“No talk—­we want Johnson,” insisted Trinidad, hotly.

“We want Johnson,” echoed the crowd in low, tense voices, their fists clenched.

And still Rance did not waver, but calmly puffing sway at his long, black cigar he looked blankly into space.  Presently a voice outside calling, “Boys!” sounded throughout the room and brought him back to actuality.  He sat straight up in his chair while Nick, shifting uneasily about on his feet, muttered: 

“Why, that’s Ashby!”

“Oh, if—­” began the Sheriff and stopped.  The next instant the Wells Fargo Agent, a cool, triumphant look on his face, stood framed in the doorway.  With a hasty movement towards him Rance asked tensely:  “Did you get him?”

The answer came back, almost before the question was asked: 

“Yes—­we’ve got him.”

“Not Johnson?” demanded Sonora, truculently.

“Yes, Johnson,” affirmed the Wells Fargo Agent with a hard laugh, his eyes the while upon Handsome, who, unaided, was lifting a heavy cask to a bench nearby.

“Not alive?” questioned Trinidad, unwilling to trust his own ears.

“You bet!” was Ashby’s sententious confirmation, at which pandemonium broke loose, Nick alone appearing dejected and morose-looking.  For his love and devotion to the Girl were too genuine to permit of his taking any part whatsoever in what he believed was opposed to her happiness.  On the other hand, Rance, as may be inferred, was inwardly rejoicing, though when he perceived that Nick was eyeing him steadily he was careful to lower his eyes lest the little barkeeper should see the triumph shining beneath them.  And, finally, unable to bear Nick’s scrutiny any longer, he explained with a feeble attempt at self-defence: 

“Well, I didn’t do it, Nick, I didn’t do it.”  But a moment later, his face hard and set, he added:  “Now he be damned!  There’s an end of Johnson!”

The words were hardly out of his mouth, however, than Johnson, his arms bound, followed by the Deputy, strode into the room with the courage of one who has long faced death, and stood before the men who glared at him with fire in their eyes and murder in their hearts.

“How do you do, Mr. Johnson.  I think, Mr. Johnson, five minutes will do for you.”  Rance gave to the words a peculiar accent and inflection, but this caused the prisoner to look even more composed and calm than before; he returned crisply: 

“I think so.”

“So this is the gentleman the Girl loves?” Sonora’s face wore a cruel grin as he stood with arms folded leering at the prisoner.

The biting humour of the thought appealed to Rance, and he smiled grimly to himself.

“That’s the gentleman”—­he was saying when a voice outside broke in upon his words with: 

“Nick!  Boys!  Boys!”

“It’s the Girl!” cried Nick in dismay, at the same time rushing over to the door to intercept her; while Ashby, desirous of preventing any communication between the Girl and the prisoner took up a position between them—­unnecessary precautions, since the Girl had no intention of re-entering the room, but wished merely to say that she had forgotten that it was recess and that the boys might have one drink.