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The girl went white as snow, seemed to shrink before his sneer as

from a deadly weapon; and like a flash of light some divination

of the truth pierced the Westerner's brain. They were fugitives

from justice, making for the Mexican line. That the man was

wounded a single glance had told him. It was plain to be seen

that the wear and tear of keeping the saddle had been too much

for him.

"I acted on an impulse," the girl explained in the same low tone.

"I saw you coming and I didn't know--hadn't money enough to buy

the team--besides--"

He took the words out of her mouth when she broke down.

"Besides, I might have happened to be a sheriff. I might be, but

then I'm not."

The traveler stepped forward and kicked the wounded man's

revolver beyond his reach, then swiftly ran a hand over him to

make sure he carried no other gun.

The fellow on the ground eyed him furtively. "What are you going

to do with me?" he growled.

The other addressed himself to the girl, ignoring him utterly.