metto's patrons preferring
the even more stifling atmosphere of the bar-room,--the Wells Fargo
Agent had been watching and waiting ever since he had left The Polka
Saloon. On a table in front of him was a bottle, for it was a part of
Ashby's scheme of things to solace thus all such weary hours.

Although a shrewd judge of women of the Nina Micheltorena type and by no
means unmindful of their mercurial temperament, Ashby, nevertheless, had
felt that she would keep her appointment with him. In the Mexican Camp
he had read the wild jealousy in her eyes, and had assumed, not
unnaturally, that there had been scarcely time for anything to occur
which would cause a revulsion of feeling on her part. But as the moments
went by, and still she did not put in an appearance, an expression of
keen disappointment showed itself on his face and, with mechanical
regularity, he carried out the liquid programme, shutting his eyes after
each drink for moments at a time yet, apparently, in perfect control of
his mind when he opened them again; and it was in one of these moments
that he heard a step outside which he correctly surmised to be that of
the Sheriff.

Without a word Rance walked into the room and over to the table and
helped himself to a drink from the bottle there, which action the Wells
Fargo Agent rightly interpreted as meaning that the posse had failed to
catch their quarry. At first a glint of satisfaction shone in Ashby's
eyes: not that he disliked Rance, but rather that he resented his
egotistical manner and evident desire to overawe all who came in contact
with him; and it required, therefore, no little effort on his part to
banish this look from his face and make up his mind not to mention the
subject in any manner.

For some time, therefore, the two officers sat opposite to each other
inhaling the stale odour of tobacco and spirits peculiar to this room,
with little or no ventilation. It was enough to sicken anyone, but both
men, accustomed to such places in the pursuit of their calling,
apparently thought nothing of it, the Sheriff seemingly absorbed in
contemplating the long ash at the end of his cigar, but, in reality,
turning over in his mind whether he should leave the room or not. At
length, he inaugurated a little contest of opinion.

"This woman isn't coming, that's certain," he declared, impatiently.

"I rather think she will; she promised not to fail me," was the other's
quiet answer; and he added: "In ten