"You're too silly!" said Paloma. "Nobody believes in such things."

"They don't, eh? Well, he's got all of Jonesville walkin' around ladders, and spittin' through crossed fingers, and countin' the spots on their nails. He interprets their dreams and locates lost articles."

"Maybe he can tell me where to find Adolfo Urbina?" Dave suggested.

"Humph! If he can't, Tad Lewis can. Say, Dave, this case of yours has stirred up a lot of feelin' against Tad. The prosecutin' attorney says he'll sure cinch him and Urbina, both. One of Lewis's men got on a bender the other night and declared Adolfo would never come to trial."

"What did he mean?"

"It may have been mescal talk, but witnesses sometimes have a way of disappearin'. I wouldn't put anything past that gang."

Not long after breakfast Don Ricardo Guzman appeared at the Jones house and warmly greeted his two friends. To Dave he explained:

"Last night I came to town, and this morning I heard you had returned, so I rode out at once. You were unsuccessful?"

"Our man never went to Pueblo."

"Exactly. I thought as much."

"He's probably safe across the river."

But Ricardo thought otherwise. "No. Urbina deserted from this very Colonel Blanco who commands the forces at Romero. He would scarcely venture to return to Federal territory. However, I go to meet Blanco to-day, and perhaps I shall discover something."

"What takes you over there?" Blaze inquired.

"Wait until I tell you. Senor David, here, brings me good fortune at every turn. He honors my poor thirsty rancho with a visit and brings a glorious rain; then he destroys my enemies like a thunderbolt. No sooner is this done than I receive from the Federals an offer for fifty of my best horses. Caramba! Such a price, too. They are in a great hurry, which looks as if they expected an attack from the Candeleristas at Matamoras. I hope so. God grant these traitors are defeated. Anyhow, the horses have gone, and to-day I go to get my money, in gold."

"Who's going with you?" asked Law.

Ricardo shrugged. "Nobody. There is no danger."

Blaze shook his head. "They know you are a red-hot Rebel. I wouldn't trust them."

"They know, also, that I am an American, like you gentlemen," proudly asserted Guzman. "That makes a difference. I supported the Liberator—God rest his soul!—and I secretly assist those who fight his assassins, but so does everybody else. I am receiving a fine price for those horses, so it is worth a little risk. Now, senor," he addressed himself to the Ranger, "I have brought you a little present. Day and night my boys and I have worked upon it, for we know the good heart you have. It was finished yesterday. See!" Ricardo unwrapped a bundle he had fetched, displaying a magnificent bridle of plaited horsehair. It was cunningly wrought, and lavishly decorated with silver fittings. "You recognize those hairs?" he queried. "They came from the mane and tail of your bonita."

"Bessie Belle!" Law accepted the handsome token, then held out his hand to the Mexican. "That was mighty fine of you, Ricardo. I—You couldn't have pleased me more."

"You like it?" eagerly demanded the old man. "That is good. I am repaid a thousandfold. Your sentiment is like a woman's. But see! I am famous for this work, and I have taught my boys to use their fingers, too. That mare will always guide you now, wherever you go. And we handled her gently, for your sake."

Dave nodded. "You're a good man, Ricardo. We're going to be friends."

Guzman's delight was keen, his grizzled face beamed, and he showed his white teeth in a smile. "Say no more. What is mine is yours—my house, my cattle, my right hand. I and my sons will serve you, and you must come often to see us. Now I must go." He shook hands heartily and rode away, waving his hat.

"There's a good Greaser," Blaze said, with conviction, and Dave agreed, feelingly:

"Yes! I'd about go to hell for him, after this." Then he took the bridle in for Paloma to admire.



XVI

THE RODEO

It was with a feeling of some reluctance that Dave drove up to Las Palmas shortly after the lunch hour, for he had no desire to meet "Young Ed." However, to his relief, Austin did not appear, and inasmuch as Alaire did not refer to her husband in any way, Dave decided that he must be absent, perhaps on one of his notorious sprees.

The mistress of the big ranch was in her harness, having at once assumed her neglected duties. She came to welcome her caller in a short khaki riding-suit; her feet were encased in tan boots; she wore a mannish felt hat and gauntlet gloves, showing that she had spent the morning in the saddle. Dave thought she looked exceedingly capable and business-like, and not less beautiful in these clothes; he feasted his eyes covertly upon her.

"I expected you for luncheon," she smiled; and Dave could have kicked himself. "I'm just going out now. If you're not in too great a hurry to go home you may go with me."

"That would be fine," he agreed.

"Come, then I have a horse for you." As she led the way back toward the farm buildings she explained: "I'm selling off a bunch of cattle. Benito is rounding them up and cutting out the best ones."

"You keep them, I reckon."

"Always. That's how I improve the grade. You will see a splendid herd of animals, Mr. Law—the best in South Texas. I suppose you're interested in such things."

"I'd rather watch a good herd of stock than the best show in New York," he told her.

When they came to the corrals, an intricate series of pens and chutes at the rear of the outbuildings, Law beheld two thoroughbred horses standing at the hitching-rail.

"I'm proud of my horses, too," said Alaire.

"You have reason to be." With his eyes alight Dave examined the fine points of both animals. He ran a caressing hand over them, and they recognized in him a friend.

"These beauties were raised on Kentucky blue grass. Brother and sister, aren't they?"

"Yes. Montrose and Montrosa are their names. The horse is mine, the mare is yours." Seeing that Dave did not comprehend the full import of her words, she added: "Yours to keep, I mean. You must make another Bessie Belle out of her."

"MINE? Oh—ma'am'" Law turned his eyes from Alaire to the mare, then back again. "You're too kind. I can't take her."

"You must."

Dave made as if to say something, but was too deeply embarrassed. Unable to tear himself away from the mare's side, he continued to stroke her shining coat while she turned an intelligent face to him, showing a solitary white star in the center of her forehead.

"See! She is nearly the same color as Bessie Belle."

"Yes'm! I—I want her, ma'am; I'm just sick from wanting her, but—won't you let me buy her?"

"Oh, I wouldn't sell her." Then, as Dave continued to yearn over the animal, like a small boy tempted beyond his strength, Alaire laughed. "I owe you something, Mr. Law, and a horse more or less means very little to me."

He yielded; he could not possibly continue his resistance, and in his happy face Alaire took her reward.

The mare meanwhile was doubtfully nosing her new master, deciding whether or not she liked him; but when he offered her a cube of sugar her uncertainties disappeared and they became friends then and there. He talked to her, too, in a way that would have won any female heart, and it was plain to any one who knew horses that she began to consider him wholly delightful. Now, Montrosa was a sad coquette, but this man seemed to say, "Rosa, you rogue, if you try your airs with me I will out-flirt you." Who could resist such a person? Why, the touch of his hands was positively thrilling. He was gentle, but masterful, and—he had a delicious smell. Rosa felt that she understood him perfectly, and was enraptured to discover that he understood her. There was some satisfaction in knowing such a man.

"You DO speak their language," Alaire said, after she had watched them for a few minutes. "You have bewitched the creature." Dave nodded silently, and his face was young. Then half to herself the woman murmured, "Yes, you have a heart."

"I beg pardon?"

"Nothing. I'm glad you like her."

"Do you mind if I call her something else than Rosa, just to myself?"

"Why, she's yours! Don't you like the name?"

"Oh yes! But—see!" Dave laid a finger upon Montrosa's forehead. "She wears a lone star, and I'd like to call her that—The Lone Star."

Alaire smiled in tacit assent; then when the two friends had completely established their intimacy she mounted her own horse and led the way to the round-up.

Dave's unbounded delight filled the mistress of Las Palmas with the keenest pleasure. He laughed, he hummed snatches of songs, he kept up a chatter addressed as much to the mare as to his companion, and under it Montrosa romped like a tomboy. It was gratifying to meet with such appreciation as this; Alaire felt warm and friendly to the whole world, and decided that out of her abundance she must do more for other people.

Of course Dave had to tell of Don Ricardo's thoughtful gift, and concluded by saying, "I think this must be my birthday, although it doesn't fit in with the calendar."

"Don Ricardo has his enemies, but he is a good-hearted old man."

"Yes," Dave agreed. Then more gravely: "I'm sorry I let him go across the river." There was a pause. "If anybody harms him I reckon I'll have a feud on my hands, for I'm a grateful person."

"I believe it. I can see that you are loyal."

"I was starved on sentiment when I was little, but it's in me bigger than a skinned ox. They say gratitude is an elemental, primitive emotion—"

"Perhaps that's why it is so rare nowadays," said Alaire, not more than half in jest.

"You find it rare?" Dave looked up keenly. "Well, you have certainly laid up a store of it to-day."

Benito and his men had rounded up perhaps three thousand head of cattle when Alaire and her companion appeared, and they were in the process of "cutting out." Assembled near a flowing well which gave life to a shallow pond, the herd was held together by a half-dozen horsemen who rode its outskirts, heading off and driving back the strays. Other men, under Benito's personal direction, were isolating the best animals and sending them back to the pasture. It was an animated scene, one fitted to rouse enthusiasm in any plainsman, for the stock was fat and healthy; there were many calves, and the incessant, rumbling complaint of the herd was blood-stirring. The Las Palmas cowboys rode like centaurs, doubling, dodging, yelling, and whirling their ropes like lashes; the air was drumming to swift hoof-beats, and over all was the hoarse, unceasing undertone from countless bovine throats. Out near the grub-wagon the remuda was grazing, and thither at intervals came the perspiring horsemen to change their mounts.

Benito, wet, dusty, and tired, rode up to his employer to report progress.

"Dios! This is hot work for an old man. We will never finish by dark," said he, whereupon Law promptly volunteered his services.

"Lend me your rope, Benito, till I get another caballo."

"Eh? That Montrosa is the best cutting horse on Las Palmas."

