She nodded, absently looking at the bracelet. "He sure was, but they're not all as bad as that. Once down at Bakersfield I saw a bandit. They caught him near a place where I lived and the sheriff brought him in there. He looked like a rough sort of rancher, nothing dangerous about him." The expression of pensiveness deepened, increased by a sudden, disturbing thought. Would she tell him about Bakersfield and the horrible life there with Maria Lopez? The temptation to be frank with him, to have no secrets, to let him know her as she was, assailed her. She resolved upon it, drew a deep breath and said, "I never told you that I once lived in Bakersfield." "There are lots of things you never told me. They seem to think the other fellow--what's his name--Garland--has really made his escape." The confession died on her lips. She was glad of it; she would tell him later, some other time, he was too engrossed in the bandits now. "I guess that's right. He's got up in the hills where there are ranchers that'll help him." "Would any rancher dare to help him now--wouldn't they be afraid to?" "Not his kind. Country people aren't as dull as you'd think. I've seen a lot of them, when I was a kid and lived round in small places. They act sort of dumb, but some of them are awful smart behind it." "Probably get their share of the loot." "Sure. That would be the natural thing to keep them quiet, wouldn't it?" Mayer murmured an assent and drew himself to the edge of his chair. "I'd hate to be one of them the way things stand now! The law, when it gets busy, has a pretty long arm." "I guess it has," she agreed, toying with the bracelet. "Anyone who has had any sort of dealings, been a friend or a confederate of either of those fellows, is in a desperately ugly position." She nodded. He leaned still further forward, his elbows on his knees, his glance riveted on her. "Suppose either of them had a wife or a sweetheart--and it's probable they have--_that's_ the person the authorities will be after." "Yes," she dropped the bracelet and looked away from him, her expression dreamy, "it would be. They'll start right in to hunt for them. If they got them, what would they do to them?" "Do?" He suddenly stretched an index finger at her, pointing into her face. "If they find a woman or a girl who's had any acquaintance or intimacy with either Knapp or Garland they'll land her in jail so quick she won't have time to think. Jail, young woman, and after that the third degree. And if she's stood in with them--well, it'll be jail for a home till she's served her term." She pondered for a moment, then said softly, "It wouldn't matter if she loved him." "Jail wouldn't matter?" Her glance had been fastened in meditation on the shadows of the room. Now it shifted to him, rapt and luminous. She raised herself to her knees and laid a hand on his shoulder.