“Wait!  When you spoke to me last I didn’t dream that Panfilo was dead, but since then I have learned the truth, and why he was killed.  You must let me tell you everything, Jose, just as it happened; then—­you may do whatever you think best.  And you shall have the whole truth.”

It was a trying situation; in spite of her brave beginning, Alaire was tempted to send the Mexican on to Jonesville, there to receive an explanation directly from David Law himself; but such a course she dared not risk.  Jose was indeed half crazed, and at this moment quite irresponsible; if he met Dave, terrible consequences would surely follow.  Accordingly, it was with a peculiar, apprehensive flatter in her breast that Alaire realized the crisis had come.  Heretofore she had blamed Law, but now, oddly enough, she found herself interested in defending him.  As calmly as she could she related all that had led up to the tragedy, while Jose listened with eyes wide and mouth open.

“You see, I had no suspicion of the truth,” she concluded.  “It was a terrible thing, and Mr. Law regrets it deeply.  He would have made a report to the authorities, only—­he feared it might embarrass me.  He will repeat to you all that I have said, and he is ready to meet the consequences.”

Jose was torn with rage, yet plainly a prey to indecision; he rolled his eyes and cursed under his breath.  “These Rangers!” he muttered.  “That is the kind of men they are.  They murder honest people.”

“This was not murder,” Alaire cried, sharply.  “Panfilo was aiding a felon to escape.  The courts will not punish Mr. Law.”

“Bah!  Who cares for the courts?  This man is a Gringo, and these are Gringo laws.  But I am Mexican, and Panfilo was my cousin.  We shall see.”

Alaire’s eyes darkened.  “Don’t be rash, Jose,” she exclaimed, warningly.  “Mr. Law bears you no ill-will, but—­he is a dangerous man.  You would do well to make some inquiries about him.  You are a good man; you have a long life before you.”  Reading the fellow’s black look, she argued:  “You think I am taking his part because he is my countryman, but he needs no one to defend him.  He will make this whole story public and face the consequences.  I like you, and I don’t wish to see you come to a worse end than your cousin Panfilo.”

Jose continued to glower.  Then, turning away, he said, without meeting his employer’s eyes, “I would like to draw my money.”

“Very well.  I am sorry to have you leave Las Palmas, for I have regarded you as one of my gente.”  Jose’s face remained stony.  “What do you intend to do?  Where are you going?”

The fellow shrugged.  “Quien sabe!  Perhaps I shall go to my General Longorio.  He is in Romero, just across the river; he knows a brave man when he sees one, and he needs fellows like me to kill rebels.  Well, you shall hear of me.  People will tell you about that demon of a Jose whose cousin was murdered by the Rangers.  Yes, I have the heart of a bandit.”