Rolling a cigarette the sheriff, in a reminiscent mood, continued:
“That’s right. There was one that got away from San Quentin over in California about six months ago, and we lost him clean. They traced him as far as Phœnix and notified me to be on the lookout, because it was reasonably sure that he was heading south, but that’s the last anybody ever heard of him. He may show up yet—if he’s not dead. We always try to keep them in mind, you know.”
The Indian, watching Marta, saw the terror that came into her eyes at the sheriff’s words. Quietly she drew away from the group and slipped into the adjoining room where she stood just inside the half-open door listening.
The eyes of the Pardners were fixed upon the officer with intense interest.
Natachee smiled.
“What did this man look like?”
The sheriff answered:
“The description sent to me says he is a man of about twenty-two or three, tall, rather slender, gray eyes, brown hair, clean shaven, good-looking, well educated, well appearing, likable sort of a chap. Haven’t seen him, have you, Natachee?”
“I might run across him somewhere, some day,” returned the Indian.
There was a sound in the adjoining room and the sheriff, who was sitting with his back toward the door, turned his head inquiringly.