But Dave shook his head vigorously. "I wouldn't risk her among those gopher-holes." He slid out of his seat and, with an arm around the mare's neck, whispered into her ear, "We won't have any broken legs and broken hearts, will we, honey girl?" Rosa answered by nosing the speaker over with brazen familiarity; then when he had removed her equipment and turned away, dragging her saddle, she followed at his heels like a dog.

"Diablo! He has a way with horses, hasn't he?" Benito grinned, "Now that Montrosa is wilder than a deer."

Alaire rode into the herd with her foreman, while Dave settled his loop over a buckskin, preparatory to joining the cowboys.

The giant herd milled and eddied, revolving like a vast pool of deep, swift water. The bulls were quarrelsome, the steers were stubborn, and the wet cows were distracted. Motherless calves dodged about in bewilderment. In and out of this confusion the cowboys rode, following the animals selected for separation, forcing them out with devious turnings and twistings, and then running them madly in a series of breakneck crescent dashes over flats and hummocks, through dust and brush, until they had joined the smaller herd of choice animals which were to remain on the ranch. It was swift, sweaty, exhausting work, the kind these Mexicans loved, for it was not only spectacular, but held an element of danger. Once he had secured a pony Dave Law made himself one of them.

Alaire sat her horse in the heart of the crowding herd, with a sea of rolling eyes, lolling tongues, and clashing horns all about her, and watched the Ranger. Good riding she was accustomed to; the horses of Las Palmas were trained to this work as bird dogs are trained to theirs; they knew how to follow a steer and, as Ed Austin boasted, "turn on a dime with a nickel to spare." But Law, it appeared, was a born horseman, and seemed to inspire his mount with an exceptional eagerness and intelligence. In spite of the man's unusual size, he rode like a feather; he was grace and life and youth personified. Now he sat as erect in his saddle as a swaying reed; again he stretched himself out like a whip-lash. Once he had begun the work he would not stop.

All that afternoon the cowboys labored, and toward sundown the depleted herd was driven to the water. It moved thither in a restless, thirsty mass; it churned the shallow pond to milk, and from a high knoll, where Alaire had taken her stand, she looked down upon a vast undulating carpet many acres in extent formed by the backs of living creatures. The voice of these cattle was like the bass rumble of the sea, steady, heavy-droning, ceaseless.

Then through the cool twilight came the drive to the next pasture, and here the patience of the cowboys was taxed to the utmost, for as the stronger members of the herd forged ahead, the wearied, worried, littlest members fell behind. Their joints were limber, and their legs unsteady; one and all were orphaned, too, for in that babel of sound no untrained ears could catch a mother's low. A mile of this and the whole rear guard was composed of plaintive, wet-eyed little calves who made slower and slower progress. Some of them were stubborn and risked all upon a spirited dash back toward the homes they were leaving and toward the mothers who would not answer. It took hard, sharp riding to run them down, for they fled like rabbits, bolting through prickly-pear and scrub, their tails bravely aloft, their stiff legs flying. Others, too tired and thirsty to go farther, lay down and refused to budge, and these had to be carried over the saddlehorn until they had rested. Some hid themselves cunningly in the mesquite clumps or burrowed into the coarse sagauista grass.

But now those swarthy, dare-devil riders were as gentle as women; they urged the tiny youngsters onward with harmless switches or with painless blows from loose-coiled riatas; they picked them up in their arms and rode with them.

Once through the gate and safe inside the restraining pasture fence, the herd was allowed to settle down. Then began a patient search by outraged mothers, a series of mournful quests that were destined to continue far into the night; endless nosings and sniffings and caressings, which would keep up until each cow had found her own, until each calf was butting its head against maternal ribs and gaining that consolation which it craved.

A new moon was swinging in the sky as Alaire and Dave rode back toward Las Palmas. The dry, gray grass was beginning to jewel with dew; the paths were ribbons of silver between dark blots of ink where the bushes grew. Behind rose the jingle of spurs and bridles, the creak of leather, the voices of men. It was an hour in which to talk freely, an environment suited to confidences, and Dave Law was happier than he had been for years. He closed his eyes to the future, he stopped his ears to misgivings; with a song in his heart he rode at the stirrup of the woman he adored.

How or when Alaire Austin came to feel that this man loved her she never knew. Certainly he gave no voice to his feeling, save, perhaps, by some unconscious tone or trick of speech; rather, the knowledge came to her intuitively as the result of some subconscious interchange of thought, some responsive vibration, which only a psychologist could analyze. However it was, Alaire knew to-night that she was dear to her companion, and, strange to say, this certainty did not disturb her. Inasmuch as the thing existed, why deny its right to exist? she asked herself. Since it was in no wise dishonorable, how could it be wrong, provided it went no further? Alaire had been repelled by Luis Longorio's evident love for her, but a similar emotion in this man's breast had quite the opposite effect. She was eager for friendship, hungry for affection, starved for that worship which every woman lives upon. Having a wholesome confidence in her own strength of character, and complete faith in Law's sense of honor, she was neither alarmed nor offended.

For the first time in years she allowed her intimate thoughts free expression, and spoke of her hopes, her interests, and her efforts; under the spell of the moonlight she even confided something about those dreams that kept her company and robbed her world of its sordidness. Dave Law discovered that she lived in a fanciful land of unrealities, and the glimpse he gained of it was delightful.

Supper was waiting when they arrived at Las Palmas, and Dolores announced that "Young Ed" had telephoned from the Lewis ranch that he would not be home. Yielding to a sudden impulse, Alaire said to her companion:

"You must dine with me. Dolores will show you to a room. I will be ready in half an hour."

Dave hesitated, but it was not in human nature to refuse. Later, as he washed himself and combed his hair, he had a moment of misgivings; but the next instant he asked himself wherein he was doing wrong. Surely there was no law which denied him the right to love, provided he kept that love a secret. The inner voice did not argue with him; yet he was disquieted and restless as he paced the big living-room, waiting for his hostess.

The Austin ranch-house offered a contrast to the majority of Texas country homes. "Young Ed" had built almost a mansion for his bride, and in the latter years Alaire had remodeled and changed it to suit her own ideas. The verandas were wide, the rooms large and cool and open; polished floors, brilliant grass mats, and easy wicker furniture gave it a further airiness. The place was comfortable, luxurious; yet it was a home and it had an atmosphere.

Not for many years had Dave Law been a guest amid such surroundings, and as the moments dragged on he began to feel more and more out of place. With growing discomfort he realized that the mistress of this residence was the richest woman in all this part of Texas, and that he was little better than a tramp. His free life, his lack of care and responsibility, had bred in him a certain contempt for money; nevertheless, when through the door to the dining-room he saw Alaire pause to give a final touch to the table, he was tempted to beat an ignominious retreat, for she was a radiant vision in evening dress. She was stately, beautiful; her hair was worn high, her arms were bare underneath a shimmer of lace, her gown exposed a throat round and smooth and adorable. In reality, she was simply clad; but to the Ranger's untrained eye she seemed regal, and his own rough clothes became painfully conspicuous by contrast.

Alaire knew how to be a gracious and winning hostess; of course she did not appear to notice her guest's embarrassment. She had rather welcomed the thought that this man cared for her, and yet, had she deliberately planned to dampen his feeling, she could hardly have succeeded better than by showing him the wide disparity in their lives and situations. Dave was dismayed; he felt very poor and ridiculous. Alaire was no longer the woman he had ridden with through the solitudes; her very friendliness seemed to be a condescension.

He did not linger long after they had dined, for he wished to be alone, where he could reach an understanding with himself. On the steps he waited just a moment for Alaire to mention, if she chose, that subject which they had still left open on the night before. Reading his thought, she said:

"You are expecting me to say something about Panfilo Sanchez."

"Yes."

"I have thought it over; in fact, I have been thinking about it all day; but even yet I don't know what to tell you. One moment I think the truth would merely provoke another act of violence; the next I feel that it must be made public regardless of consequences. As for its effect upon myself—you know I care very little what people say or think."

"I'm sorry I killed the fellow—I shouldn't have done it, but—one sees things differently out in the rough and here in the settled country. Laws don't work alike in all places; they depend a good deal upon—geography. There are times when the theft of a crust of bread would warrant the punishment I gave Panfilo. I can't help but feel that his conduct, under the circumstances, called for—what he got. He wasn't a good man, in spite of what Jose says; Anto confessed to me that they were planning all sorts of deviltry together."

"That is hardly an excuse." Alaire smiled faintly.

"Oh, I know!" Dave agreed. "But, you see, I don't feel the need of one. The sentimental side of the affair, which bothers you, doesn't affect me in the least."

Alaire nodded. "You have made me understand how you look at things, and I must confess that I tolerate actions that would have shocked me before I came to know this country. Panfilo is dead and gone—rightly or wrongly, I don't know. What I dread now is further consequences."

"Don't weaken on my account."

"No! I'm not thinking of the consequences to you or to me. You are the kind of man who can protect himself, I'm sure; your very ability in that direction frightens me a little on Jose's account. But"—she sighed and lifted her round shoulders in a shrug—"perhaps time will decide this question for us."

Dave laughed with some relief. "I think you've worried yourself enough over it, ma'am," he said; "splitting hairs as to what's right and what's wrong, when it doesn't matter much, in either case. Suppose you continue to think it over at your leisure."

"Perhaps I'd better. And now"—Alaire extended her hand—"won't you and Montrosa come to see me once in a while? I'm very lonesome."

"We'd love to," Dave declared. He had it on his lips to say more, but at that moment an eager whinny and an impatient rattle of a bridle-bit came from the driveway, and he smiled. "There's her acceptance now."

"Oh no! She merely heard your voice, the fickle creature."

Alaire watched her guest until he had disappeared into the shadows, then she heard him talking to the mare. Benito's words at the rodeo recurred to her, and she wondered if this Ranger might not also have a way with women.

The house was very still and empty when she re-entered it.



