“I hadn’t thought of that,” Benito confessed.  “But if she didn’t go there, where did she go?  Saints above!  It is a fine condition of affairs when a wife keeps secrets from her husband, eh?  I suppose Dolores feared I would tell Don Eduardo, God rest his soul!  This much I do know, however:  not long ago there came a letter from General Longorio, offering settlement for those cattle he stole in his government’s name.  Dolores told me the senora was highly pleased and was going to Mexico for her money.  It was a mark of Longorio’s favor, you understand me?  He’s a great—­friend, an ardent admirer.”  Benito winked.  “Dolores told me all about that, too.  No, I think they went to La Feria.”

Dave remembered his first conversation with Phil Strange and the fortune-teller’s insistence that some powerful person was behind Jose Sanchez.  More than three weeks ago Strange had forecast something very like murder of Ed Austin.  Dave felt as if he were the victim of an hysterical imagination.  Nevertheless, he forced himself to ask, quietly: 

“Is Jose Sanchez anywhere about?”

The range boss shrugged.  “I sent him to the east pasture this morning.”

“Did he go?”

“Eh?  So!  You suspect Jose of this.  God in heaven!  Jose is a wild boy—­But wait!  I’ll ask Juan if he saw him; yes, and Victoria, too.  That is Victoria you hear squalling in the kitchen.  Wait here.”

Benito hurried away, leaving Dave a prey to perplexity; but he was back again in a few moments.  His face was grave.

“Jose did not go to the east pasture,” he said.

“Where is he now?”

“No one seems to know.”

Law walked to his horse, mounted, and galloped away.  Benito, who watched him, saw that he turned toward the river road which led to the Las Palmas pumping-plant.

The more Dave thought about Ed Austin’s death, the more certain he became that it was in some way connected with Alaire’s disappearance; and the loose end by which the tangle might be unraveled, it seemed to him, lay in the hands of Rosa Morales, Jose’s sweetheart.  That Sanchez was the murderer Dave now had little doubt; but since the chance of apprehending him was small, he turned his attention to the girl.  He would make Rosa speak, he told himself, if he had to use force—­this was no time for gentle methods.  If she knew aught of Alaire’s whereabouts or the mystery of her departure from Las Palmas, he would find a way to wring the truth from her.  Dave’s face, a trifle too somber at all times, took on a grimmer aspect now; he felt a slow fury kindling in his breast.

Years of experience had taught him to be always alert even during his moments of deepest preoccupation, and so, from force of habit, when he came to the pump-house road he carefully scanned it.  In the dust were fresh hoof-prints leading toward the river.  Now he knew this road to be seldom used, and therefore he wondered who could be riding it at a gallop in this blistering midday heat.  A few rods farther on and his quick eye detected something else—­ something that brought him from his saddle.  Out of the rut he picked a cigarette butt, the fire of which was cold but the paper of which was still wet from the smoker’s lips.  He examined it carefully; then he remounted and rode on, pondering its significance.