"Could you give a fellow a lift ?" "Guess so." It was friendly, even though a bit disgruntled; "hop on." And Fairchild hopped, once more to sit on the tailboard, swinging his legs, but this time his eyes saw the ever-changing scenery without noticing it.

In spite of himself, Fairchild found himself constantly staring at a vision of a pretty girl in a riding habit, with dark-brown hair straying about equally dark-brown eyes, almost frenzied in her efforts to change a tire in time to elude a pursuing sheriff.

Some way, it all did n't blend.

Pretty girls, no doubt, could commit infractions of the law just as easily as ones less gifted with good looks.

Yet if this particular pretty girl had held up a pay wagon, why did n't the telephoned notice from Denver state the fact, instead of referring to her as a man?
And if she had n't committed some sort of depredation against the law, why on earth was she willing to part with ten dollars, merely to save a few moments in changing a tire and thus elude a sheriff?
If there had been nothing wrong, could not a moment of explanation have satisfied any one of the fact?
Anyway, were n't the officers looking for a man instead of for a woman?
And yet: "If she was n't guilty of something, why did she run ?" It was too much for any one, and Fairchild knew it.