“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: