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.

“What has this man done?”

“He has—­ broken out from—­ from prison.”

“Where?”

“At Yuma.”

“Damn you, you’re snitching,” interrupted the criminal in a scream that was both wheedling and threatening.

The young man put his foot on the burly neck and calmly ground it into the dust.  Otherwise he paid no attention to him, but held the burning eyes of the girl that stared at him from a bloodless face.

“What was he in for?”

“For holding up a train.”

She had answered in spite of herself, by reason of something compelling in him that drew the truth from her.

“How long has he been in the penitentiary?”

“Seven years.”  Then, miserably, she added:  “He was weak and fell into bad company.  They led him into it.”

“When did he escape?”

“Two days ago.  Last night he knocked at my window—­ at the window of the room where I lodge in Fort Lincoln.  I had not heard of his escape, but I took him in.  There were horses in the barn.  One of them was mine.  I saddled, and after I had dressed his wound we started.  He couldn’t get any farther than this.”

“Do you live in Fort Lincoln?”

“I came there to teach school.  My home was in Wisconsin before.”

“You came out here to be near him?”

“Yes.  That is, near as I could get a school.  I was to have got in the Tucson schools next year.  That’s much nearer.”

“You visited him at the penitentiary?”

“No.  I was going to during the Thanksgiving vacation.  Until last night I had not seen him since he left home.  I was a child of seven then.”

The Texan looked down at the ruffian under his feet.

“Do you know the road to Mexico by the Arivaca cut-off?”

“Yes.”

“Then climb into my rig and hit the trail hard—­ burn it up till you’ve crossed the line.”