“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: