.”

“So!”

There was a world of meaning in that one word. For a while she seemed to

be reflecting; suddenly with great earnestness she said:

“Once for all, Ramerrez, listen to me. Rather than give you up to any

other woman I will give you up to death. Now do you still refuse me?”

“Yes....” answered Ramerrez not unkindly and wholly unmoved by her

threat. “We’ve been good pals, Nina, but it’s best for both that we

should part.”

In the silence that ensued the woman did some hard thinking. That a man

could ever tire of her without some other woman coming into his life

never once entered into her mind. Something told her, nevertheless, that

the woman with whom he had been conversing was not the woman that she

sought; and at a loss to discover the person to whom he had transferred

his affections, her mind reverted to his avowed purpose of withdrawing

from the proposed Cloudy Mountain expedition. The more Nina reflected on

that subject the more convinced she became that, for some reason or

other, Ramerrez had been deceiving her. It was made all the more clear

to her when she recalled that when Ramerrez’ messenger had brought his

master’s message that she was to meet him, she had asked where the

band’s next rendezvous was to be, and that he, knowing full well that

his countrywoman had ever been cognizant of his master’s plans, had

freely given the desired information. Like a flash it came to her now

that no such meeting-place would have been selected for any undertaking

other than a descent upon Cloudy Mountain Camp. Nor was her intuition or

reasoning at fault: Ramerrez had not given up his intention of getting

the miners’ gold that he knew from her to be packed away somewhere in

The Polka Saloon; but what she did not suspect, despite his peculiar

behaviour, was that he had taken advantage of the proximity of the two

camps to sever his relation, business and otherwise, with her. And yet,

did he but know it, she was destined to play no small part in his life

for the next few weeks!

Nina Micheltoreña had now decided upon her future course of action: She

would let him think that his desire to break off all relations with her

would not be opposed. Ever a keen judge of men and their ways, she was

well aware that any effort to reclaim him to-night would meet with

disaster. And so when Ramerrez, surprised at her long silence, looked

up, he was met with a smiling face and the words:

“So be it, Ramerrez. But if anything happens, remember you have only

yourself to blame.”

Ramerrez was astounded at her cool dismissal of the subject. To judge by

the expression on his face he had indeed obtained his release far easier

than he had deemed it possible. As a matter of fact, her indifference so

piqued him that before he was conscious of his words he had asked

somewhat lamely:

“You wish me well? We part as friends?”

Nina regarded him with well-simulated surprise, and replied:

“Why, of course--the best of friends. Good luck, _amigo_!” And with that

she rose and left him.

And so it was that later that evening after assuring herself that

neither Ramerrez nor any of his band remained in the dance-hall, Nina,

her face set and pale, exchanged a few whispered words with that same

big man towards whom, earlier in the evening, she had shown such

animosity.

The effect of these words was magical; the man could not suppress a

grunt of intense satisfaction.

“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

he had assumed for the dangerous work he was about to engage in--and

they had failed to know him, dressed as he was in the very latest

fashion prevailing among the Americans in Sacramento in ’49. Nor was it

to be wondered at, for on his head was a soft, brown hat--large, but not

nearly the proportions of a sombrero; a plain, rough tweed coat and a

waistcoat of a darker tan, which showed a blue flannel shirt beneath it;

and his legs were encased in boots topped by dark brown leggings. In a

word, his get-up resembled closely the type of American referred to

disdainfully by the miners of that time as a Sacramento guy; whereas,

the night before he had taken great pains to attire himself as gaudily

as any of the Mexicans at the dance, and he had worn a short black

jacket of a velvety material that was not unlike corduroy and covered

with braid; his breeches were of the same stuff; above his boots were

leather gaiters; and around his waist was a red sash.

It was now close to four o’clock in the afternoon and the band began

their preparations for the raid. To the rear of the small, open space

where they had been waiting was a fairly good-sized cave, in the opening

of which they deposited various articles unnecessary for the expedition.

It took only a short time to do this, and within half an hour from the

time that their leader had so startled them by his strange appearance,

the outlaws were ready to take the trail for Cloudy Mountain. One

comprehensive glance the pseudo-American--and he certainly looked the

part--shot at his picturesque, if rough-looking followers, not a few of

whom showed red bandannas under their sombreros or around their

necks--and then with a satisfied expression on his face--for he had a

leader’s pride in his men--he gave the signal and led the way along and

down the steep trail from the tableland. And as from time to time he

glanced back over his shoulders to where the men were coming along in

single file, he could see that in every eye was a glint of exultation at

the prospect of booty.

After they had gone about three miles they crossed the black ravine, and

from there they began to ascend. Up and up they went, the path very

hard on the horses, until finally they came to the top of a pass where

it had been arranged that the band should await further instructions,

none going on further save the two leaders. Here, saddle-girths and guns

were inspected, the last orders given, and with a wave of the hand in

response to the muttered wishes of good luck, Johnson,--for as such he

will be known from this time on,--followed by Castro, made his way

through the forest towards Cloudy Mountain.

For an hour or so Johnson rode along in that direction, checking the

speed of his horse every time the sun came into view and showed that

there was yet some time before sunset. Presently, he made a sign to

Castro to take the lead, for he had never been in this locality before,

and was relying on his subordinate to find a spot from which he could

reconnoitre the scene of the proposed raid without the slightest danger

of meeting any of the miners.

At a very sharp turn of the road to the left Castro struck off through

the forest to the right and, within a few minutes, reached a place where

the trees had thinned out and were replaced by the few scrubs that grew

in a spot almost barren. A minute or so more and the two men, their

horses tied, were able to get an uninterrupted view of Cloudy Mountain.

The scene before them was one of grandeur. Day was giving place to

night, fall to winter, and yet at this hour all the winds were stilled.

In the distance gleamed the snow-capped Sierras, range after range as

far as the eye could see to the northwest; in the opposite direction

there stood out against the steel-blue of the sky a succession of wooded

peaks ever rising higher and higher until culminating in the far-away

white mountains of the south; and below, they looked upon a ravine that

was brownish-green until the rays of the departing orb touched the

leaves with opal tints.

Now the fast-falling sun flung its banner of gorgeous colours across the

western sky. Immediately a wonderful light played upon the fleecy cumuli

gathered in the upper heavens of the east and changed them from pearl to

brilliant scarlet. For a moment, also, the purple hills became wonderful

piles of dull gold and copper; a moment more and the magic hand of the

King of Day was withdrawn.

In front of them now, dark, gloomy and threatening rose Cloudy Mountain,

from which the Mining Camp took its name; and on a plateau near its base

the camp itself could plainly be seen. It consisted of a group of

miners’ cabins set among pines, firs and manzaneta bushes with two

larger pine-slab buildings, and scattered around in various places were

shafts, whose crude timber-hoists appeared merely as vague outlines in

the fast-fading light. The distance to the camp from where they stood

was not over three miles as the crow flies, but it appeared much less in

the rarefied atmosphere.

As the two bandits stood on the edge of the precipice looking across and

beyond the intervening gulch or ravine, here and there a light twinkled

out from the cabins and, presently, a much stronger illumination shot

forth from one of the larger and more pretentious buildings. Castro was

quick to call his master’s attention to it.

“There--that place with the light is The Palmetto Hotel!” he exclaimed.

“And over there--the one with the larger light is The Polka Saloon!” For

even as he spoke the powerful kerosene lamp of The Polka Saloon, flanked

by a composition metal reflector, flashed out its light into the gloom

enveloping the desolate, ominous-looking mountains.

Johnson regarded this building long and thoughtfully. Then his eyes made

out a steep trail which zigzagged from The Polka Saloon up the barren

slopes of the mountain until it reached a cabin perched on the very top,

the steps and porch of which were held up by poles made of trees. There,

also, a light could be seen, but dimly. It was a strange place for

anyone to erect a dwelling-place, and he found himself wondering what

manner of person dwelt there. Of one thing he was certain: whoever it

was the mountains were loved for themselves, for no mere digger of gold

would think of erecting a habitation in view of those strange, vast,

and silent heights!

And as he meditated thus, he perceived that the far off Sierras were

forming a background for a sinuous coil of smoke from the cabin. For

some time he watched it curling up into the great arch of sky. It was as

if he were hypnotised by it and, in a vague, shadowy way, he had a sense

of being connected, somehow, with the little cabin and its recluse. Was

this feeling that he had a premonition of danger? Was this a moment of

foreboding and distrust of the situation yet to be revealed? For like

most venturesome men he always had a moment before every one of his

undertakings in which his instinct either urged him forward or held him

back.

Suddenly he became conscious that his eyes no longer saw the smoke. He

stared hard to glimpse it, but it was gone. And with a supreme effort he

wrenched himself free from a sort of paralysis which was stealing away

his senses.

Now the light in the cabin disappeared, and since the shades of night,

for which he had been waiting, had fallen, he called to the impatient

and wondering Castro, and together they went back to the trail.

But even as they crossed the gulch and reached the outskirts of the camp

a great white moon rose from behind the Sierras. To Castro, hidden now

in the pines, it meant nothing so long as it did not interfere with his

purpose. As a matter of fact he was already listening intently to the

bursts of song and shouts of revelry that came every now and then from

the nearby saloon. But his master, unaccountably under the spell of the

moon’s mystery and romance, watched it until it shed its silvery and

magic light upon the lone cabin on the top of Cloudy Mountain, which

Fate had chosen for the decisive scene of his dramatic life.

V

Inside The Polka, not a bit more, and not a bit less sardonic--it was

this imperturbability which made him so resistless to most people--than

he was prior to the banishment of The Sidney Duck, the Sheriff of

Manzaneta County waited patiently until the returning puppets of his

will had had time to compose themselves. It took them merely the

briefest of periods, but it served to increase visibly the long ash at

the end of Rance’s cigar. At length he shot a hawk-like glance at Sonora

and proposed a little game of poker.

“This time, gentlemen--” he said, with a significant pause and

accent--“just for social recreation. What do you say?”

“I’m your Injun!” acquiesced Sonora, rubbing his hands together

gleefully at the prospect of winning from the Sheriff, whom he liked

none too well.

“That’s me, too!” concurred Trinidad.

“Chips, then, Nick!” called out the Sheriff, quietly taking a seat at

the table; while Sonora, bubbling over with spirits, hitched up his

trousers in sailor fashion and executed an impromptu hornpipe, bellowing

in his deep, base voice:

“_I shipped aboard of a liner, boys--_”

“_Renzo, boys, renzo_,” finished Trinidad, falling in place at the

table.

At this point the outside door was unexpectedly pushed open, inward, and

the Deputy-Sheriff came into their midst.

“Ashby just rode in with his posse,” he announced huskily to his

superior.

The Sheriff flashed a look of annoyance and inquired of the gaunt,

hollow-cheeked, muscular Deputy whose beaver overcoat was thrown open so

that his gun and powder-flask showed plainly in his belt:

“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

between the two men was none too cordial, yet in their look, as they

eyed each other, was the respect which men have for others engaged more

or less in the same business and in whom they recognise certain

qualities which they have in common. In point of age Ashby was, perhaps,

the senior. As far as reputation was concerned, both men were accounted

nervy and square. Rance introduced him to Sonora and the others, saying:

“Boys, Mr. Ashby of Wells Fargo.”

The latter had a pleasant word or two for the men; then, turning to the

Deputy, he said:

“And how are you these days?”

“Fit. And yourself?”

“Same here.” Turning now to the barkeeper, Ashby, with easy familiarity,

added: “Say, Nick, give us a drink.”

“Sure!” came promptly from the little barkeeper.

“Everybody’ll have the same?” inquired Ashby, turning once more to the

men.

“The same!” returned the men in chorus.

Thereupon, Nick briskly slapped down a bottle and four glasses before

the Sheriff, and leaving him to do the honours, disappeared into the

dance-hall.

