Her sweet slenderness barred the way about as electively as a mother quail does the road to her young. He smiled, put his big hands on her elbows, and gently lifted her to one side. Then he strode forward lightly, with the long, easy, tireless stride of a beast of prey, striking direct for his quarry. A bullet whizzed by his ear, and like a flash of light his weapon was unscabbarded and ready for action. He felt a flame of fire scorch his cheek and knew a second shot had grazed him. “Hands up! Quick!” ordered the traveler. Lying on the ground before him was a man with close-cropped hair and a villainous scarred face. A revolver in his hand showed the source of the bullets. Eye to eye the men measured strength, fighting out to the last ditch the moral battle which was to determine the physical one. Sullenly, at the last, the one on the ground shifted his gaze and dropped his gun with a vile curse. “Run to earth,” he snarled, his lip lifting from the tobacco-stained upper teeth in an ugly fashion. The girl ran toward the Westerner and caught at his arm. “Don't shoot,” she implored. Without moving his eyes from the man on the ground he swept her back. “This outfit is too prevalent with its hardware,” he growled. “Chew out an explanation, my friend, or you're liable to get spoiled.” It was the girl that spoke, in a low voice and very evidently under a tense excitement. “He is my brother and he has--hurt himself. He can't ride any farther and we have seventy miles still to travel. We didn't know what to do, and so--” “You started out to be a road-agent and he took a pot-shot at the first person he saw. I'm surely obliged to you both for taking so much interest in me, or rather in my team. Robbery and murder are quite a family pastime, ain't they?” 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.