feet, his bound hands struggling
to be free.

The girl closed the door behind her and crossed to him.

"You robbed the bank, Billy?" she asked. "It was you, after the promises
you made me to live straight always--for my sake?" Her voice trembled
with emotion. The man could see that she suffered, and yet he felt his
own anguish, too.

"But you are married," he said. "I saw it in the papers. What do you
care, now, Barbara? I'm nothing to you."

"I'm not married, Billy," she cried. "I couldn't marry Mr. Mallory. I
tried to make myself believe that I could; but at last I knew that I did
not love him and never could, and I wouldn't marry a man I didn't love.

"I never dreamed that it was you here, Billy," she went on. "I came to
ask you about Mr. Bridge. I wanted to know if he escaped, or if--if--oh,
this awful country! They think no more of human life here than a butcher
thinks of the life of the animal he dresses."

A sudden light illumined Billy's mind. Why had it not occurred to him
before? This was Bridge's Penelope! The woman he loved was loved by his
best friend. And she had sent a messenger to him, to Billy, to save her
lover. She had come here to the office tonight to question a stranger--a
man she thought an outlaw and a robber--because she could not rest
without word from the man she loved. Billy stiffened. He was hurt to the
bottom of his heart; but he did not blame Bridge--it was fate. Nor did
he blame Barbara because she loved Bridge. Bridge was more her kind
anyway. He was a college guy. Billy was only a mucker.

"Bridge got away all right," he said. "And say, he didn't have nothin'
to do with pullin' off that safe crackin'. I done it myself. He didn't
know I was in town an' I didn't know he was there. He's the squarest guy
in the world, Bridge is. He follered me that night an' took a shot at
me, thinkin' I was the robber all right but not knowin' I was me. He
got my horse, an' when he found it was me, he made me take your pony an'
make my get-away, fer he knew Villa's men would croak me sure if they
caught me. You can't blame him fer that, can you? Him an' I were good
pals--he couldn't do nothin' else. It was him that made me bring your
pony back to you. It's in the corral now, I reckon. I was a-bringin' it
back when they got me. Now you better go. This ain't no place fer you,
an' I ain't had no sleep fer so long I'm most dead." His tones were
cool. He appeared bored by her company; though as a matter