XVII

THE GUZMAN INCIDENT

Ricardo Guzman did not return from Romero. When two days had passed with no word from him, his sons became alarmed and started an investigation, but without the slightest result. Even Colonel Blanco himself could not hazard a guess as to Guzman's fate; the man had disappeared, it seemed, completely and mysteriously. Meanwhile, from other quarters of the Mexican town came rumors that set the border afire.

Readers of this story may remember the famous "Guzman incident," so called, and the complications that resulted from it, for at the time it raised a storm of indignation as the crowning atrocity of the Mexican revolution, serving further to disturb the troubled waters of diplomacy and threatening for a moment to upset the precariously balanced relations of the two countries.

At first the facts appeared plain: a citizen of the United States had been lured across the border and done to death by Mexican soldiers—for it soon became evident that Ricardo was dead. The outrage was a casus belli such as no self-respecting people could ignore; so ran the popular verdict. Then when that ominous mailed serpent which lay coiled along the Rio Grande stirred itself, warlike Americans prepared themselves to hear of big events.

A motive for Ricardo Guzman's murder was not lacking, for it was generally known that President Potosi had long resented Yankee enmity, particularly as that enmity was directed at him personally. A succession of irritating diplomatic skirmishes, an unsatisfactory series of verbal sparring matches, had roused the old Indian's anger, and it was considered likely that he had adopted this means of permanently severing his relations with Washington.

Of course, the people of Texas were delighted that the long-delayed hour had struck; accordingly, when the State Department seemed strangely loath to investigate the matter, when, in fact, it manifested a willingness to allow Don Ricardo ample time in which to come to life in preference to putting a further strain upon international relations, they were both surprised and enraged. Telegraph wires began to buzz; the governor of the state sent a crisply sarcastic message to the national capital, offering to despatch a company of Rangers after Guzman's body just to prove that he was indeed dead and that the Mexican authorities were lying when they professed ignorance of the fact.

This offer not only caught the popular fancy north of the Rio Grande, but it likewise had an effect on the other side of the river, for on the very next day General Luis Longorio set out for Romero to investigate personally the rancher's disappearance.

Now, throughout all this public clamor, truth, as usual, lay hidden at the bottom of its well, and few even of Ricardo's closest friends suspected the real reason for his murder.

Jonesville, of course, could think or talk of little else than this outrage, and Blaze Jones, as befitted its leading citizen, was loudest in his criticism of the government's weak-kneed policy.

"It makes me right sore to think I'm an American," he confided to Dave. "Why, if Ricardo had been an Englishman the British consul at Mexico City would have called on Potosi the minute the news came. He'd have stuck a six-shooter under the President's nose and made him locate Don Ricardo, or pay an indemnity and kiss the Union Jack." Blaze's conception of diplomacy was peculiar. "If Potosi didn't talk straight that British consul would have bent a gun-bar'l over the old ruffian's bean and telephoned for a couple hundred battle-ships. England protects her sons. But we Americans are cussed with notions of brotherly love and universal peace. Bah! We're bound to have war, Dave, some day or other. Why not start it now?"

Dave nodded his agreement. "Yes. We'll have to step in and take the country over, sooner or later. But—everybody has the wrong idea of this Guzman killing. The Federal officers in Romero didn't frame it up."

"No? Who did?"

"Tad Lewis."

Jones started. "What makes you think that?"

"Listen! Tad was afraid to let Urbina come to trial—you remember one of his men boasted that the case would never be heard? Well, it won't. Ricardo's dead and the other witness is gone. Now draw your own conclusions."

"Gone? You mean the fellow who saw Urbina and Garza together?"

"Yes. He has disappeared, too—evidently frightened away."

Jones was amazed. "Say, Dave," he cried, "that means your case has blown up, eh?"

"Absolutely. Lewis has been selling 'wet' stock to the Federals, and he probably arranged with some of them to murder Ricardo. At any rate, that's my theory."

Blaze cursed eloquently. "I'd like to hang it on to Tad; I'd sure clean house down his way if I was positive."

"I sent a man over to Romero," Dave explained further. "He tells me Ricardo is dead, all right; but nobody knows how he died, or why. There's a new grave in the little cemetery above the town, but nobody knows who's buried in it. There hasn't been a death in Romero lately." The speaker watched his friend closely. "Ricardo's family would like to have his body, and I'd like to see it myself. Wouldn't you? We could tell just what happened to him. If he really faced a firing-squad, for instance—I reckon Washington would have something to say, eh?"

"What are you aimin' at?" Blaze inquired.

"If we had Ricardo's body on this side it would put an end to all the lies, and perhaps force Colonel Blanco to make known the real facts. It might even mean a case against Tad Lewis. What do you think of my reasoning?"

"It's eighteen karat. What d'you say we go over there and get Ricardo?"

Dave smiled. "That's what I've been leading up to. Will you take a chance?"

"Hell, yes!"

"I knew you would. All we need is a pair of Mexicans to—do the work. I liked Ricardo; I owe him something."

"Suppose we're caught?"

"In that case we'll have to run for it, and—I presume I'll be discharged from the Ranger service."

"I ain't very good at runnin'—not from Mexicans." Blaze's eyes were bright and hard at the thought. "It's more'n possible that, if they discover us, we can start a nice little war of our own."

That evening Dave managed to get his Ranger captain by long-distance telephone, and for some time the two talked guardedly. When Dave rang off they had come to a thorough understanding.

It had been an easy matter for Jose Sanchez to secure a leave of absence from Las Palmas, especially since Benito was not a little interested in the unexplained disappearance of Panfilo and work was light at this time. Benito did not think it necessary to mention the horse-breaker's journey to his employer; so that Alaire knew nothing whatever about the matter until Jose himself asked permission to see her on a matter of importance.

The man had ridden hard most of the previous night, and his excitement was patent. Even before he spoke Alaire realized that Panfilo's fate was known to him, and she decided swiftly that there must be no further concealment.

"Senora! A terrible thing!" Jose burst forth. "God knows, I am nearly mad with grief. It is about my sainted cousin. It is strange, unbelievable! My head whirls—"

Alaire quieted him, saying in Spanish, "Calm yourself, Jose, and tell me everything from the beginning."

"But how can I be calm? Oh, what a crime! What a misfortune! Well, then, Panfilo is completely dead. I rode to that tanque where you saw him last, and what do you think? But—you know?"

Alaire nodded. "I—suspected."

Jose's dark face blazed; he bent forward eagerly. "What did you suspect, and why? Tell me all. There is something black and hellish here, and I must know about it quickly."

"Suppose you tell me your story first," Alaire answered, "and remember that you are excited."

The Mexican lowered his voice. "Bueno! Forgive me if I seem half crazed. Well, I rode to that water-hole and found—nothing. It is a lonely place; only the brush cattle use it; but I said to myself, 'Panfilo drank here. He was here. Beyond there is nothing. So I will begin.' God was my helper, senora. I found him—his bones as naked and clean as pebbles. Caramba! You should have heard me then! I was like a demon! I couldn't think, I couldn't reason. I rode from that accursed spot as if Panfilo's ghost pursued me and—I am here. I shall rouse the country; the people shall demand the blood of my cousin's assassin. It is the crime of a century."

"Wait! When you spoke to me last I didn't dream that Panfilo was dead, but since then I have learned the truth, and why he was killed. You must let me tell you everything, Jose, just as it happened; then—you may do whatever you think best. And you shall have the whole truth."

It was a trying situation; in spite of her brave beginning, Alaire was tempted to send the Mexican on to Jonesville, there to receive an explanation directly from David Law himself; but such a course she dared not risk. Jose was indeed half crazed, and at this moment quite irresponsible; if he met Dave, terrible consequences would surely follow. Accordingly, it was with a peculiar, apprehensive flatter in her breast that Alaire realized the crisis had come. Heretofore she had blamed Law, but now, oddly enough, she found herself interested in defending him. As calmly as she could she related all that had led up to the tragedy, while Jose listened with eyes wide and mouth open.

"You see, I had no suspicion of the truth," she concluded. "It was a terrible thing, and Mr. Law regrets it deeply. He would have made a report to the authorities, only—he feared it might embarrass me. He will repeat to you all that I have said, and he is ready to meet the consequences."

Jose was torn with rage, yet plainly a prey to indecision; he rolled his eyes and cursed under his breath. "These Rangers!" he muttered. "That is the kind of men they are. They murder honest people."

"This was not murder," Alaire cried, sharply. "Panfilo was aiding a felon to escape. The courts will not punish Mr. Law."

"Bah! Who cares for the courts? This man is a Gringo, and these are Gringo laws. But I am Mexican, and Panfilo was my cousin. We shall see."

Alaire's eyes darkened. "Don't be rash, Jose," she exclaimed, warningly. "Mr. Law bears you no ill-will, but—he is a dangerous man. You would do well to make some inquiries about him. You are a good man; you have a long life before you." Reading the fellow's black look, she argued: "You think I am taking his part because he is my countryman, but he needs no one to defend him. He will make this whole story public and face the consequences. I like you, and I don't wish to see you come to a worse end than your cousin Panfilo."

Jose continued to glower. Then, turning away, he said, without meeting his employer's eyes, "I would like to draw my money."

"Very well. I am sorry to have you leave Las Palmas, for I have regarded you as one of my gente." Jose's face remained stony. "What do you intend to do? Where are you going?"

The fellow shrugged. "Quien sabe! Perhaps I shall go to my General Longorio. He is in Romero, just across the river; he knows a brave man when he sees one, and he needs fellows like me to kill rebels. Well, you shall hear of me. People will tell you about that demon of a Jose whose cousin was murdered by the Rangers. Yes, I have the heart of a bandit."

Alaire smiled faintly. "You will be shot," she told him. "Those soldiers have little to eat and no money at all."

But Jose's bright eyes remained hostile and his expression baffling. It was plain to Alaire that her explanation of his cousin's death had carried not the slightest conviction, and she even began to fear that her part in the affair had caused him to look upon her as an accessory. Nevertheless, when she paid him his wages she gave him a good horse, which Jose accepted with thanks but without gratitude. As Alaire watched him ride away with never a backward glance she decided that she must lose no time in apprising the Ranger of this new condition of affairs.

She drove her automobile to Jonesville that afternoon, more worried than she cared to admit. It was a moral certainty, she knew, that Jose Sanchez would, sooner or later, attempt to take vengeance upon his cousin's slayer, and there was no telling when he might become sufficiently inflamed with poisonous Mexican liquor to be in the mood for killing. Then, too, there were friends of Panfilo always ready to lend bad counsel.

Law was nowhere in town, and so, in spite of her reluctance, Alaire was forced to look for him at the Joneses' home. As she had never called upon Paloma, and had made it almost impossible for the girl to visit Las Palmas, the meeting of the two women was somewhat formal. But no one could long remain stiff or constrained with Paloma Jones; the girl had a directness of manner and an honest, friendly smile that simply would not be denied. Her delight that Alaire had come to see her pleased and shamed the elder woman, who hesitatingly confessed the object of her visit.

"Oh, I thought you were calling on me." Paloma pouted her pretty lips. "Dave isn't here. He and father—have gone away." A little pucker of apprehension appeared upon her brow.

"I must get word to him at once."

Miss Jones shook her head. "Is it very important?"

It needed no close observation to discover the concern in Paloma's eyes; Alaire told her story quickly. "Mr. Law must be warned right away," she added, "for the man is capable of anything."

Paloma nodded. "Dave told us how he had killed Panfilo—" She hesitated, and then cried, impulsively: "Mrs. Austin, I'm going to confess something—I've got to tell somebody or I'll burst. I was walking the floor when you came. Well, Dad and Dave have completely lost their wits. They have gone across the river—to get Ricardo Guzman's body."

"What?" Alaire stared at the girl uncomprehendingly.

"They are going to dig him up and bring him back to prove that he was killed. Dave knows where he's buried, and he's doing this for Ricardo's family—some foolish sentiment about a bridle—but Dad, I think, merely wants to start a war between the United States and Mexico."

"My dear girl, aren't you dreaming?"

"I thought I must be when I heard about it. Dad wouldn't have told me at all, only he thought I ought to know in case anything happens to him." Paloma's breath failed her momentarily. "They'll be killed. I told them so, but Dave seems to enjoy the risk. He said Ricardo had a sentimental nature—and, of course, the possibility of danger delighted both him and Dad. They're perfect fools."

"When did they go? Tell me everything."

"They left an hour ago in my machine, with two Mexicans to help them. They intend to cross at your pumping-plant as soon as it gets dark, and be back by mid-night—that is, if they ever get back."

"Why, it's—unbelievable."

"It's too much for me. Longorio himself is in Romero, and he'd have them shot if he caught them. We'd never even hear of it." Paloma's face was pale, her eyes were strained and tragic. "Father always has been a trial to me, but I thought I could do something with Dave." She made a hopeless gesture, and Alaire wondered momentarily whether the girl's anxiety was keenest for the safety of her father or—the other?

"Can't we prevent them from going?" she inquired. "Why, they are breaking the law, aren't they?"

"Something like that. But what can we do? It's nearly dark, and they'll go, anyhow, regardless of what we say."

"Mr. Law is a Ranger, too!"

The girl nodded. "Oh, if it's ever discovered he'll be ruined. And think of Dad—a man of property! Dave declares Tad Lewis is at the bottom of it all and put the Federals up to murder Ricardo; he thinks in this way he can force them into telling the truth. But Dad is just looking for a fight and wants to be a hero!"

There was a moment of silence. Then Alaire reasoned aloud: "I presume they chose our pumping-plant because it is directly opposite the Romero cemetery. I could have Benito and some trusty men waiting on this side. Or I could even send them over—"

"No, no! Don't you understand? The whole thing is illegal."

"Well, we could be there—you and I."

Paloma agreed eagerly. "Yes! Maybe we could even help them if they got into trouble."

"Come, then! We'll have supper at Las Palmas and slip down to the river and wait."

Paloma was gone with a rush. In a moment she returned, ready for the trip, and with her she carried a Winchester rifle nearly as long as herself.

"I hope you aren't afraid of firearms," she panted. "I've owned this gun for years."

"I am rather a good shot," Alaire told her.

Paloma closed her lips firmly. "Good! Maybe we'll come in handy, after all. Anyhow, I'll bet those Mexicans won't chase Dad and Dave very far."

Jose Sanchez was true to his declared purpose. With a horse of his own between his knees, with money in his pocket and hate in his heart, he left Las Palmas, and, riding to the Lewis crossing, forded the Rio Grande. By early afternoon he was in Romero, and there, after some effort, he succeeded in finding General Longorio.

Romero, at this time the southern outpost of Federal territory, standing guard against the Rebel forces in Tamaulipas, is a sun-baked little town sprawling about a naked plaza, and, except for the presence of Colonel Blanco's detachment of troops, it would have presented much the same appearance as any one of the lazy border villages. A scow ferry had at one time linked it on the American side with a group of 'dobe houses which were sanctified by the pious name of Sangre de Cristo, but of late years more advantageous crossings above and below had come into some use and Romero's ferry had been abandoned. Perhaps a mile above Sangre de Cristo, and directly opposite Romero's weed-grown cemetery, stood the pumping-plant of Las Palmas, its corrugated iron roof and high-flung chimney forming a conspicuous landmark.

Luis Longorio had just awakened from his siesta when Jose gained admittance to his presence. The general lay at ease in the best bed of the best house in the village; he greeted the new-comer with a smile.

"So, my brave Jose, you wish to become a soldier and fight for your country, eh?"

"Yes, my general."

Longorio yawned and stretched lazily. "Body of Christ! This is a hard life. Here am I in this goatherd's hovel, hot, dirty, and half starved, and all because of a fellow I never saw who got himself killed. You would think this Ricardo was an Englishman instead of a Gringo, for the fuss that is made. Who was he? Some great jefe?

"A miserable fellow. I knew him well. Then he is indeed dead?"

"Quite dead, I believe," Longorio said, carelessly; then turning his large, bright eyes upon the visitor, he continued, with more interest, "Now tell me about the beautiful senora, your mistress."

Jose scowled. "She's not my mistress. I am no longer of her gente. I have a debt of blood to wipe out."

Longorio sat up in his bed; the smile left his face. "My Jose", he said, quietly, "if you harm her in the least I shall bury you to the neck in an ant's nest and fill your mouth with honey. Now, what is this you are telling me?"

Jose, uncomfortably startled by this barbarous threat, told as connectedly as he knew how all about his cousin's death and his reasons for leaving Las Palmas.

"Ah-h!" Longorio relaxed. "You gave me a start. At first I thought you came with a message from her—but that was too much to expect; then I feared you meant the lady some evil. Now I shall tell you a little secret: I love your senora! Yes, I love her madly, furiously; I can think of nothing but her. I came to this abominable village more to see her than to annoy myself over the death of Ricardo Guzman. I must see my divinity; I must hear her blessed voice, or I shall go mad. Why do I tell you this? Because I have decided that you shall lead me to her to-night." The general fell silent for a moment, then, "I intend to have her some day, Jose, and—perhaps you will be my right hand. See, I make you my confidant because you will not dare to anger me or—Well, my little friend, you must understand what fate would befall you in that case. I can reach across the Rio Grande."

Amazement and then fear were depicted in Jose's face as he listened; he asserted his loyalty vehemently.

"Yes, yes, I know you love me," the general agreed, carelessly. "But what is far more to the point, I intend to pay well for your services. Perhaps I shall also arrange so that you may have a reckoning with the murderer of your cousin. What is his name?"

It was Jose's opportunity to make an impression, and he used it to the full, telling all that he knew of the killing of Panfilo, and describing Law with the eloquence of hatred.

Longorio listened for a time, and then held up his hand. "Enough. For my sake, too, you shall kill him, for you have made me jealous."

"Impossible!" Jose raised protesting palms. He was sure the general was wrong. Senora Austin was above suspicion of any kind.

"And yet this man met her in Pueblo and rode with her to Las Palmas? He comes to see her frequently, you say?" The general bent his bright, keen eyes upon the visitor.

"Yes. She gave him the finest horse at Las Palmas, too, and—" A new thought presented itself to Jose. "Ho! By the way, they were alone at the water-hole when my cousin Panfilo was shot. Now that I think of it, they were alone together for a day and a night. I begin to wonder—"

Longorio breathed an oath and swung his long legs over the edge of the bed. "You have poisoned my mind. A whole day and night, eh? That is bad. What happened? What kind of a fool is her husband? I cannot bear to think of this! See, I am beside myself. Caramba! I live in paradise; I come flying on the wings of the wind, only to learn that my blessed divinity has a lover. If only my excellent Blanco had shot this fellow Law instead of that Guzman! If only I could lay hands upon him here in Mexico! Ha! There would be something to print in the American papers." He began to dress himself feverishly, muttering, as he did so: "I will permit no one to come between us. ... The thought kills me. ... You bring me bad news, Jose, and yet I am glad you came. I accept your offer, and you shall be my man henceforth; ... but you shall not go out to be shot by those rebels. No, you shall return to Las Palmas to be my eyes and my ears, and, when the time comes, you shall be my hands, too. ... I will avenge your cousin Panfilo for you, my word on that. Yes, and I will make you a rich man."

Jose listened hungrily to these promises. He was relieved at the change in his plans, for, after all, a soldier's life offered few attractions, and—the food at Las Palmas was good. The general promised him fine wages, too. Truly, it was fortunate that he had come to Romero.

"Now we have settled this," Jose's new employer declared, "run away and amuse yourself until dark. Then we will take a little journey by way of the old ferry."

