The Girl of the Golden West Part 13

Rance ignored her manner, and went on:

"Then you went on that trip to Sacramento and Monterey and you were different."

In spite of herself the Girl started, which Rance's quick eye did not fail to note.

"Who's the man?" he blazed.

For answer the Girl burst out into a peal of laughter. It was forced, and the man knew it.

"I suppose he's one o' them high-toned, Sacramento shrimps!" he burst out gruffly; then he added meaningly: "Do you think he'd have you?"

At those words a wondering look shone in the Girl's eyes, and she asked in all seriousness:

"What's the matter with me? Is there anythin' 'bout me a high-toned gent would object to?" And then as the full force of the insult was borne in upon her she stepped out from behind the bar, and demanded: "Look here, Jack Rance, ain't I always been a perfect lady?"

Rance laughed discordantly.

"Oh, heaven knows your character's all right!" And so saying he seated himself again at the table.

The girl flared up still more at this; she retorted:

"Well, that ain't your fault, Jack Rance!" But the words were hardly out of her mouth than she regretted having spoken them. She waited a moment, and then as he did not speak she murmured an "Adios, Jack," and took up her position behind the bar where, if Rance had been looking, he would have seen her start on hearing a voice in the next room and fix her eyes in a sort of fascinated wonder, on a man who, after parting the pelt curtain, came into the saloon with just a suggestion of swagger in his bearing.

VII.

"Where's the man who wanted to curl my hair?"

Incisive and harsh, with scarcely a trace of the musical tones she recollected so well, as was Johnson's voice, it deceived the Girl not an instant. Even before she was able to get a glimpse of his face it did not fail to tell her that the handsome _caballero_, with whom she had ridden on that never-to-be-forgotten day on the Monterey road, was standing before her. That his attire now, as might be expected, was wholly different from what it had been then, it never occurred to her to note; for, to tell the truth, she was vainly struggling to suppress the joy that she felt at seeing him again, and before she was aware of it there slipped through her lips:

"Why, howdy do, stranger!"

At the sound of her voice Johnson wheeled round in glad surprise and amazement; but the quick look of recognition that he flashed upon her wholly escaped the Sheriff whose att.i.tude was indicative of keen resentment at this intrusion, and whose eyes were taking in the newcomer from head to foot.

"We're not much on strangers here," he blurted out at last.

Johnson turned on his heel and faced the speaker. An angry retort rose to his lips, but he checked it. Although, perhaps, not fully appreciating his action, he was, nevertheless, not unaware that, from the point of view of the Polka, his refusal to take his whisky straight might be regarded as nothing less than an insult. And now that it was too late he was inclined, however much he resented an attempt to interfere in a matter which he believed concerned himself solely, to regret the provocation and challenging words of his entrance if only because of a realisation that a quarrel would be likely to upset his plans. On the other hand, with every fraction of a second that pa.s.sed he was conscious of becoming more and more desirous of humbling the man standing before him and scrutinising him so insolently; moreover, he felt intuitively that the eyes of the Girl were on him as well as on the other princ.i.p.al to this silent but no less ominous conflict going on, and such being the case it was obviously impossible for him to withdraw from the position he had taken. As a sort of compromise, therefore, he said, tentatively:

"I'm the man who wanted water in his whisky."

"You!" exclaimed the Girl; and then added reprovingly: "Oh, Nick, this gentleman takes his whisky as he likes it!"

And this from the Girl! The little barkeeper had all the appearance of a man who thought the world was coming to an end. He did not accept the Girl's ultimatum until he had drawn down his face into an expression of mock solemnity and e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed half-aloud:

"Moses, what's come over 'er!"

Johnson took a few steps nearer the Girl and bowed low.

"In the presence of a lady I will take nothing," he said impressively.

"But pardon me, you seem to be almost at home here."

The girl leaned her elbows on the bar and her chin in her hands, and answered with a tantalising little laugh:

"Who--me?"

After a loud guffaw Nick took it upon himself to explain matters; turning to Johnson he said:

"Why, she's the Girl who runs The Polka!"

Johnson's face wore a look of puzzled consternation; he saw no reason for levity.

"You . . .?"

"Yep," nodded the Girl with a merry twinkle in her eyes.

Johnson's face fell.

"She runs The Polka," he murmured to himself. Of all places to have chosen--this! So the thing he had dreaded had happened!

For odd as it unquestionably seemed to him that she should turn up as the proprietress of a saloon after months of searching high and low for her, it was not this reflection that was uppermost in his mind; on the contrary, it was the deeply humiliating thought that he had come upon her when about to ply his vocation. Regret came swiftly that he had not thought to inquire who was the owner of The Polka Saloon. Bitterly he cursed himself for his dense stupidity. And yet, it was doubtful whether any of his band could have informed him. All that they knew of the place was that the miners of Cloudy Mountain Camp were said to keep a large amount of placer gold there; all that he had done was to acquaint himself with the best means of getting it. But his ruminations were soon dissipated by Rance, who had come so close that their feet almost touched, and was speaking in a voice that showed the quarrelsome frame of mind that he was in.

"You're from The Crossing, the barkeeper said--" he began, and then added pointedly: "I don't remember you."

Johnson slowly turned from the Girl to the speaker and calmly corrected:

"You're mistaken; I said I rode over from The Crossing." And turning his back on the man he faced the Girl with: "So, you run The Polka?"

"I'm the Girl--the girl that runs The Polka," she said, and to his astonishment seemed to glory in her occupation.

Presently, much to their delight, an opportunity came to them to exchange a word or two with each other without interruption. For, Rance, as if revolving some plan of action in his mind, had turned on his heel and walked off a little way. A moment more, however, and he was back again and more malevolently aggressive than ever.

"No strangers are allowed in this camp," he said, glowering at Johnson; and then, his remark having pa.s.sed unheeded by the other, he sneered: "Perhaps you're off the road; men often get mixed up when they're visiting Nina Micheltorena on the back trail."

"Oh, Rance!" protested the Girl.

But Johnson, though angered, let the insinuation pa.s.s unnoticed, and went on to say that he had stopped in to rest his horse and, perhaps, if invited, try his luck at a game of cards. And with this intimation he crossed over to the poker table where he picked up the deck that Rance had been using.

Rance hesitated, and finally followed up the stranger until he brought up face to face with him.

"You want a game, eh?" he drawled, coolly impudent. "I haven't heard your name, young man."

"Name," echoed the Girl with a cynical laugh. "Oh, names out here--"

"My name's Johnson--" spoke up the man, throwing down the cards on the table.