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."
"Maybe he can tell me where to find Adolfo Urbina?" Dave suggested.
"Humph! If he can't, Tad Lewis can. Say, Dave, this case of yours has stirred up a lot of feelin' against Tad. The prosecutin' attorney says he'll sure cinch him and Urbina, both. One of Lewis's men got on a bender the other night and declared Adolfo would never come to trial."
"What did he mean?"
"It may have been mescal talk, but witnesses sometimes have a way of disappearin'. I wouldn't put anything past that gang."
Not long after breakfast Don Ricardo Guzman appeared at the Jones house and warmly greeted his two friends. To Dave he explained:
"Last night I came to town, and this morning I heard you had returned, so I rode out at once. You were unsuccessful?"
"Our man never went to Pueblo."
"Exactly. I thought as much."
"He's probably safe across the river."
But Ricardo thought otherwise. "No. Urbina deserted from this very Colonel Blanco who commands the forces at Romero. He would scarcely venture to return to Federal territory. However, I go to meet Blanco to-day, and perhaps I shall discover something."
"What takes you over there?" Blaze inquired.
"Wait until I tell you. Señor David, here, brings me good fortune at every turn. He honors my poor thirsty rancho with a visit and brings a glorious rain; then he destroys my enemies like a thunderbolt. No sooner is this done than I receive from the Federals an offer for fifty of my best horses. Caramba! Such a price, too. They are in a great hurry, which looks as if they expected an attack from the Candeleristas at Matamoras. I hope so. God grant these traitors are defeated. Anyhow, the horses have gone, and to-day I go to get my money, in gold."
"Who's going with you?" asked Law.
Ricardo shrugged. "Nobody. There is no danger."
Blaze shook his head. "They know you are a red-hot Rebel. I wouldn't trust them."
"They know, also, that I am an American, like you gentlemen," proudly asserted Guzman. "That makes a difference. I supported the Liberator—God rest his soul!—and I secretly assist those who fight his assassins, but so does everybody else. I am receiving a fine price for those horses, so it is worth a little risk. Now, señor," he addressed himself to the Ranger, "I have brought you a little present. Day and night my boys and I have worked upon it, for we know the good heart you have. It was finished yesterday. See!" Ricardo unwrapped a bundle he had fetched, displaying a magnificent bridle of plaited horsehair. It was cunningly wrought, and lavishly decorated with silver fittings. "You recognize those hairs?" he queried. "They came from the mane and tail of your bonita."
"Bessie Belle!" Law accepted the handsome token, then held out his hand to the Mexican. "That was mighty fine of you, Ricardo. I—You couldn't have pleased me more."
"You like it?" eagerly demanded the old man. "That is good. I am repaid a thousandfold. Your sentiment is like a woman's. But see! I am famous for this work, and I have taught my boys to use their fingers, too. That mare will always guide you now, wherever you go. And we handled her gently, for your sake."
Dave nodded. "You're a good man, Ricardo. We're going to be friends."
Guzman's delight was keen, his grizzled face beamed, and he showed his white teeth in a smile. "Say no more. What is mine is yours—my house, my cattle, my right hand. I and my sons will serve you, and you must come often to see us. Now I must go." He shook hands heartily and rode away, waving his hat.
"There's a good Greaser," Blaze said, with conviction, and Dave agreed, feelingly:
"Yes! I'd about go to hell for him, after this." Then he took the bridle in for Paloma to admire.
XVI
THE RODEO
It was with a feeling of some reluctance that Dave drove up to Las Palmas shortly after the lunch hour, for he had no desire to meet "Young Ed." However, to his relief, Austin did not appear, and inasmuch as Alaire did not refer to her husband in any way, Dave decided that he must be absent, perhaps on one of his notorious sprees.
The mistress of the big ranch was in her harness, having at once assumed her neglected duties. She came to welcome her caller in a short khaki riding-suit; her feet were encased in tan boots; she wore a mannish felt hat and gauntlet gloves, showing that she had spent the morning in the saddle. Dave thought she looked exceedingly capable and business-like, and not less beautiful in these clothes; he feasted his eyes covertly upon her.
