er blood hot and racing, she would have gloried in the
violence which she had so deplored: she would have welcomed the action
that had characterized Stewart's treatment of Don Carlos; she had in her
the sudden dawning temper of a woman who had been assimilating the life
and nature around her and who would not have turned her eyes away from a
harsh and bloody deed.

But Stewart held forth his hands to be manacled. Then Madeline heard her
own voice burst out in a ringing, imperious "Wait!"

In the time it took her to make the few steps to the edge of the porch,
facing the men, she not only felt her anger and justice and pride
summoning forces to her command, but there was something else calling--a
deep, passionate, mysterious thing not born of the moment.

Sneed dropped the manacles. Stewart's face took on a chalky whiteness.
Hawe, in a slow, stupid embarrassment beyond his control, removed his
sombrero in a respect that seemed wrenched from him.

"Mr. Hawe, I can prove to you that Stewart was not concerned in any way
whatever with the crime for which you want to arrest him."

The sheriff's stare underwent a blinking change. He coughed, stammered,
and tried to speak. Manifestly, he had been thrown completely off his
balance. Astonishment slowly merged into discomfiture.

"It was absolutely impossible for Stewart to have been connected with
that assault," went on Madeline, swiftly, "for he was with me in the
waiting-room of the station at the moment the assault was made outside.
I assure you I have a distinct and vivid recollection. The door was
open. I heard the voices of quarreling men. They grew louder. The
language was Spanish. Evidently these men had left the dance-hall
opposite and were approaching the station. I heard a woman's voice
mingling with the others. It, too, was Spanish, and I could not
understand. But the tone was beseeching. Then I heard footsteps on
the gravel. I knew Stewart heard them. I could see from his face that
something dreadful was about to happen. Just outside the door then there
were hoarse, furious voices, a scuffle, a muffled shot, a woman's cry,
the thud of a falling body, and rapid footsteps of a man running away.
Next, the girl Bonita staggered into the door. She was white, trembling,
terror-stricken. She recognized Stewart, appealed to him. Stewart
supported her and endeavored to calm her. He was excited. He asked her
if Danny Mains had been shot, or if he had done the shooting. Th