“Academy,” he sneered.
Sonora surveyed him critically for some moments; at length he said:
“Say, Rance, what’s the matter with you? We began this Academy game together—we boys an’ the Girl—an’ there’s a damn pretty piece of sentiment back of it. She’s taught some of us our letters, and—”
“He’s a wearin’ mournin’ because Johnson didn’t fall alive into his hands,” interposed Trinidad with a laugh.
“Is that it?” queried Sonora.
“Ain’t it enough, Rance, that he must be lyin’ dead down some canyon, with his mouth full of snow?” A mocking smile was on Trinidad’s face as he asked the question.
“You done all you could to git ’im,” went on Sonora as if there had been no interruption. “The boys is all satisfied he’s dead.”
“Dead?” Rance fairly picked up the word. “Dead? Yes, he’s dead,” he declared tensely, and unconsciously arose and went over to the window where he stood motionless, gazing through the parted curtains at the snow-covered hills. Presently the boys saw a cynical smile spread over his face, and a moment later, he added: “The matter with me is that I’m a Chink.”
This depreciation of himself was so thoroughly un-Rance like, that it brought forth great bursts of laughter from the men, but notwithstanding which, Rance went on to admit, in the same sullen tone, that it was all up with him and the Girl.
“Throwed ’im!” whispered Trinidad to Sonora with a pleased look on his face.