But Jose had made a better fight than he knew.  The canteen ran dry at last, and Law was forced to release his hold.

“Will you speak?” he demanded.

Thinking that he had come safely through the ordeal, Jose shook his head; he rolled his bulging, bloodshot eyes and vomited, then managed to call God to witness his innocence.

Dave went into the next room and refilled the canteen.  When he reappeared with the dripping vessel in his hand, Jose tried to scream.  But his throat was torn and strained; the sound of his own voice frightened him.

Once more the torment began.  The tortured man was weaker now, and in consequence he resisted more feebly; but not until he was less than half conscious did Law spare him time to recover.

Jose lay sick, frightened, inert.  Dave watched him without pity.  The fellow’s wrists were black and swollen, his lips were bleeding; he was stretched like a dumb animal upon the vivisectionist’s table, and no surgeon with lance and scalpel could have shown less emotion than did his inquisitor.  Having no intention of defeating his own ends, Dave allowed his victim ample time in which to regain his ability to suffer.

Alaire Austin had been right when she said that Dave might be ruthless; and yet the man was by no means incapable of compassion.  At the present moment, however, he considered himself simply as the instrument by which Alaire was to be saved.  His own feelings had nothing to do with the matter; neither had the sufferings of this Mexican.  Therefore he steeled himself to prolong the agony until the murderer’s stubborn spirit was worn down.  Once again he put his question, and, again receiving defiance, jammed the canteen between Jose’s teeth.

But human nature is weak.  For the first time in his life Jose Sanchez felt terror—­a terror too awful to be endured—­and he made the sign.

He was no longer the insolent defier, the challenger, but an imploring wretch, whose last powers of resistance had been completely shattered.  His frightened eyes were glued to that devilish vessel in which his manhood had dissolved, the fear of it made a woman of him.

Slowly, in sighs and whimpers, in agonies of reluctance, his story came; his words were rendered almost incomprehensible by his abysmal fright.  When he had purged himself of his secret Dave promptly unbound him; then leaving him more than half dead, he went to the telephone which connected the pumping station with Las Palmas and called up the ranch.

He was surprised when Blaze Jones answered.  Blaze, it seemed, had just arrived, summoned by news of the tragedy.  The countryside had been alarmed and a search for Ed Austin’s slayer was being organized.

“Call it off,” Dave told him.  “I’ve got your man.”  Blaze stuttered his surprise and incredulity.  “I mean it.  It’s Jose Sanchez, and he has confessed.  I want you to come here, quick; and come alone, if you don’t mind.  I need your help.”