“I saw him, Senor Capitan,” he cried.  “He kept his horse in my corral, and at night he came and took it out saying that he was riding to visit a senorita.  He fooled me, the scoundrel; but I will tell you—­he rode south.  I saw him ride south with my own eyes.”

“Then we shall have him before morning,” cried the captain, “for there is but one place to the south where a robber would ride, and he has not had sufficient start of us that he can reach safety before we overhaul him.  Forward!  March!” and the detachment moved down the narrow street.  “Trot!  March!” And as they passed the store:  “Gallop!  March!”

Bridge almost ran the length of the street to the corral.  His pony must be rested by now, and a few miles to the north the gringo whose capture meant a thousand dollars to Bridge was on the road to liberty.

“I hate to do it,” thought Bridge; “because, even if he is a bank robber, he’s an American; but I need the money and in all probability the fellow is a scoundrel who should have been hanged long ago.”

Over the trail to the north rode Captain Billy Byrne, secure in the belief that no pursuit would develop until after the opening hour of the bank in the morning, by which time he would be halfway on his return journey to Pesita’s camp.

“Ol’ man Pesita’ll be some surprised when I show him what I got for him,” mused Billy.  “Say!” he exclaimed suddenly and aloud, “Why the devil should I take all this swag back to that yellow-faced yegg?  Who pulled this thing off anyway?  Why me, of course, and does anybody think Billy Byrne’s boob enough to split with a guy that didn’t have a hand in it at all.  Split!  Why the nut’ll take it all!

“Nix!  Me for the border.  I couldn’t do a thing with all this coin down in Rio, an’ Bridgie’ll be along there most any time.  We can hit it up some in lil’ ol’ Rio on this bunch o’ dough.  Why, say kid, there must be a million here, from the weight of it.”

A frown suddenly clouded his face.  “Why did I take it?” he asked himself.  “Was I crackin’ a safe, or was I pullin’ off something fine fer poor, bleedin’ Mexico?  If I was a-doin’ that they ain’t nothin’ criminal in what I done—­except to the guy that owned the coin.  If I was just plain crackin’ a safe on my own hook why then I’m a crook again an’ I can’t be that—­ no, not with that face of yours standin’ out there so plain right in front of me, just as though you were there yourself, askin’ me to remember an’ be decent.  God!  Barbara—­why wasn’t I born for the likes of you, and not just a measly, ornery mucker like I am.  Oh, hell! what is that that Bridge sings of Knibbs’s: 

  There ain’t no sweet Penelope somewhere that’s longing much for me,
 But I can smell the blundering sea, and hear the rigging hum;
  And I can hear the whispering lips that fly before the out-bound ships,
 And I can hear the breakers on the sand a-calling “Come!”