"It is not altogether safe," ventured Jose. "That country over there is alive with refugees."

"I will take some men with me," said Longorio. "Now go and let me think."



XVIII

ED AUSTIN TURNS AT BAY

Had it not been for her fears, Paloma Jones would have taken her visit to the Austin ranch as an unmixed enjoyment. To her Alaire had always been an ideally romantic figure. More than once, in her moments of melancholy, Paloma had envied Mrs. Austin's unhappiness and yearned to bear a similar sorrow—to be crossed in love and to become known as a woman of tragedy. To have one's life blasted, one's happiness slain by some faithless lover, impressed the girl as interesting, thrilling. Moreover, it was a misfortune calculated to develop one's highest spiritual nature. Surely nothing could be more sadly satisfying than to live alone with regretful memories and to have the privilege of regarding the world as a vain show. Unfortunately, however, Paloma was too healthy and too practical to remain long occupied with such thoughts. She was disgustingly optimistic and merry; misanthropy was entirely lacking in her make-up; and none of her admirers seemed the least bit inclined to faithlessness. On the contrary, the men she knew were perfect nuisances in their earnestness of purpose, and she could not manage to fall in love with any one sufficiently depraved to promise her the slightest misery. Paloma felt that she was hopelessly commonplace.

Now that she had an opportunity of becoming better acquainted with the object of her envy, she made the most of it. She soon found, however, that Alaire possessed anything but an unhappy disposition, and that to pity her was quite impossible. Mrs. Austin was shy and retiring, certainly, at first, but, once the ice was broken, she was delightfully frank, friendly, and spirited.

Paloma's curiosity was all-consuming, and she explored every phase of her new friend's life with interest and delight. She even discovered that imaginary world of Alaire's, and learned something about those visionary people who bore her company.

"It must be lots of fun," said Paloma.

"Yes. Sometimes my dream-people are very real, Why—I can actually see them. Then I realize I have been too much alone."

"You ought to have children," the girl declared, calmly.

"I have. Yes! Imaginary kiddies—and they are perfect dears, too."

"Are they ever naughty?"

"Oh, indeed they are! And I have to punish them. Then I feel terribly. But they're much nicer than flesh-and-blood children, for they have no bad traits whatever, and they're so amazingly intelligent."

Such exchanges of confidence drew the women into fairly close relations by the time they had arrived at Las Palmas, but the thought of what had brought them together had a sobering effect, and during their hasty supper they discussed the situation in all its serious phases.

In offering to lend a hand in this difficulty, Alaire had acted largely upon impulse, and now that she took time to think over the affair more coolly, she asked herself what possible business of hers it could be. How did this effort to secure Don Ricardo's body concern her? And how could she hope or expect to be of help to the men engaged in the hazardous attempt? With Paloma, of course, it was different: the girl was anxious on her father's account, and probably concerned more deeply than was Alaire for the safety of Dave Law. Probably she and Dave had an understanding—it would be natural. Well, Paloma was a nice girl and she would make a splendid wife for any man.

For her part, Paloma was troubled by no uncertainty of purpose; it did not seem to her at all absurd to go to her father's assistance, and she was so eager to be up and away that the prospect of a long evening's wait made her restless.

As usual, Ed Austin had not taken the trouble to inform his wife of his whereabouts; Alaire was relieved to find that he was out, and she decided that he had probably stayed at Tad Lewis's for supper.

The women were seated on the porch after their meals when up the driveway rode two horsemen. A moment later a tall figure mounted the steps and came forward with outstretched hand, crying, in Spanish:

"Senora! I surprise you. Well, I told you some day I should give myself this great pleasure. I am here!"

"General Longorio! But—what a surprise!" Alaire's amazement was naive; her face was that of a startled school-girl. The Mexican warmly kissed her fingers, then turned to meet Paloma Jones. As he bowed the women exchanged glances over his head. Miss Jones looked frankly frightened, and her expression plainly asked the meaning of Longorio's presence. To herself, she was wondering if it could have anything to do with that expedition to the Romero cemetery. She tried to compose herself, but apprehension flooded her.

Alaire, meanwhile, her composure recovered, was standing slim and motionless beside her chair, inquiring smoothly: "What brings you into Texas at such a time, my dear general? This is quite extraordinary."

"Need you ask me?" cried the man. "I would ride through a thousand perils, senora. God in his graciousness placed that miserable village Romero close to the gates of Heaven. Why should I not presume to look through them briefly? I came two days ago, and every hour since then I have turned my eyes in the direction of Las Palmas. At last I could wait no longer." A courtly bow at the conclusion of these words robbed the speech of its audacity and tinged it with the licensed extravagance of Latin flattery. Nevertheless, Paloma gasped and Alaire stirred uncomfortably. The semi-darkness of the veranda was an invitation to even more daring compliments, and, therefore, as she murmured a polite word of welcome, Alaire stepped through the French window at her back and into the brightly lighted living-room. Paloma Jones followed as if in a trance.

Longorio's bright eyes took a swift inventory of his surroundings; then he sighed luxuriously.

"How fine!" said he. "How beautiful! A nest for a bird of paradise!"

"Don't you consider this rather a mad adventure?" Alaire insisted. "Suppose it should become known that you crossed the river?"

Longorio snapped his fingers. "I answer to no one; I am supreme. But your interest warms my heart; it thrills me to think you care for my safety. Thus am I repaid for my days of misery."

"You surely did not"—Paloma swallowed hard—"come alone?"

"No. I have a duty to my country. I said, 'Luis, you are a brave man, and fear is a stranger to you, but, nevertheless, you must have regard for the Fatherland'; so I took measures to protect myself in case of eventualities."

"How?"

"By bringing with me some of my troopers. Oh, they are peaceable fellows!" he declared, quickly; "and they are doubtless enjoying themselves with our friend and sympathizer, Morales."

"Where?" asked Alaire.

"I left them at your pumping-plant, senora." Paloma Jones sat down heavily in the nearest chair. "But you need have no uneasiness. They are quiet and orderly; they will molest nothing; no one would believe them to be soldiers. I take liberties with the laws and the customs of your country, dear lady, but—you would not care for a man who allowed such considerations to stand in his way, eh?"

Alaire answered, sharply: "It was a very reckless thing to do, and—you must not remain here."

"Yes, yes!" Paloma eagerly agreed. "You must go back at once."

But Longorio heard no voice except Alaire's. In fact, since entering the living-room he had scarcely taken his eyes from her. Now he drew his evenly arched brows together in a plaintive frown, saying, "You are inhospitable!" Then his expression lightened. "Or is it," he asked—"is it that you are indeed apprehensive for me?"

Alaire tried to speak quietly. "I should never forgive myself if you came to harm here at my ranch."

Longorio sighed. "And I hoped for a warmer welcome—especially since I have done you another favor. You saw that hombre who came with me?"

"Yes."

"Well, you would never guess that it is your Jose Sanchez, whom I prevailed upon to return to your employ. But it is no other; and he comes to beg your forgiveness for leaving. He was distracted at the news of his cousin's murder, and came to me—"

"His cousin was not murdered."

"Exactly! I told him so when I had learned the facts. A poor fellow this Panfilo—evidently a very bad man, indeed—but Jose admired him and was harboring thoughts of revenge. I said to him: 'Jose, my boy, it is better to do nothing than to act wrongly. Since it was God's will that your cousin came to a bad end, why follow in his footsteps? You will not make a good soldier. Go back to your beautiful employer, be loyal to her, and think no more about this unhappy affair.' It required some argument, I assure you, but—he is here. He comes to ask your forgiveness and to resume his position of trust."

"I am glad to have him back if he feels that way. I have nothing whatever to forgive him."

"Then he will be happy, and I have served you. That is the end of the matter." With a graceful gesture Longorio dismissed the subject. "Is it to be my pleasure," he next inquired, "to meet Senor Austin, your husband?"

"I am afraid not."

"Too bad. I had hoped to know him and convince him that we Federales are not such a bad people as he seems to think. We ought to be friends, he and I. Every loyal Mexican, in these troublesome times, desires the goodwill and friendship of such important personages as Senor Austin. This animosity is a sad thing."

Under this flow of talk Paloma stirred uneasily, and at the first opportunity burst out: "It's far from safe for you to remain here, General Longorio. This neighborhood is terribly excited over the death of Ricardo Guzman, and if any one learned—"

"So! Then this Guzman is dead?" Longorio inquired, with interest.

"Isn't he?" blurted Paloma.

"Not so far as I can learn. Only to-day I made official report that nothing whatever could be discovered about him. Certainly he is nowhere in Romero, and it is my personal belief that the poor fellow was either drowned in the river or made way with for his money. Probably the truth will never be known. It is a distressing event, but I assure you my soldiers do not kill American citizens. It is our boast that Federal territory is safe; one can come or go at will in any part of Mexico that is under Potosista control. I sincerely hope that we have heard the last of this Guzman affair."

Longorio had come to spend the evening, and his keen pleasure in Alaire Austin's company made him so indifferent to his personal safety that nothing short of a rude dismissal would have served to terminate his visit. Neither Alaire nor her companion, however, had the least idea how keenly he resented the presence of Paloma Jones. Ed Austin's absence he had half expected, and he had wildly hoped for an evening, an hour, a few moments, alone with the object of his desires. Jose's disclosures, earlier in the day, had opened the general's eyes; they had likewise inflamed him with jealousy and with passion, and accordingly he had come prepared to force his attentions with irresistible fervor should the slightest opportunity offer. To find Alaire securely chaperoned, therefore, and to be compelled to press his ardent advances in the presence of a third party, was like gall to him; the fact that he made the most of his advantages, even at the cost of scandalizing Paloma, spoke volumes for his determination.

It was a remarkable wooing; on the one hand this half-savage man, gnawed by jealousy, heedless of the illicit nature of his passion, yet held within the bounds of decorum by some fag-end of respectability; and on the other hand, a woman, bored, resentful, and tortured at the moment by fear about what was happening at the river-bank.

Alaire, too, had a further cause for worry. Of late Ed Austin had grown insultingly suspicious. More than once he had spoken of Dave Law in a way to make his wife's face crimson, and he had wilfully misconstrued her recital of Longorio's attentions. Fearing, therefore, that in spite of Paloma Jones's presence Ed would resent the general's call, Alaire strained her ears for the sound of his coming.

It was late when Austin arrived. Visitors at Las Palmas were unusual at any time; hence the sound of strange voices in the brightly lighted living-room at such an hour surprised him. He came tramping in, booted and spurred, a belligerent look of inquiry upon his bloated features. But when he had met his wife's guests his surprise turned to black displeasure. His own sympathies in the Mexican struggle were so notorious that Longorio's presence seemed to him to have but one possible significance. Why Paloma Jones was here he could not imagine.

Thus far Alaire's caller had succeeded in ignoring Miss Jones, and now, with equal self-assurance, he refused to recognize Ed's hostility. He remained at ease, and appeared to welcome this chance of meeting Austin. Yet it soon became evident that his opinion of his host was far from flattering; beneath his politeness he began to show an amused contempt, which Alaire perceived, even though her husband did not. Luis Longorio was the sort of man who enjoys a strained situation, and one who shows to the best advantage under adverse conditions. Accordingly, Ed's arrival, instead of hastening his departure, merely served to prolong his stay.

It was growing very late now, and Paloma was frantic. Profiting by her first opportunity, she whispered to Alaire "For God's sake, send him away."

Alaire's eyes were dark with excitement, "Yes," said she. "Talk to him, and give me a chance to have a word alone with Ed."

The opportunity came when Austin went into the dining-room for a drink. Alaire excused herself to follow him. When they were out of sight and hearing her husband turned upon her with an ugly frown.

"What's that Greaser doing here?" he asked, roughly.

"He called to pay his respects. You must get him away."

"I must?" Ed glowered at her. "Why don't you? You got him here in my absence. Now that I'm home you want me to get rid of him, eh? What's the idea?"

"Don't be silly. I didn't know he was coming and—he must be crazy to risk such a thing."

"Crazy?" Ed's lip curled. "He isn't crazy. I suppose he couldn't stay away any longer. By God, Alaire—"

Alaire checked this outburst with a sharp exclamation: "Don't make a scene! Don't you understand he holds over fifty thousand dollars' worth of La Feria cattle? Don't you understand we can't antagonize him?"

"Is that what he came to see you about?"

"Yes." She bit her lip. "I'll explain everything, but—you must help me send him back, right away." Glancing at the clock, Alaire saw that it was drawing on toward midnight; with quick decision she seized her husband by the arm, explaining feverishly: "There is something big going on to-night, Ed! Longorio brought a guard of soldiers with him and left them at our pump-house. Well, it so happens that Blaze Jones and Mr. Law have gone to the Romero cemetery to get Ricardo Guzman's body."

"WHAT?" Austin's red face paled, his eyes bulged.

"Yes. That's why Paloma is here. They crossed at our pumping-station, and they'll be back at any time, now. If they encounter Longorio's men—You understand?"

"God Almighty!" Austin burst forth. "Ricardo Guzman's body!" He wet his lips and swallowed with difficulty. "Why—do they want the body?"

"To prove that he is really dead and—to prove who killed him." Noting the effect of these words, Alaire cried, sharply, "What's the matter, Ed?"

But Austin momentarily was beyond speech. The decanter from which he was trying to pour himself a drink played a musical tattoo upon his glass; his face had become ashen and pasty.

"Have they got the body? Do they know who shot him?" he asked, dully.

"No, no!" Alaire was trembling with impatience. "Don't you understand? They are over there now, and they'll be back about midnight. If Longorio had come alone, or if he had left his men at Sangre de Cristo, everything would be all right. But those soldiers at Morales's house will be up and awake. Why, it couldn't have happened worse!" "How many men has he got?" Austin nodded in the direction of the front room.

"I don't know. Probably four or five. What ails you?"

"That—won't do. They won't—fight on this side of the river. They—they'd hold them off."

"Who? What are you talking about?"

Something in her husband's inexplicable agitation, something in the hunted, desperate way in which his eyes were running over the room, alarmed Alaire.

Ed utterly disregarded her question. Catching sight of the telephone, which stood upon a stand in the far corner of the room, he ran to it and, snatching the receiver, violently oscillated the hook.

"Don't do that!" Alaire cried, following him. "Wait! It mustn't get out."

"Hello! Give me the Lewis ranch—quick—I've forgotten the number." With his free hand Ed held his wife at a distance, muttering harshly: "Get away now! I know what I'm doing. Get away—damn you!" He flung Alaire from him as she tried to snatch the instrument out of his hands.

"What do you want of Lewis?" she panted.

"None of your business. You keep away or I'll hurt you."

"Ed!" she cried, "Are you out of your mind? You mustn't—"

Their voices were raised now, heedless of the two people In the adjoining room.

"Keep your hands off, I tell you. Hello! Is that you, Tad?" Again Austin thrust his wife violently aside. "Listen! I've just learned that Dave Law and old man Jones have crossed over to dig up Ricardo's body. Yes, to-night! They're over there now—be back inside of an hour."

Alaire leaned weakly against the table, her frightened eyes fixed upon the speaker. Even yet she could not fully grasp the meaning of her husband's behavior and tried to put aside those fears that were distracting her. Perhaps, after all, she told herself, Ed was taking his own way to—

"Yes! They aim to discover how he was killed and all about it. Sure! I suppose they found out where he was buried. They crossed at my pumping-plant, and they'll be back with the body to-night, if they haven't already—" The speaker's voice broke, his hand was shaking so that he could scarcely retain his hold upon the telephone. "How the hell do I know?" he chattered. "It's up to you. You've got a machine—"

"ED!" cried the wife. She went toward him on weak, unsteady feet, but she halted as the voice of Longorio cut in sharply:

"What's this I hear? Ricardo Guzman's body?" Husband and wife turned. The open double-door to the living-room framed the tall figure of the Mexican general.



XIX

RANGERS

Longorio stared first at the huddled, perspiring man beside the telephone and then at the frightened woman. "Is that the truth?" he demanded, harshly.

"Yes," Austin answered. "They are bringing the body to this side. You know what that means."

"Did you know this?" The general turned upon Alaire. Of the four he was the least excited.

From the background Paloma quavered: "You told us Ricardo was not dead, so—it is all right. There is no—harm done."

A brief silence ensued, then Longorio shrugged. "Who knows? Let us hope that he suffered no harm on Mexican soil. That would be serious, indeed; yes, very serious, for I have given my word to your government. This—David Law—" he pronounced the name carefully, but with a strange, foreign accent—"he is a reckless person to defy the border regulations. It is a grave matter to invade foreign territory on such a mission." Longorio again bent his brilliant eyes upon Alaire. "I see that you are concerned for his safety. You would not desire him to come to trouble, eh? He has done you favors; he is your friend, as I am. Well"—a mirthless smile exposed his splendid white teeth—"we must think of that. Now I will bid you good night."

"Where are you going?" demanded Miss Jones.

"To the river, and then to Romero. I may be needed, for those men of mine are stupid fellows and there is danger of a misunderstanding. In the dark anything may happen. I should like to meet this David Law; he is a man of my own kind." Turning to "Young Ed," he said: "There is reason for haste, and a horse moves slowly. Would you do me the favor, if you have an automobile—"

"No! I won't!" Ed declared. "I don't want to see the Rio Grande to-night. I won't be involved—"

"But you are already involved. Come! There is no time to waste, and I have something to say to you. You will drive me to the river, and my horse will remain here until I return for him."

There was no mistaking the command in Longorio's tone; the master of Las Palmas rose as if under compulsion. He took his hat, and the two men left the room.

"Oh, my God!" Paloma gasped. "They'll be in time, and so will the Lewis gang."

"Quick! Ed will take his runabout—we'll follow in my car." Alaire fled to make herself ready. A few moments later she looked out from her window and saw the headlights of Ed's runabout flash down the driveway to the road; then she and Paloma rushed to the garage where the touring-car stood.

"They'll never expect us to follow them"—Alaire tried to speak hopefully—"and we'll drive without lights. Maybe we'll get there in time, after all." As the machine rolled out through the gate she elaborated the half-formed plan that had come to her: "The brush is thick along the river; we can leave the car hidden and steal up to the pump-house. When we hear the boat coming maybe we can call out in time to warn your father."

"The moon is rising," Paloma half sobbed. "They'll be sure to see us. Do you think we're ahead of Tad Lewis?"

"Oh yes. He hasn't had time to get here yet, but—he'll come fast when he starts. This is the only plan I can think of."

Alaire drove as swiftly as she dared, following the blurred streak of gray that was the road, and taking the bumps with utter recklessness. Already the yellow rim of the moon was peering over the horizon to her right, and by its light she found the road that turned abruptly toward the Rio Grande, a mile or more distant. The black mud from the last heavy rain had hardened; the ruts in this side road were deep, and the car leaped and plunged, flinging its occupants from side to side. Ahead loomed the dark ridge of the river thickets, a dense rampart of mesquite, ebony, and coma, with here and there a taller alamo or hackberry thrusting itself skyward. But even before they were sheltered from the moonlight Paloma saw the lights of another automobile approaching along the main-traveled highway behind them—the lights, evidently, of Tad Lewis's machine. A moment later Alaire's car drove into the black shadows, but, fearing to switch on her headlights, she felt her way cautiously between the walls of foliage until at her right another opening showed, like a narrow arroyo, diverging from the one they followed. Into this she swerved, regardless of the fact that it was half grown up with brush. Thorny branches swept the sides of the machine; rank, dew-soaked grass rose to the height of the tonneau. The car came to a jolting pause, then the motor ceased its purring, and the two women sat motionless, listening for the rattle of the on-coming machine. It had been a short, swift, exciting ride. "Young Ed's" runabout could not be many minutes ahead of them.

Alaire knew the Tad Lewis car, an old-style, cheap affair, which advertised its mechanical imperfections by a loud clashing of gears and a noisy complaint of loose parts; therefore, when the leafy canon walls behind her hiding-place were brilliantly illuminated and a car stole silently past at low speed, she seized Paloma by the arm and whispered:

"That's not Lewis."

"Who is it? It can't be Ed."

"No, he and Longorio are ahead of us. It's another motor entirely."

The women got out, then breasted the high grass and brambles between their hiding-place and the pump-house road. As soon as they were back in the trail they made all possible speed, speculating meanwhile upon the mystery of the unknown car. Emerging into the clearing which surrounded the power-plant, they discovered the machine in question standing dark and deserted in the shadows. Evidently the driver, whoever he was, well knew what he was about, and had not blundered upon this place by accident. A hundred yards away they could now see the ghostly Rio Grande, its saffron surface faintly silvered by the low moon; lights gleamed from the windows of Morales's house. In the distance the vague outlines of the Mexican shore were resolving themselves, and far beyond winked the evidence that some belated citizens of Romero were still awake.

Paloma had brought with her the long-barreled Winchester rifle, and this she clutched nervously as she and Alaire stood whispering. Conditions were favorable for an approach to the pump-house itself, for two ridges of earth, perhaps eight feet high, thrown up like parallel furrows from a giant plow, marked the beginning of the irrigation ditch, and in the shadow of these the women worked their way forward, unobserved. They had nearly reached their goal when out into the clearing behind them, with metallic rattle and clang, burst another automobile, and Paloma whispered, excitedly:

"There's the Lewis outfit at last."

In the Lewis car were several men. They descended hurriedly, and when one of them ran around the front of the car to turn off its lights both women saw that he carried a rifle. Evidently Tad Lewis had come prepared for desperate measures.

A small door gave entrance to the boiler-room, and into the lock of this Mrs. Austin fitted a key; the next moment she and Paloma were safely inside. They found themselves in utter darkness now, with a smooth brick floor beneath their feet and a strong odor of oil and burnt fuel in their nostrils.

Alaire was agreeably surprised in Paloma Jones, for, although the girl was wrought to a pitch of hysterical excitement, she had, nevertheless, retained her wits; nor had she faltered in the slightest. It was evident that the fighting blood of her father was aroused in her, for she said, calmly:

"When it gets light enough to shoot, I'm going to get Tad Lewis."

"Don't act too quickly," cautioned Alaire. "Perhaps your father and Dave have come and gone. Anyhow, we can warn them just as well by firing into the air."

In reply to this suggestion Paloma merely muttered something under her breath.

The brief night ride had given Alaire time in which to recover from her first apprehensions, and now she was surprised at her own coolness. Ed's behavior had shocked and horrified her; she was still half paralyzed at his treachery; nevertheless, her mind was clear, and she was determined to avert a tragedy if possible. She knew only too well what would happen when Blaze Jones and Dave Law encountered the Lewis gang; the presence of Longorio's soldiers merely made more certain the outcome of that meeting. The general was furious; it was plain that he would not tolerate this expedition, the avowed purpose of which was to prove him a liar. It would make but little difference, therefore, whether the quest for Ricardo Guzman's body had been successful or not: even the fact that this was American soil would not deter Longorio from violent action, for the Rio Grande was no real boundary, and this part of Texas was as truly Mexican as that other river-bank which lay two hundred yards distant.

A confusion of such thoughts were racing through Alaire's mind as she felt her way out of the boiler-room and into that part of the building where the pumping machinery stood. Dusty, cobwebbed windows let in a faint ghost-glow of moonlight, but prevented clear observation of anything outside; Alaire's fumbling fingers found the latch of the front door and began to lift it, when some one spoke, just outside the building.

"What did you discover?" inquired a voice which neither woman recognized. Paloma clutched blindly for her companion; the two eavesdroppers stood rooted in their tracks. The pounding of their hearts sounded loudly. Since the building was little more than a wooden shell, they could plainly hear the answer:

"The house is full of Greasers. I can't tell who they are."

A third man spoke, this time in Spanish. "That was Tad Lewis who just came, senor."

There followed some whispered words indistinguishable to the listeners, then a rustle of bodies moving through the tall grass and weeds.

Paloma placed her lips close to Alaire's ear. "Who are those people?" she breathed.

"I don't know. They must be the ones who came in that strange automobile."

Paloma chattered viciously: "Everybody in Texas is here. I wish we'd thought to scatter tacks behind us."

Cautiously they swung the door back and looked out. The open space along the river-bank was leveled by the moonlight; from Morales's house, to their right, came the sound of voices. The women waited.

A few moments, then a number of men appeared. Paloma judged there were at least a dozen, but she was too excited to count them. As they came straggling toward the pump-house one of them called back:

"Morales! Put out your damned lights," Both women recognized Tad Lewis as the speaker.

Alaire had stubbornly refused to charge her husband with any active share in this evil business, but her faith in Ed suddenly vanished when she heard him say:

"Hush! You're making too much noise. You'd better scatter out, too, for there's no telling where they'll land." Alaire leaned weakly against the door. "I'm going to leave, and let you-all attend to the rest," he was saying. But Tad Lewis halted him as he turned from the group.

"Where are you going, Ed? You left your car back yonder by the road. I almost ran into it."

"Eh? What are you talking about? My car is over by Morales's house."

"Senor Austin is in a great hurry," sneered some one in Spanish. "Once more he leaves all of the fighting to his friends."

"That's Adolfo Urbina," panted Paloma. "I know him." Stung by this open charge of cowardice, Austin began a voluble defense, but in the midst of it General Longorio addressed him, sharply:

"You will stay here, senor. Nobody leaves this place."

"I told you I wouldn't be a party to the business," Ed declared, hotly. "You forced me to come in the first place—"

"Yes! And now I force you to stay."

Longorio's stand appeared to please Lewis, who chimed in with the words: "That's right, Ed. You've got to stick, for once in your life."

"What do you mean, you nearly ran into my car back yonder?" Austin asked, after a moment.

"Ain't that your machine yonder by the thicket?" inquired Lewis. "If it ain't, whose is it?" As no one answered, he started in the direction he had indicated; but at that moment a man came running from the riverbank, crying, softly:

"Look out! They come."

"I'm going to shoot," Paloma Jones gasped, but Alaire, who once again heard the sound of whispering in the shadows just outside their hiding-place, managed to restrain her companion. It was well that she succeeded, for even as Paloma raised her weapon a man passed swiftly by the crack of the half-open door and scarcely ten feet beyond the muzzle of the rifle. He was followed by three others.

The first of the new-comers, acting as spokesman for his party, stepped out into the moonlight and cried, loudly: "Hello, men! What's goin' on here?" It was an American voice; it had a broad, slow, Texas drawl.

The group of plotters turned, there was a startled murmur, then Tad Lewis answered:

"Hello! Who are you? What do you want?"

"I reckon we must have got off the road," announced the stranger. Then he peered out across the river: "Say! Ain't that a skiff coming yonder?" he inquired.

"Well, it don't look like a steamboat." Lewis laughed, disagreeably. "We're havin' a little party of our own. I reckon you fellows had better beat it. Understand?"

The outposts that had been sent to cover the bank in both directions were now coming in. Through the stillness of the night there sounded the thump of oar-locks. Seeing that the stranger did not seem to take his hint, Lewis raised his voice menacingly:

"That's your road back yonder. It's a right good road, and I'd advise you to travel it, fast."

But this suggestion was also ignored; in fact, it appeared to amuse the man addressed, for he, too, laughed. He turned, and the women noticed that he carried a short saddle-gun. They saw, also, that at least one of the men at his back was similarly armed.

"Now, what's the hurry?" The stranger was chuckling. Suddenly he raised his voice and called, loudly: "Hello, Dave! Is that you-all?"

The answer floated promptly back: "Hello, Cap! Sure it's us."

"Have you got him?"

It was Blaze Jones's voice which answered this time: "You bet!"

Paloma Jones was trembling now. She clung to Alaire, crying, thankfully: "It's the Rangers! The Rangers!" Then she broke away and ran out into the moonlight, trailing her absurd firearm after her.

"Now, boys," the Ranger captain was saying, "I know 'most every one of you, and we ain't going to have the least bit of trouble over this thing, are we? I reckon you-all are friends of Ricardo Guzman, and you just couldn't wait to find out about him, eh?"

Alaire, who had followed Paloma, was close enough now to recognize the two Guzman boys as members of the Ranger party. Lewis and his men had drawn together at the first alarm; Longorio's Mexicans had gathered about their leader. The entire situation had changed in a moment, and the Ranger captain was in control of it.

Soon Dave Law and Blaze Jones came up over the river-bank; they paused, stricken with surprise at finding a score of people where they had expected no more than four.

Blaze was the first to speak. "What the hell?" he cried. He peered near-sightedly from one to the other; then his huge bulk shook with laughter: "Say, do my glasses magnify, or is this an Odd-Fellows meetin'?"

"Dad! Oh, Dad!" Paloma scurried to him and flung herself into his arms.

"Lord of mercy, kid!" the father exclaimed. "Why, you'd ought to be home and abed, long ago. You'll catch your death of cold. Is that gun loaded."

Dave Law was even more amazed than his companion. His first glimpse of the waiting figures had warned him that something had gone wrong, and, therefore, he did not stop to ask himself how Tad Lewis and Longorio could have learned of this affair, or what could have brought Alaire and Ed Austin to the scene. Recovering from his first surprise, he took a position beside his superior officer.