"I expected you for luncheon," she smiled; and Dave could have kicked himself. "I'm just going out now. If you're not in too great a hurry to go home you may go with me."
"That would be fine," he agreed.
"Come, then I have a horse for you." As she led the way back toward the farm buildings she explained: "I'm selling off a bunch of cattle. Benito is rounding them up and cutting out the best ones."
"You keep them, I reckon."
"Always. That's how I improve the grade. You will see a splendid herd of animals, Mr. Law—the best in South Texas. I suppose you're interested in such things."
"I'd rather watch a good herd of stock than the best show in New York," he told her.
When they came to the corrals, an intricate series of pens and chutes at the rear of the outbuildings, Law beheld two thoroughbred horses standing at the hitching-rail.
"I'm proud of my horses, too," said Alaire.
"You have reason to be." With his eyes alight Dave examined the fine points of both animals. He ran a caressing hand over them, and they recognized in him a friend.
"These beauties were raised on Kentucky blue grass. Brother and sister, aren't they?"
"Yes. Montrose and Montrosa are their names. The horse is mine, the mare is yours." Seeing that Dave did not comprehend the full import of her words, she added: "Yours to keep, I mean. You must make another Bessie Belle out of her."
"MINE? Oh—ma'am'" Law turned his eyes from Alaire to the mare, then back again. "You're too kind. I can't take her."
"You must."
Dave made as if to say something, but was too deeply embarrassed. Unable to tear himself away from the mare's side, he continued to stroke her shining coat while she turned an intelligent face to him, showing a solitary white star in the center of her forehead.
"See! She is nearly the same color as Bessie Belle."
"Yes'm! I—I want her, ma'am; I'm just sick from wanting her, but—won't you let me buy her?"
"Oh, I wouldn't sell her." Then, as Dave continued to yearn over the animal, like a small boy tempted beyond his strength, Alaire laughed. "I owe you something, Mr. Law, and a horse more or less means very little to me."
He yielded; he could not possibly continue his resistance, and in his happy face Alaire took her reward.
The mare meanwhile was doubtfully nosing her new master, deciding whether or not she liked him; but when he offered her a cube of sugar her uncertainties disappeared and they became friends then and there. He talked to her, too, in a way that would have won any female heart, and it
was plain to any one who knew horses that she began to consider him wholly delightful. Now, Montrosa was a sad coquette, but this man seemed to say, "Rosa, you rogue, if you try your airs with me I will out-flirt you." Who could resist such a person? Why, the touch of his hands was positively thrilling. He was gentle, but masterful, and—he had a delicious smell. Rosa felt that she understood him perfectly, and was enraptured to discover that he understood her. There was some satisfaction in knowing such a man.
"You DO speak their language," Alaire said, after she had watched them for a few minutes. "You have bewitched the creature." Dave nodded silently, and his face was young. Then half to herself the woman murmured, "Yes, you have a heart."
"I beg pardon?"
"Nothing. I'm glad you like her."
"Do you mind if I call her something else than Rosa, just to myself?"
"Why, she's yours! Don't you like the name?"
"Oh yes! But—see!" Dave laid a finger upon Montrosa's forehead. "She wears a lone star, and I'd like to call her that—The Lone Star."
Alaire smiled in tacit assent; then when the two friends had completely established their intimacy she mounted her own horse and led the way to the round-up.
Dave's unbounded delight filled the mistress of Las Palmas with the keenest pleasure. He laughed, he hummed snatches of songs, he kept up a chatter addressed as much to the mare as to his companion, and under it Montrosa romped like a tomboy. It was gratifying to meet with such appreciation as this; Alaire felt warm and friendly to the whole world, and decided that out of her abundance she must do more for other people.
Of course Dave had to tell of Don Ricardo's thoughtful gift, and concluded by saying, "I think this must be my birthday, although it doesn't fit in with the calendar."
"Don Ricardo has his enemies, but he is a good-hearted old man."
"Yes," Dave agreed. Then more gravely: "I'm sorry I let him go across the river." There was a pause. "If anybody harms him I reckon I'll have a feud on my hands, for I'm a grateful person."
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