“What is this thou sayest?” The mother, roused from her lamentations by the boy’s vehemence, plucked at his sleeve.  “But thou must not kill, my little son.  Thou art—­”

“Why not?  They’ll all be killing in a month!” flashed Luis unguardedly.

Starr, kneeling on one knee, looked at the boy across Estan’s chilling body.  A guarded glance it was, but a searching glance that questioned and weighed and sat in judgment upon the truth of the startling assertion.  Yet younger boys than Luis are commanding troops in Mexico, for the warlike spirit develops early in a land where war is the chief business of the populace.  It was not strange then that eighteen-year-old Luis should be actively interested in the building of a revolution on this side the border.  It was less strange because of his youth; for Luis would have all the fiery attributes of the warrior, unhindered by the cool judgment of maturity.  He would see the excitement, the glory of it.  Estan would see the terrible cost of it, in lives and in patrimony.  Luis loved action.  Estan loved his big flocks and his acres upon acres of land, and his quiet home; had loved too his foster country, if he had spoken his true sentiments.  So Starr took his cue and thanked his good fortune that he had come upon this tragedy while it was fresh, and while the shock of it was loosening the tongue of Luis.

“A month from now is another time, Luis,” he said quietly.  “This is murder, and the man who did it can be punished.”

“You can’t puneesh Apodaca,” Luis retorted, speaking English, since Starr had used the language, which put their talk beyond the mother’s understanding.  “He is too—­too high up—­But I can kill,” he added vindictively.

“The law can get him better than you can,” Starr pointed out cannily.  “Can you think of anybody else that might be in on the deal?”

“N-o—­” Luis was plainly getting a hold on himself, and would not tell all he knew.  “I don’t know notheeng about it.”

“Well, what you’d better do now is saddle a horse and ride in to town and tell the coroner—­and the sheriff.  If you don’t,” he added, when he caught a stiffening of opposition in the attitude of Luis, “if you don’t, you will find yourself in all kinds of trouble.  It will look bad.  You have to notify the coroner, anyway, you know.  That’s the law.  And the coroner will see right away that Estan was shot.  So the sheriff will be bound to get on the job, and it will be a heap better for you, Luis, if you tell him yourself.  And if you try to kill Apodaca, that will rob your mother of both her sons.  You must think of her.  Estan would never bring trouble to her that way.  You stand in his place now.  So you ride in and tell the sheriff and tell the coroner.  Say that you suspect Elfigo Apodaca.  The sheriff will do the rest.”

“What does the senor advise, my son?” murmured the mother, plucking at the sleeve of Luis.  “The good friend he was to my poor Estan—­my son!  Do thou what he tells thee, for he is wise and good, and he would not guide thee wrong.”