Castro’s face wore an air of candour as he replied:
“To tell the Señor Sheriff I know where ees Ramerrez.”
Rance turned on the prisoner a grim look.
“You lie!” he vociferated, at the same time raising his hand to check the angry mutterings of the men that boded ill for the greaser.
“Nay,” denied Castro, strenuously, “pleanty Mexican vaquero—my friend Peralta, Weelejos all weeth Ramerrez—so I know where ees.”
Rance advanced and shot a finger in his face.
“You’re one of his men yourself!” he cried hotly. But if he had hoped by his accusation to take the man off his guard, it was eminently unsuccessful, for the look on the greaser’s face was innocence itself when he declared:
“No, no, Señor Sheriff.”
Rance reflected a moment; suddenly, then, he took another tack.
“You see that man there?” he queried, pointing to the Wells Fargo Agent. “That is Ashby. He is the man that pays out that reward you’ve heard of.” Then after a pause to let his words sink in, he demanded gruffly: “Where is Ramerrez’ camp?”