“And we missed the reward,” frowned Ashby; at which Rance quickly turned upon the speaker with: 

“But Ramerrez is trapped.”

There was a moment’s startled pause in which the Girl struggled with her passions; at last, she ventured: 

“Who’s this woman?”

The Sheriff laughed discordantly.

“Why, the woman of the back trail,” he sneered.

“Nina Micheltorena!  Then she does know ’im—­it’s true—­it goes through me!” unwittingly burst from the Girl’s lips.

The Sheriff, evidently, found the Situation amusing, for he laughed outright.

“He’s the sort of a man who polkas with you first and then cuts your throat,” was his next stab.

The Girl turned upon him with eyes flashing and retorted: 

“Well, it’s my throat, ain’t it?”

“Well I’ll be!—­” The Sheriff’s sentence was left unfinished, for Nick, quickly pulling him to one side, whispered: 

“Say, Rance, the Girl’s cut up because she vouched for ’im.  Don’t rub it in.”

Notwithstanding, Rance, to the Girl’s query of “How did this Nina Micheltorena know it?” took a keen delight in telling her: 

“She’s his girl.”

“His girl?” repeated the Girl, mechanically.

“Yes.  She gave us his picture,” went on Rance; and taking the photograph out of his pocket, he added maliciously, “with love written on the back of it.”

A glance at the photograph, which she fairly snatched out of his hands, convinced the Girl of the truthfulness of his assertion.  With a movement of pain she threw it upon the floor, crying out bitterly: 

“Nina Micheltorena!  Nina Micheltorena!” Turning to Ashby with an abrupt change of manner she said contritely:  “I’m sorry, Mr. Ashby, I vouched for ’im.”

The Wells Fargo Agent softened at the note in the Girl’s voice; he was about to utter some comforting words to her when suddenly she spoke again.

“I s’pose they had one o’ them little lovers’ quarrels an’ that made ’er tell you, eh?” She laughed a forced little laugh, though her heart was beating strangely as she kept on:  “He’s the kind o’ man who sort o’ polkas with every girl he meets.”  And at this she began to laugh almost hysterically.

Rance, who resented her apologising to anyone but himself, stood scowling at her.

“What are you laughing at?” he questioned.

“Oh, nothin’, Jack, nothin’,” half-cried, half-laughed the Girl.  “Only it’s kind o’ funny how things come out, ain’t it?  Took in!  Nina Micheltorena!  Nice company he keeps—­one o’ them Cachuca girls with eyelashes at half-mast!”

Once more, she broke out into a fit of laughter.

“Well, well,” she resumed, “an’ she sold ’im out for money!  Ah, Jack Rance, you’re a better guesser’n I am!” And with these words she sank down at the table in an apathy of misery.  Horror and hatred and hopelessness had possession of her.  A fierce look was in her eyes when a moment later she raised her head and abruptly dismissed the boys, saying: