“Here!”
At that moment several voices from the dance-hall called somewhat impatiently: “Nick, Nick!”
“Oh, The Ridge boys are goin’!” he said, and seeming intuitively to know what was wanted he made for the bar. But before acceding to their wishes, he turned to Johnson, took out his gun and offered it to him with the words: “Say, watch this greaser for a moment, will you?”
“Certainly,” responded Johnson, quickly, declining the other’s pistol by touching his own holster significantly. “Tell the Girl you pressed me into service,” he concluded with a smile.
“Sure.” But on the point of going, the little barkeeper turned to him and confided: “Say, the Girl’s taken an awful fancy to you.”
“No?” deprecated the road agent.
“Yes,” affirmed Nick. “Drop in often—great bar!”
Johnson smiled an assent as the other went out of the room leaving master and man together.
“Now, then, Jose, go on,” he said, when they were alone.
“Bueno! Our men await the signal in the bushes close by. I will lead the Sheriff far off—then I will slip away. You quietly rob the place and fly—it is death for you to linger—Ashby is here.”