“You will let Mr. Bridge be shot without making an effort to save him?” she demanded.

“We do not know that he will be shot,” replied the ranch owner.  “If he is innocent there is no reason why he should be punished.  If he is guilty of implication in the Cuivaca bank robbery he deserves, according to the rules of war, to die, for General Villa, I am told, considers that a treasonable act.  Some of the funds upon which his government depends for munitions of war were there—­they were stolen and turned over to the enemies of Mexico.”

“And if we interfere we’ll turn Villa against us,” interposed Grayson.  “He ain’t any too keen for Americans as it is.  Why, if this fellow was my brother I’d hev to turn him over to the authorities.”

“Well, I thank God,” exclaimed Bridge fervently, “that in addition to being shot by Villa I don’t have to endure the added disgrace of being related to you, and I’m not so sure that I shall be hanged by Villa,” and with that he wiped the oil lamp from the table against which he had been leaning, and leaped across the room for the doorway.

Barbara and her father had been standing nearest the exit, and as the girl realized the bold break for liberty the man was making, she pushed her father to one side and threw open the door.

Bridge was through it in an instant, with a parting, “God bless you, little girl!” as he passed her.  Then the door was closed with a bang.  Barbara turned the key, withdrew it from the lock and threw it across the darkened room.

Grayson and the unwounded Mexicans leaped after the fugitive only to find their way barred by the locked door.  Outside Bridge ran to the horses standing patiently with lowered heads awaiting the return of their masters.  In an instant he was astride one of them, and lashing the others ahead of him with a quirt he spurred away into the night.

By the time Grayson and the Mexicans had wormed their way through one of the small windows of the office the new bookkeeper was beyond sight and earshot.

As the ranch foreman was saddling up with several of his men in the corral to give chase to the fugitive the boss strolled in and touched him on the arm.

“Mr. Grayson,” he said, “I have made it a point never to interfere with you; but I am going to ask you now not to pursue Mr. Bridge.  I shall be glad if he makes good his escape.  Barbara was right—­he is a fellow-American.  We cannot turn him over to Villa, or any other Mexican to be murdered.”

Grumblingly Grayson unsaddled.  “Ef you’d seen what I’ve seen around here,” he said, “I guess you wouldn’t be so keen to save this feller’s hide.”

“What do you mean?” asked the boss.

“I mean that he’s ben tryin’ to make love to your daughter.”

The older man laughed.  “Don’t be a fool, Grayson,” he said, and walked away.