ded 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