“What’s that?” he demanded brusquely.
Nick’s eyes were twinkling when he answered:
“Johnson’s saddle.”
Rance could control himself no longer; with a sweep of his long arm he knocked the saddle out of the other’s hand, saying:
“Nick, I’ve a great notion to walk out of this door and never step my foot in here again.”
Nick did not answer at once. While he did not especially care for Rance he did not propose to let his patronage, which was not inconsiderable, go elsewhere without making an effort to hold it. Therefore, he thought a moment before picking up the saddle and placing it in the corner of the room.
“Aw, what you givin’ us, Rance! She’s only a-kiddin’ ’im,” at last he said consolingly.
The Sheriff was about to question this when a loud cry from outside arrested him.
“What’s that?” he asked with his eyes upon the door.
“Why that’s—that’s Ashby’s voice,” the barkeeper informed him; and going to the door, followed by Rance, as well as the men who, on hearing the cry, had rushed in from the dance-hall, he opened it, and they heard again the voice that they all recognised now as that of the Wells Fargo Agent.