Such changes had come into his life since his last visit to Las Palmas that it gave him a feeling of unreality to discover no alteration in the ranch.  He had somehow felt that the buildings would look older, that the trees would have grown taller, and so when he finally came in sight of his destination he reined in to look.

Behind him he heard the hum of an approaching motor, and he turned to behold a car racing along the road he had just traveled.  The machine was running fast, as a long streamer of choking dust gave evidence, and Dave soon recognized it as belonging to Jonesville’s prosecuting attorney.  As it tore past him its owner shouted something, but the words were lost.  In the automobile with the driver were several passengers, and one of these likewise called to Dave and seemed to motion him to follow.  When the machine slowed down a half-mile ahead and veered abruptly into the Las Palmas gateway, Dave lifted Montrosa to a run, wondering what pressing necessity could have induced the prosecuting attorney to risk such a reckless burst of speed.

Dave told himself that he was unduly apprehensive; that Strange’s warnings had worked upon his nerves.  Nevertheless, he continued to ride so hard that almost before the dust had settled he, too, turned into the shade of the palms.

Yes, there was excitement here; something was evidently very much amiss, judging from the groups of ranch-hands assembled upon the porch.  They were clustered about the doors and windows, peering in.  Briefly they turned their faces toward Law; then they crowded closer, and he perceived that they were not talking.  Some of them had removed their hats and held them in their hands.

Dave’s knees shook under him as he dismounted; for one sick, giddy instant the scene swam before his eyes; then he ran toward the house and up the steps.  He tried to frame a question, but his lips were stiff with fright.  Heedless of those in his path, he forced his way into the house, then down the hall toward an open door, through which he saw a room full of people.  From somewhere came the shrill wailing of a woman; the house was full of hushed voices and whisperings.  Dave had but one thought.  From the depths of his being a voice called Alaire’s name until his brain rang with it.

A bed was in the room, and around it was gathered a group of white-faced people.  With rough hands Law cleared a way for himself, and then stopped, frozen in his tracks.  His arms relaxed, his fingers unclenched, a great sigh whistled slowly from his lungs.  Before him, booted, spurred, and fully dressed, lay the dead body of Ed Austin.

Dave was still staring at the master of Las Palmas when the prosecuting attorney spoke to him.

“God!  This is terrible, isn’t it?” he said.  “He must have died instantly.”

“Who—­did it?”

“We don’t know yet.  Benito found him and brought him in.  He hasn’t been dead an hour.”