nother shot
followed, and then a third. Both Alaire and her prisoner were on their
feet, the woman shaking in every limb, the Mexican straining his eyes
into the gloom and listening intently.

Soon there came a further echo of dry earth and gravel dislodged, but
whether by Law's horse or by that of Sanchez was uncertain. Perhaps
both men had gained the mesa.

It had all happened so quickly and so unexpectedly that Alaire felt she
must be dreaming, or that there had been some idiotic mistake. She
wondered if the Ranger's sudden charge had not simply frightened
Panfilo into a panicky flight, and she tried to put her thoughts into
words the Mexican would understand, but his answer was unintelligible.
His black scowl, however, was eloquent of uncertainty and apprehension.

Alaire had begun to feel the strain of the situation and was trying to
decide what next to do, when David Law came riding out of the twilight.
He was astride the gray; behind him at the end of a lariat was Bessie
Belle, and her saddle was empty.

Mrs. Austin uttered a sharp cry.

Law dismounted and strode to the prisoner. His face was black with
fury; he seemed gigantic in his rage. Without a word he raised his
right hand and cuffed the Mexican to his knees. Then he leaped upon
him, as a dog might pounce upon a rabbit, rolled him to his face, and
twisted the fellow's arms into the small of his back. Anto cursed, he
struggled, but he was like a child in the Ranger's grasp. Law knelt
upon him, and with a jerk of his riata secured the fellow's wrists;
rising, he set the knot with another heave that dragged the prisoner to
his knees. Next he booted Anto to his feet.

"By God! I've a notion to bend a gun over your head," Law growled.
"Clever little game, wasn't it?"

"Where--? Did you--kill him?" the woman gasped.

Alaire had never beheld such a demoniac expression as Law turned upon
her. The man's face was contorted, his eyes were blazing insanely, his
chest was heaving, and for an instant he seemed to include her in his
anger. Ignoring her inquiry, he went to his mare and ran his shaking
hands over her as if in search of an injury; his questing palms covered
every inch of glistening hide from forelock to withers, from shoulder
to hoof, and under cover of this task he regained in some degree his
self-control.

"That hombre of yours--didn't look right to me," he said, finally.
Laying his cheek against Bessie Belle's neck, as a woman snuggles close