Captain Evans did not seem at all troubled by the disparity in numbers. One Ranger, or two at the most, had always been sufficient to quell a Texan disturbance; now that there were three of them, he felt equal to an invasion of Mexican soil, if necessary. In consequence he relaxed his watchful vigilance, and to Dave he drawled:

"We've got most of the leading citizens of the county, and I reckon somebody in the outfit will be able to identify Guzman."

"There's no trouble about that, sir. We found him. Pedro and Raoul can make sure." The sons of Ricardo Guzman stepped forward promptly, and Law waved them toward the boat landing, where the two helpers were waiting with Ricardo's remains.

Despite the Ranger captain's easy assumption of command, the strain of the situation had not subsided, and Longorio drew swift attention to himself when he said:

"It is fortunate that I chanced to learn of this matter. You have done me a great service, Senor Law, for I came to Romero purposely to examine into the death of this unfortunate man. But I could learn nothing; nobody knew anything whatever about the matter, and so I became convinced that it amounted to little. Now—behold! I discover that I was deceived. Or—perhaps there still may be a mistake."

Blaze Jones thrust his daughter aside and advanced toward the speaker. "There's no mistake," he declared, belligerently. "I don't make mistakes when I go grave-robbin'. Don Ricardo was shot by your men. He had five thousand dollars on him, or he should have had, and he was an American citizen. Your Colonel Blanco covered the body, but he'll have a hell of a job coverin' the facts. It's time we came to a showdown with your murderin' outfit, and I aim to see if we've got a government in this country."

"Heaven guided my hand," devoutly breathed the general. "It is regrettable that you used this means when a word to me would have served the purpose, for—it is no trivial matter to desecrate a Mexican graveyard. My country, too, has a government. An officer of the State of Texas, under arms, has crossed the Rio Grande. What does that mean?"

Captain Evans had a sense of humor; Longorio's ominous words amused him. "Say, general, it ain't the first time," he chortled. "And you're an officer, too, ain't you? You're in Texas at this minute, and I'll bet if I frisked you I'd find that you was under arms." The Mexican understood English sufficiently well to grasp the significance of these words. After a moment's consideration, therefore, he modified his threatening tone.

"But my mission was friendly. I had no criminal purpose," he said, mildly. "However—perhaps one offense condones the other. At any rate, we must have no international complications. There is a more practical side to the matter: if Don Ricardo Guzman met his death in Mexico there will be a rigid investigation, I assure you."

Evans agreed. "That's fair! And I'll make a bargain with you: you keep still and so'll we. We never aimed for this affair to get out, anyhow. I reckon these men"—he indicated Lewis and his followers—"ain't liable to talk much."

The two Guzman boys, greatly moved, returned to announce that they had indeed identified their father's body, and Longorio could not well refuse to accept their evidence.

"Very well," said he. "I am indebted to you. Since there is nothing more to be said, apparently, I will return to Romero." With a bow to Mrs. Austin, who had silently watched the play of these opposing motives, he turned away, and Tad Lewis followed him.

But Dave Law had recognized Adolfo Urbina in the crowd, and, stepping forward, disarmed him, saying:

"Adolfo, there's a warrant for you, so I'll just take you in."

For a moment Adolfo was inclined to resist, but, thinking better of it, he yielded with bad grace, bitterly regretting the curiosity which had prompted him to remain to the end of this interesting affair.

Tad Lewis gave him some comfort. "Never mind, Adolfo," he said. "They can't prove anything on you, and I'll go your bail. Ed Austin knows where you was the day that stock was stole." He and his two remaining men moved toward their automobile, and a moment later the vehicle went clattering away up the thicket road.

So ended the attempt to foil the return of Ricardo Guzman's body to Texas soil.

When Alaire came to look for her husband he was gone.



XX

SUPERSTITIONS AND CERTAINTIES

The sensation caused by Ricardo Guzman's disappearance was as nothing to that which followed the recovery of his body. By the next afternoon it was known from Mexico to the Canadian border that the old ranchman had been shot by Mexican soldiers in Romero. It was reported that a party of Americans had invaded foreign soil and snatched Ricardo's remains from under the nose of General Longorio. But there all reliable information ceased. Just how the rescue had been effected, by whom it had been done, what reasons had prompted it, were a mystery. With the first story the newspapers printed a terse telegram, signed by Captain Evans and addressed to the Governor of Texas, which read:

"Ranger force crossed Rio Grande and brought back the body of Ricardo Guzman."

This message created tremendous enthusiasm, for the Texas Rangers have ever stood for prompt and decisive action; but two hours after the publication of this despatch there came a sharp inquiry from Washington, and on the heels of that the State House at Austin denied the receipt of any such message.

When this denial was in turn made public, the newspapers demanded to know who had performed this sensational exploit. One rumor had it that the sons of Ricardo Guzman had risked their lives to insure their father Christian burial. This was amplified by a touching pen-picture of the rancher's weeping family waiting at the bank of the Rio Grande, and an affecting account of the grief of the beautiful Guzman girls. It mattered not that there were no daughters.

In other quarters the expedition was credited to members of a secret order to which Ricardo had belonged; from a third source came a statement that the Guzman family had hired a band of Mexicans to exhume the body, so that proof of death might be sufficient to satisfy an insurance company in which the rancher had held a policy. Even at Jonesville there were conflicting rumors.

But, whatever the facts of the rescue, it was generally recognized that the result had been to bring on a crisis in the affairs of the two nations. People declared that since the outrage was now proven the next move was the duty of the State Department at Washington. Therefore, when several days passed and nothing was done, a wide-spread feeling of indignation grew. What mattered these diplomatic communications between the two governments? it was asked. Why wait for another investigation by General Longorio?

Strong influences, however, were at work to prevent that very outcome for which the people of Texas prayed. During the delay there arose a report that Ricardo Guzman had borne an evil reputation, and that he had been so actively associated with the Rebel cause as to warrant punishment by the Federal government. Moreover, a legal question as to his American citizenship was raised—a question which seemed to have important bearing upon the case.

Public interest is short-lived; few living men can hold it more than a day or two, and it reckons no dead man worthy of more than an obituary notice. Other Mexican offenses, equally grave, had failed to stir the Administration to definite action; the death of this obscure border ranchman did not seem to weigh very heavily in Washington. Thus in the course of time the Guzman incident was in a fair way of being officially forgotten and forgiven.

Of course the people of Texas did not forget, nor did those who had personally known Ricardo forgive. Dave Law, for instance, felt bitter over the matter, for he had counted upon prompt and definite results. A little pressure, properly applied, would have wrung the truth from Colonel Blanco and fastened some measure of guilt upon the men who had actually arranged the murder. Dave did not doubt Tad Lewis's part in it, but there was only one source from which pressure could be brought, and when this failed he found his further efforts blocked. There remained to him only the consolation of knowing that he had in a measure squared his account with old Ricardo.

But there were several persons who felt intense relief at the course events had taken, and among these was Alaire Austin. In the days following that midnight expedition she had had ample time in which to meditate upon her husband's actions, "Young Ed" had taken advantage of the confusion to slip out of the crowd and escape in his roadster, and when Alaire arrived at Las Palmas she had found that he was gone, leaving behind no word as to when he would return. It seemed probable that he had fled to San Antonio, there to remain until interest in the Guzman matter had abated. If Ed was relieved to escape the immediate consequences of his connection with the affair, his wife was no less thankful for his absence, since it left her free to think and to plan. Their relations were becoming constantly more difficult; she realized that it was impossible for her to go on in this way much longer. Before leaving Ed had again rifled the safe, thus disregarding for a second time his explicit agreement with his wife. Of course, he was welcome to whatever money he needed, even in excess of his allowance; but his act showed his weak sense of honor and strengthened Alaire's conviction that he was in every way rapidly deteriorating. As yet she could not believe him really wicked at heart—he had many qualities which were above the average—nor could she convince herself that he had been criminally involved in Tad Lewis's schemes. And yet, what other explanation could there be? Ed's behavior had been extraordinary; his evident terror at news of Dave Law's expedition, his conversation with Tad Lewis over the telephone, his subsequent actions at the river, all seemed to indicate that he had some vital interest in maintaining the mystery of Guzman's death. What could it be?

Suspicions like these were extremely disturbing. In spite of herself Alaire began to think more seriously about that separation which Ed had so frequently offered her. Her whole nature, it is true, recoiled at the thought of divorce; it was a thing utterly repugnant to her sentiment and her creed—a thing that stood for notoriety, gossip, scandal. Deep in her heart she felt that divorce was wicked, for marriage to her had always meant a sacred and unbreakable bond. And yet there seemed to be no alternative. She wished Ed would go away—leave her quietly and for ever, so that she might live out her empty life in seclusion—but that, of course, he would never do.

Such longings were not strangers to Alaire; they were old and persistent enemies; but of late the prospect of a loveless, childless future was growing more and more unbearable. Even her day dreams failed to give their customary relief; those imaginary figures with whom she took counsel were strangely unresponsive.

She had told Paloma Jones about her dream-children, but she had not confessed the existence of another and a far more intimate creature of her brain—one who occupied the place Ed Austin should have held. There was such a person, however, and Alaire called him her dream husband. Now this man's physical aspect was never long the same; it altered according to her changing ideals or to the impression left by new acquaintances; nevertheless, he was in some ways the most real and the most tangible of all her pale romantic fancies. No one who has watched a solitary child at play can doubt that it sees and hears playmates invisible to others. Alaire Austin, in the remotest depths of her being, was still a child. Of late her prince had assumed new characteristics and a new form. He was no longer any one of the many shapes he had been; he was more like the spirit of the out-of-doors—a strong-limbed, deep-chested, sun-bronzed creature, with a strain of gipsy blood that called to hers. He was moody, yet tender, roughly masculine, and yet possessed of the gentleness and poetry of a girl. He was violent tempered; he was brave; he rode a magnificent bay mare that worshiped him, as did all animals.