“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: