"Nowhere a trace!" the horse-breaker was saying. "No one has seen him.

Poor Rosa Morales will die of a broken heart."

Alaire explained to her guest: "Jose is worried about his cousin Panfilo. It seems he has disappeared."

"So! You are Panfilo's cousin?" Dave eyed the Mexican with new interest.

"Si!"

"You remember the man?" Alaire went on. "He was with that fellow you arrested at the water-hole."

"Oh yes. I remember him." With steady fingers Dave shook some tobacco into a cigarette-paper. He felt Alaire's eyes upon him, and they were eloquent of inquiry, but he did not meet them.

Jose frowned. "No one at La Feria has seen him, and in Pueblo there was not a word. It is strange."

"Panfilo was in bad company when I saw him." Law finished rolling his cigarette and lit it, still conscious of Alaire's questioning gaze. "He may have had trouble."

"He was a good man," the horse-breaker a.s.serted. "If he is dead--" The Mexican's frown deepened to a scowl.

"What then?"

Jose significantly patted the gift revolver at his hip. "This little fellow will have something to say."

Dave looked him over idly, from head to heel, then murmured: "You would do well to go slow, compadre. Panfilo made his own quarrels."

"We were like brothers, and I do not know of any quarrels. But I shall find out. It begins to look bad for somebody. After he left that charco there is--nothing. Where did he go? Whom did he encounter? Rosa will ask me those questions. I am not given to boasting, senor, but I am a devilish bad man in my way."

XV

THE TRUTH ABOUT PANFILO

Nothing more was said during the luncheon, but when Alaire had finished eating and her two employees had begun their meal, she climbed the bank of the arroyo ostensibly to find a cool spot. Having succeeded, she called to Dave:

"There is a nice breeze up here."

The Ranger's face set; rising slowly, he climbed the bank after her.

When they stood face to face in the shade of a gnarly oak-tree, Alaire asked him point-blank:

"Where is Panfilo Sanchez?"

Dave met her eyes squarely; his own were cold and hard. "He's where he dropped at my second shot," said he.

He could hear his companion's sharp inhalation. He did not flinch at the look she turned upon him.

"Then--you killed him?"

"Yes'm!"

"G.o.d! He was practically unarmed! What do you call--such an act?"

Dave's lips slowly whitened, his face became stony. He closed his eyes, then opened them upon hers. "He had it coming. He stole my horse. He took a chance."

Mrs. Austin turned away. For a time they were silent and Dave felt himself pitilessly condemned.

"Why didn't you tell me at the time?" she asked. "Why didn't you report it?"

"I'll report it when you give me permission."

"I--? What--?" She wheeled to face him.

"Think a moment. I can't tell half the truth. And if I tell everything it will lead to--gossip."

"Ah! I think I understand. Mr. Law, you can be insulting--"

For the first time the man lost muscular control of his features; they twitched, and under their tan his cheeks became a sickly yellow.

"You've no right to say that," he told her, harshly. "You've plumb overstepped yourself, ma'am, and--I reckon you've formed quite a wrong opinion of me and of the facts. Let me tell you something about that killing and about myself, so you'll have it all straight before you bring in your verdict. You say Panfilo was unarmed, and you call it--murder. He had his six-shooter and he used it; he had the darkness and the swiftest horse, too. He intended to ambush me and release his companion, but I forced his hand; so it ain't what _I'd_ call murder.

Now about myself: Panfilo isn't the first man I've killed, and he may not be the last, but I haven't lost any sleep over it, and I'd have killed him just as quick if I hadn't been an officer. That's the kind of man I am, and you may as well know it. I--"

"You are utterly ruthless."

"Yes'm!"

"You left him there without burial."

Law shrugged impatiently. "What's the difference? He's there to stay; and he's just as dead under the stars as he'd be under the sand. I'd rather lie facing the sky than the gra.s.s roots."

"But--you must have known it would get out, sometime. This puts both of us in a very bad light."

"I know. But I stood on my cards. I'd have preferred to report it, but--I'd keep still again, under the same circ.u.mstances. You seem to consider that an insult. If it is, I don't know how to compliment you, ma'am."

Alaire pondered this statement briefly before saying, "You have a strange way of looking at the affair--a strange, careless, unnatural way, it seems to me."

"Perhaps that's the fault of my training. I'm not what you would consider a nice person; the death of Panfilo Sanchez means nothing whatever to me. If you can grasp that fact, you'll see that your own reputation weighed heavier in my mind than the lives of a dozen Mexicans--or whites, for that matter. People know me for what I am, and--that may have had something to do with my decision."

"I go anywhere, everywhere. No one has ever had the effrontery to question my actions," Alaire told him, stiffly.

"And I don't aim to give 'em a chance." Dave was stubborn.

There was another interval of silence.

"You heard what Jose said. What are you going to do?"

Dave made a gesture of indifference. "It doesn't greatly matter. I'll tell him the truth, perhaps."

Such an att.i.tude was incomprehensible to Alaire and brought an impatient frown to her brow. "You don't seem to realize that he will try to revenge himself."