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The girl closed the door behind her and crossed to him.

"You robbed the bank, Billy?" she asked. "It was you, after the promises you

made me to live straight always--for my sake?" Her voice trembled with emotion.

The man could see that she suffered, and yet he felt his own anguish, too.

"But you are married," he said. "I saw it in the papers. What do you care, now,

Barbara? I'm nothing to you."

"I'm not married, Billy," she cried. "I couldn't marry Mr. Mallory. I tried to make

myself believe that I could; but at last I knew that I did not love him and never

could, and I wouldn't marry a man I didn't love.

"I never dreamed that it was you here, Billy," she went on. "I came to ask you

about Mr. Bridge. I wanted to know if he escaped, or if--if--oh, this awful country!

They think no more of human life here than a butcher thinks of the life of the

animal he dresses."

A sudden light illumined Billy's mind. Why had it not occurred to him before?

This was Bridge's Penelope! The woman he loved was loved by his best friend.

And she had sent a messenger to him, to Billy, to save her lover. She had come

here to the office tonight to question a stranger--a man she thought an outlaw

and a robber--because she could not rest without word from the man she loved.

Billy stiffened. He was hurt to the bottom of his heart; but he did not blame

Bridge--it was fate. Nor did he blame Barbara because she loved Bridge. Bridge

was more her kind anyway. He was a college guy. Billy was only a mucker.

"Bridge got away all right," he said. "And say, he didn't have nothin' to do with

pullin' off that safe crackin'. I done it myself. He didn't know I was in town an' I

didn't know he was there. He's the squarest guy in the world, Bridge is. He

follered me that night an' took a shot at me, thinkin' I was the robber all right but

not knowin' I was me. He got my horse, an' when he found it was me, he made

me take your pony an' make my get-away, fer he knew Villa's men would croak

me sure if they caught me. You can't blame him fer that, can you? Him an' I were

good pals--he couldn't do nothin' else. It was him that made me bring your pony

back to you. It's in the corral now, I reckon. I was a-bringin' it back when they got

me. Now you better go. This ain't no place fer you, an' I ain't had no sleep fer so

long I'm most dead." His tones were cool. He appeared bored by her company;

though as a matter of fact his heart was breaking with love for her--love that he

believed unrequited--and he yearned to tear loose his bonds and crush her in his

arms.

It was Barbara's turn now to be hurt. She drew herself up.

261

The Mucker