“Yes, boys, this is Mr. Johnson o’ Sacramento,” announced the Girl with a simple and unconscious dignity that did not fail to impress all present. “I vouch to Cloudy for Mr. Johnson!”
Consternation!
And then the situation vaguely dawning upon them there ensued an outburst of cheering compared to which the previous howl of execration was silence.
Johnson smiled pleasantly at the Girl in acknowledgment of her confirmation of him, then shot a half-curious, half-amused look at the crowd surrounding him and regarding him with a new interest. Apparently what he saw was to his liking, for his manner was most friendly when bowing politely, he said:
“How are you, boys?”
At once the miners returned his salutation in true western fashion: every man in the place, save Rance, taking off his hat and sweeping it before him in an arc as they cried out in chorus:
“Hello, Johnson!”
“Boys, Rance ain’t a-runnin’ The Polka yet!” observed Sonora with a mocking smile on his lips, and gloating over the opportunity to give the Sheriff a dig.
The men shouted their approval of this jibe. Indeed, they might have gone just a little too far with their badgering of the Sheriff, considering the mood that he was in; so, perhaps, it was fortunate that Nick should break in upon them at this time with:
“Gents, the boys from The Ridge invites you to dance with them.”