“Well, I trust the Girl who runs The Polka is well?” inquired Ashby,

pushing his glass near the bottle.

“Fine as silk,” vouched Sonora, adding in the next breath: “But, say,

Mr. Ashby, how long you been chasin’ up this road agent?”

“Oh, he only took to the road a few months ago,” was Ashby’s answer.

“Wells Fargo have had me and a posse busy ever since. He’s a wonder!”

“Must be to evade you,” complimented Sonora, much to the discomfort of

the Sheriff.

“Yes, I can smell a road agent in the wind,” declared Ashby somewhat

boastfully. “But, Rance, I expect to get that fellow right here in your

county.”

The Sheriff looked as if he scouted the idea, and was about to speak,

but checked the word on his tongue. Then followed a short silence in

which the Deputy, smiling a trifle derisively, went out of the saloon.

“Is this fellow a Spaniard?” questioned the Sheriff, drawling as usual,

but at the same time jerking his thumb over his shoulder towards a

placard on the wall, which read:

“FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS REWARD

FOR THE ROAD AGENT

RAMERREZ, OR INFORMATION

LEADING TO HIS CAPTURE.

(SIGNED) WELLS FARGO.”

“No--can’t prove it. The fact of his leading a crew of greasers and

Spaniards signifies nothing. His name is assumed, I suppose.”

“They say he robs you like a gentleman,” remarked Rance with some show

of interest.

“Well, look out for the greasers up the road!” was Ashby’s warning as he

emptied his glass and put it down before him.

“We don’t let them pass through here,” shrugged Rance, likewise putting

down his glass on the table.

Ashby now picked up the whisky bottle and carried it over to the

deserted faro table before which he settled himself comfortably in a

chair.

“Well, boys, I’ve had a long ride--wake me up when The Pony Express goes

through!” he called over his shoulder as he put his coat over him.

But no sooner was he comfortably ensconced for a snooze than Nick came

bustling in with a kettle of boiling water and several glasses

half-filled with whisky and lemon. Stopping before Ashby he said in his

best professional manner:

“Re-gards of the Girl--hot whisky straight with lemming extract.”

Ashby took up his glass, as did, in turn, the men at the other table.

But it was Rance who, with arm uplifted, toasted:

“The Girl, gentlemen, the only Girl in Camp, the Girl I mean to make

Mrs. Jack Rance!”

Confident that neither would catch him in the act, Nick winked first at

Sonora and then at Trinidad. That the little barkeeper was successful in

making the former, at least, believe that he possessed the Girl’s

affections was manifested by the big miner’s next remark.

“That’s a joke, Rance. She makes you look like a Chinaman.”

Rance sprang to his feet, white with rage.

“You prove that!” he shouted.

“In what particular spot will you have it?” taunted Sonora, as his hand

crept for his gun.

Simultaneously every man in the room made a dash for cover. Nick ducked

behind the bar, for, as he told himself when safely settled there, he

was too old a bird to get anywhere near the line of fire when two old

stagers got to making lead fly about. Nor was Trinidad slow in arriving

at the other end of the bar where he caromed against Jake, who had

dropped his banjo and was frantically trying to kick the spring of the

iron shield in an endeavour to protect himself--a feat which, at last,

he succeeded in performing. But, fortunately, for all concerned, as the

two men stood eyeing each other, their hands on their hips ready to

draw, Nick, from his position behind the bar, glimpsed through the

window the Girl on the point of entering the saloon.

“Here comes the Girl!” he cried excitedly. “Aw, leave your guns

alone--take your drinks, quick!”

For a fraction of a second the men looked sheepishly at one another,

even Nick appearing a trifle uncomfortable, as he picked up the kettle

and went off with it.

“Once more we’re friends, eh, boys?” said Rance, with a forced laugh;

and then as he lifted his glass high in the air, he gave the toast:

“The Girl!”

“The Girl!” repeated all--all save Ashby, whose snores by this time

could be heard throughout the big room--and drained their glasses.