'll squeeze through without me. I reckon you've a
springboard and a buckskin in the barn over there?"

"Maybe."

"The officers are looking for that buckskin in every little burg
between Santa Cruz and San Diego. You can't pack your grub and
blankets a-foot. I can supply everything. Nobody'll suspect me."

"Why not?"

"Because--because o' my record."

"Oh. It's a clean one, is it?"

"It is that."

"Sadie cottoned to you right away. Because she sized you up as
straight, I surmise."

The speaker smoked silently for a moment; Jeff held his tongue, but
his cheeks were red and hot.

"Sadie may sour on me now," said the father heavily.

"Sour on you, Mr. Sillett! Not she."

Sillett frowned. Then he opened a knife and slashed the cord which
bound Jeff. The fingers which held his pipe were trembling.

"You'll let me fix things?" said Jeff, in a low voice.

"And then--suppose--suppose Sadie soured on you?"

"I'll risk that," Jeff answered slowly. "She's more'n likely to."

"Um."

"You're going to give me a free hand?"

"No."

The monosyllable burst from his lips with a violence that indicated
the rending asunder of strong barriers.

"No," he repeated. "One of us, Jefferson Wells, must be an honest man.
I ain't going to whine about the luck, but I stole--I stole--for her.
I wanted to give her what she'd always had from me: a pretty home,
nice clothes, a good time. And what's the result?" He laughed
hoarsely. "This,--this hut, those overalls, beans and bacon to eat,
and now--now--the knowledge that her dad is a thief. Well, she's
cottoned to you. I read it in her face. Quick work, they'd say back
East, but in this new country folks have to think quick and act quick.
I can think quick and act quick. You want her?"

"Worse than I ever wanted anything in my life."

"You can take care of her?"

"I am well fixed. A nest-egg in the bank, a good salary, and a pair of
arms that can carry a heavier load than she'll ever be."

Sillett nodded; then he spoke very deliberately: "I'm going back to
Santa Barbara to face the music. I shall give myself up. Hold on--let
me finish! I know something of women, and Sadie is the daughter of a
good mother. It's lucky she's dead, poor soul! Don't you ever dare to
tell Sadie _that you weakened_. When she lies awake nights--and
she will--it may comfort her some to think that her husband is an
honest man. I'm going to hit the trail now. When Sadie comes out o'
there, tell her w