fferent than when last seen in
the company of his master, so, too, was Ashby metamorphosed. His hat was
on the back of his head; his coat looked as if he had been engaged in
some kind of a struggle; his hair was ruffled and long locks straggled
down over his forehead; while his face wore a brutal, savage, pitiless,
nasty look.

By this time all the regular habitues of the saloon had come in and were
crowding around the greaser with scowling, angry faces.

"The greaser on the trail!" gurgled Ashby in his glass, having left his
prisoner for a moment to fortify himself with a drink of whisky.

Whereupon, the Sheriff advanced and, with rough hands, jerked the
prisoner's head brutally.

"Here you," he said, "give us a look at your face."

But the Sheriff had never seen him before. And in obedience to his
commands to "Tie him up!" the Deputy and Billy Jackrabbit took a lariat
from the wall and proceeded to bind their prisoner fast. When this was
done Ashby called to Nick to serve him another drink, adding:

"Come on, boys!"

Instantly there was an exclamatory lining up at the bar, only Sonora,
apparently, seeming disinclined to accept, which Ashby was quick to
note. Turning to him quickly, he inquired:

"Say, my friend, don't you drink?"

But no insult had been intended by Sonora's omission; it was merely most
inconsiderate on his part of the feelings of others; and, therefore,
there was a note of apology in the voice that presently said:

"Oh, yes, Mr. Ashby, I'm with you all right."

During this conversation the eyes of the greaser had been wandering all
over the room. But as the men moved away from him to take their drinks
he started violently and an expression of dismay crossed his features.
"Ramerrez' saddle!" he muttered to himself. "_The Maestro_--he is
taken!"

Just then there came a particularly loud burst of approval from the
spectators of the dancing going on in the adjoining room, and
instinctively the men at the bar half-turned towards the noise. The
prisoner's eyes followed their gaze and a fiendish grin replaced the
look of dismay on his face. "No, he is there dancing with a girl," he
said under his breath. A moment later Nick let down the bearskin
curtain, shutting off completely the Mexican's view of the dance-hall.

"Come, now, tell us what your name is?" The voice was Ashby's who,
together with the others, now surrounded the prisoner. "Speak up--who
are you?"

"My name ees Jose Castro;" an