The girl was looking full at the man as she propounded her query. Bridge was silent. A faint flush overspread his face. He had not before known that the horse was hers. He couldn’t very well tell her the truth, and he wouldn’t lie to her, so he made no reply.
Barbara saw the flush and noted the man’s silence. For the first time her suspicions were aroused, yet she would not believe that this gentle, amiable drifter could be guilty of any crime greater than negligence or carelessness. But why his evident embarrassment now? The girl was mystified. For a moment or two they sat in silence, then Barbara rose.
“I must run along back now,” she explained. “Papa will be wondering what has become of me.”
“Yes,” said Bridge, and let her go. He would have been glad to tell her the truth; but he couldn’t do that without betraying Billy. He had heard enough to know that Francisco Villa had been so angered over the bold looting of the bank in the face of a company of his own soldiers that he would stop at nothing to secure the person of the thief once his identity was known. Bridge was perfectly satisfied with the ethics of his own act on the night of the bank robbery. He knew that the girl would have applauded him, and that Grayson himself would have done what Bridge did had a like emergency confronted the ranch foreman; but to have admitted complicity in the escape of the fugitive would have been to have exposed himself to the wrath of Villa, and at the same time revealed the identity of the thief. “Nor,” thought Bridge, “would it get Brazos back for Barbara.”
It was after dark when the vaqueros Grayson had sent to the north range returned to the ranch. They came empty-handed and slowly for one of them supported a wounded comrade on the saddle before him. They rode directly to the office where Grayson and Bridge were going over some of the business of the day, and when the former saw them his brow clouded for he knew before he heard their story what had happened.
“Who done it?” he asked, as the men filed into the office, half carrying the wounded man.
“Some of Pesita’s followers,” replied Benito.
“Did they git the steers, too?” inquired Grayson.
“Part of them—we drove off most and scattered them. We saw the Brazos pony, too,” and Benito looked from beneath heavy lashes in the direction of the bookkeeper.
“Where?” asked Grayson.
“One of Pesita’s officers rode him—an Americano. Tony and I saw this same man in Cuivaca the night the bank was robbed, and today he was riding the Brazos pony.” Again the dark eyes turned toward Bridge.
Grayson was quick to catch the significance of the Mexican’s meaning. The more so as it was directly in line with suspicions which he himself had been nursing since the robbery.
During the colloquy the boss entered the office. He had heard the returning vaqueros ride into the ranch and noting that they brought no steers with them had come to the office to hear their story. Barbara, spurred by curiosity, accompanied her father.
“You heard what Benito says?” asked Grayson, turning toward his employer.
The latter nodded. All eyes were upon Bridge.
“Well,” snapped Grayson, “what you gotta say fer yourself? I ben suspectin’ you right along. I knew derned well that that there Brazos pony never run off by hisself. You an’ that other crook from the States framed this whole thing up pretty slick, didn’tcha? Well, we’ll—”
“Wait a moment, wait a moment, Grayson,” interrupted the boss. “Give Mr. Bridge a chance to explain. You’re making a rather serious charge against him without any particularly strong proof to back your accusation.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” exclaimed Bridge, with a smile. “I have known that Mr. Grayson suspected me of implication in the robbery; but who can blame him—a man who can’t ride might be guilty of almost anything.”
Grayson sniffed. Barbara took a step nearer Bridge. She had been ready to doubt him herself only an hour or so ago; but that was before he had been accused. Now that she found others arrayed against him her impulse was to come to his defense.
“You didn’t do it, did you, Mr. Bridge?” Her tone was almost pleading.
“If you mean robbing the bank,” he replied; “I did not, Miss Barbara. I knew no more about it until after it was over than Benito or Tony—in fact they were the ones who discovered it while I was still asleep in my room above the bank.”
“Well, how did the robber git thet there Brazos pony then?” demanded Grayson savagely. “Thet’s what I want to know.”
“You’ll have to ask him, Mr. Grayson,” replied Bridge.
“Villa’ll ask him, when he gits holt of him,” snapped Grayson; “but I reckon he’ll git all the information out of you thet he wants first. He’ll be in Cuivaca tomorrer, an’ so will you.”
“You mean that you are going to turn me over to General Villa?” asked Bridge. “You are going to turn an American over to that butcher knowing that he’ll be shot inside of twenty-four hours?”
“Shootin’s too damned good fer a horse thief,” replied Grayson.
Barbara turned impulsively toward her father. “You won’t let Mr. Grayson do that?” she asked.
“Mr. Grayson knows best how to handle such an affair as this, Barbara,” replied her father. “He is my superintendent, and I have made it a point never to interfere with him.”
“You will let Mr. Bridge be shot without making an effort to save him?” she
