Rance took it upon himself to do the answering. Sauntering over to the Girl, he drawled out:
“It takes you a long time to get up, seems to me. You haven’t so much on, either,” he went on, piercing her with his eyes.
Smilingly and not in the least disconcerted by the Sheriff’s remark, the Girl picked up a rug from the floor and wound it about her knees.
“Well?” she interrogated.
“Well, we was sure that you was in trouble,” put in Sonora. “My breath jest stopped.”
“Me? Me in trouble, Sonora?” A little laugh that was half-gay, half-derisive, accompanied her words.
“See here, that man Ramerrez—” followed up Rance with a grim look.
“—feller you was dancin’ with,” interposed Sonora, but checked himself instantly lest he wound the Girl’s feelings.
Whereupon, Rance, with no such compunctions, became the spokesman, a grimace of pleasure spreading over his countenance as he thought of the unpleasant surprise he was about to impart. Stretching out his stiffened fingers over the blaze, he said in his most brutal tones:
“Your polkying friend is none other than Ramerrez.”