by Zane Grey
“You like knights and—chivalry and such things, don’t you?”
“Chivalry, yes. In the days when I believed in it I used to cry over those romances.”
“Don’t you still believe in chivalry?”
Alaire turned her eyes upon the questioner, and there were no girlish illusions in them. “Do you?” she queried, with a faint curl of her lip.
“Why—yes.”
She shook her head. “Men have changed. Nowadays they are all selfish and sordid. But—I shouldn’t generalize, for I’m a notorious man-hater, you know.”
“It seems to me that women are just as selfish as men—perhaps more so—in all but little things.”
“Our definitions of ‘little things’ may differ. What do you call a big thing?”
“Love! That’s the biggest thing in the world,” Law responded, promptly.
“It seems to be so considered. So you think women are selfish in love?” He nodded, whereupon she eyed him speculatively. “Let us see. You are a man—how far would you go for the woman you loved?”
“The limit!”
Mrs. Austin frowned at this light-seeming answer. “I suppose you mean that you would make any sacrifice?”
“Yes; that’s it.”
“Would you give up the woman herself, if you considered it your duty?”
“No. There couldn’t be any duty higher than love—to my way of thinking. But you shouldn’t take me as a specimen. I’m not a good representative of my sex.”
“I think you are a very good one,” Alaire said, quietly, and Dave realized that no flattery was intended. Although he was willing to talk further on this subject, Mrs. Austin gave him no opportunity of airing his views. Love, it appeared, was a thing she did not care to discuss with him on their footing of semi-intimacy.
Despite the rough roads, they made fair time, and the miles of cactus and scrawny brush rolled swiftly past. Occasionally a lazy jack-rabbit ambled out of his road-side covert and watched them from a safe distance; now and then a spotted road-runner raced along the dusty ruts ahead of them. The morning sun swung higher, and by midday the metal of the automobile had become as hot as a frying-pan. They stopped at various goat-ranches to inquire about Adolfo Urbina, and at noon halted beside a watercourse for lunch.
Dave was refilling the radiator when he overheard José in conversation with Mrs. Austin.
“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: “José 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.
José 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 asserted. “If he is dead—” The Mexican’s frown deepened to a scowl.
“What then?”
José 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, señor, 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!”
“God! 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 grass 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 circumstances. 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 qu
estion 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 José 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 attitude 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.”
“You might warn him against any such foolishness. José has some sense.”
The woman looked up curiously. “Don’t you know how to be afraid? Haven’t you any fear?” she asked.
Dave’s gray eyes were steady as he answered: “Yes’m! I’m afraid this thing is going to spoil our friendship. I’ve been desperately afraid, all along, that I might have hurt your reputation. Even now I’m afraid, on your account, to make public Panfilo Sanchez’s death. Yes’m, I know what it is to be afraid.”
“I presume the law would hold you blameless,” she said, thoughtfully.
“If there was any doubt about that it would be another matter entirely. A Ranger can get away with a heap more than killing a Mexican. No! It’s up to you to say what I shall do.”
“Let me think it over. José mustn’t know to-day, that’s certain.”
“I’m in your hands.”
They returned to the automobile in silence, but as they took their seats Dave said:
“You’re tired, ma’am. Won’t you let me drive?”
“Can you?”
When he smiled his answer, Alaire was only too glad to give up the wheel, for her nerves were indeed unsteady and she was grateful for an opportunity to think out the best course to pursue in this unexpected difficulty. Later, as she listened to Law’s inconsequential talk with Dolores and José, and watched the way he handled the car, she marveled at his composure. She wondered if this man could have a heart.
It became evident to Dave, as the afternoon progressed, that they would be very late in arriving at Las Palmas; for although he drove as rapidly as he dared over such roads, the miles were long and the going heavy. They were delayed, too, by a mishap that held them back for an hour or two, and he began to fear that his hostess would feel in duty bound to insist upon his spending the night at her home. To accept, after his clash with Ed Austin, was of course impossible, and he dreaded another explanation at this particular crisis.
That a crisis in their relations had arisen he felt sure. He had tried to make plain his attitude of mind toward the killing of Panfilo Sanchez, and the wisdom of his course thereafter, but he doubted if Alaire understood the one or agreed with the other. Probably she considered him inhuman, or, what was worse, cowardly in attempting to avoid the consequences of his act. And yet he could not explain his full anxiety to protect her good name without confessing to a deeper interest in her than he dared. And his interest was growing by leaps and bounds. This woman fascinated him; he was infatuated—bewitched by her personality. To be near her affected him mentally and physically in a way too extraordinary to analyze or to describe. It was as if they were so sympathetically attuned that the mere sound of her voice set his whole being into vibrant response, where all his life he had lain mute. She played havoc with his resolutions, too, awaking in him the wildest envy and desire. He no longer thought of her as unattainable; on the contrary, her husband’s shortcomings seemed providential. Absurd, impossible ways of winning her suggested themselves. To risk a further estrangement, therefore, was intolerable.
But as if his thoughts were telepathic messages, she did the very thing he feared.
“We won’t be in before midnight,” she said, “but I’ll send you to Jonesville in the morning.”
“Thank you, ma’am—I’ll have to go right through.”
“I’ll get you there in time for business. We’ve gained a reputation for inhospitableness at Las Palmas that I want to overcome.” In spite of their recent clash, in spite of the fact that this fellow’s ruthlessness and indifference to human life shocked her, Alaire was conscious of her obligation to him, and aware also of a growing friendship between them which made the present situation all the more trying. Law was likable, and he inspired her with a sense of security to which she had long been a stranger. “Mr. Austin ought to know,” she added, “about this—matter we were discussing, and I want him to meet you.”
“He has!” Dave said, shortly; and at his tone Alaire looked up.
“So!” She studied his grim face. “And you quarreled?”
“I’d really prefer to go on, ma’am. I’ll get to Jonesville somehow.”
“You refuse—to stay under his roof?”
“That’s about it.”
“I’m sorry.” She did not ask for further explanation.
Evening came, bringing a grateful coolness, and they drove through a tunnel of light walled in by swiftly moving shadows.
The windows of Las Palmas were black, the house silent, when they arrived at their journey’s end; Dolores was fretful, and her mistress ached in every bone. When José had helped his countrywoman into the house Alaire said:
“If you insist upon going through you must take the car. You can return it to-morrow.”
“And—about Panfilo?” Dave queried.
“Wait. Perhaps I’ll decide what is best to do in the mean time. Good night.”
Law took her extended hand. Alaire was glad that he did not fondle it in that detestable Mexican fashion of which she had lately experienced so much; glad that the grasp of his long, strong fingers was merely firm and friendly. When he stepped back into the car and drove off through the night she stood for some time looking after him.
Blaze Jones had insisted that Dave live at his house, and the Ranger had accepted the invitation; but as it was late when the latter arrived at Jonesville, he went to the hotel for a few hours’ rest. When he drove his borrowed machine up to the Jones house, about breakfast-time, both Blaze and Paloma were delighted to see him.
“Say, now! What you doing rolling around in a gasoline go-devil?” the elder man inquired, and Law was forced to explain.
“Why, Mrs. Austin must have experienced a change of heart!” exclaimed Paloma. “She never gave anybody a lift before.”
Blaze agreed. “She’s sure poisonous to strangers.” Then he looked over the car critically. “These automobiles are all right, but whenever I want to go somewhere and get back I take a team of hay-burners. Mules don’t puncture. The first automobile Paloma had nearly scared me to death. On the road to Brownsville there used to be a person who didn’t like me—we’d had a considerable unpleasantness, in fact. One day Paloma and I were lickety-splittin’ along past his place when we had a blow-out. It was the first one I’d ever heard, and it fooled me complete—comin’ right at that particular turn of the road. I sure thought this party I spoke of had cut down on me, so I r’ared up and unlimbered. I shot out three window-lights in his house before Paloma could explain. If he’d been in sight I’d have beefed him then and there, and saved six months’ delay. No, gas-buggies are all right for people with strong nerves, but I’m tuned too high.”
“Father has never learned to drive a car without yelling ‘Gee’ and ‘Haw,’” laughed Paloma. “And he thinks he has title to the whole road, too. You know these Mexicans are slow about pulling their wagons to one side. Well, father got mad one day, and when a team refused him the right of way he whipped out his revolver and fired.”
Blaze smiled broadly. “It worked great. And believe me, them Greasers took to the ditch. I went through like a hot wind, but I shot up sixty-five ca’tridges between here and town.”
“Why didn’t Mrs. Austin ask you to stay all night at Las Palmas?” the girl inquired of Dave.
“She did.”
“Wonderful!” Paloma’s surprise was evidently sincere. “I suppose you refused because of the way Ed treated you? Well, I’d have accepted just to spite him. Tell me, is she nice?”
“She’s lovely.”
This vehement declaration brought a sudden gleam of interest into the questioner’s eyes.
“They say she has the most wonderful gowns and jewels, and dresses for dinner every night. Well”—Paloma tossed her head—“I’m going to have some nice clothes, too. You wait!”
“Now don’t you start riggin’ yourself up for meals,” Blaze said, warningly. “First thing I know you’ll have me in a full-dress suit, spillin’ soup on my shirt.” Then to his guest he complained, feelingly: “I don’t know what’s come over Paloma lately; this new dressmaker has plumb stampeded her. Somebody’d ought to run that feline out of town before she ruins me.”
“She is a very nice woman,” complacently declared the daughter; but her father snorted loudly.
“I wouldn’t associate with such a critter.”
“My! But you’re proud.”
“It ain’t that,” Blaze defended himself. “I know her husband, and he’s a bad hombre. He backed me up against a waterin’-trough and told my fortune yesterday. He said I’d be married twice and have many children. He told me I was fond of music and a skilled performer on the organ, but melancholy and subject to catarrh, Bright’s disease, and ailments of the legs. He said I loved widows, and unless I was poisoned by a dark lady I’d live to be eighty years old. Why, he run me over like a pet squirrel lookin’ for moles, and if I’d had a gun on me I’d have busted him for some of the things he said. ‘A dark lady!’ That’s his wife. I give you warnin’, Paloma, don’t you ask her to stay for meals. People like them are dangerous.”
“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.”
