She gave no evidence, either of agitation, or of any especial interest.
Unclasping her hands from about her knee, she turned a gold bracelet that
hung loose on her wrist, watching the light slide on its surface. Her
face was gently unconcerned, serene, almost pensive. The man's eyes
explored it, searched, scanned it for a betraying sign.

"Did you notice his picture? A pretty hard-looking customer."

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