No time was lost.  Both Mexicans fell to with a will, and in a surprisingly short time water was boiling.  When it came Law’s turn to eat, Alaire, who was eager to be gone, directed her employee to fetch the Ranger’s horse.  Panfilo acquiesced readily and buckled on his cartridge-belt and six-shooter.  He was about to pick up his rifle, too, but finding Law’s eyes inquiringly fixed upon him, he turned with a shrug and disappeared down the arroyo.  It was plain that he considered his friendly relations well established and resented the Ranger’s suspicion.

“How long has that fellow been working for you?” Law jerked his head in the direction Panfilo had taken.

“Not long.  I—­don’t know much about him,” Alaire confessed.  Then, as if in answer to his unspoken question, “But I’m sure he’s all right.”

“Is he looking up range for you?”

“N—­no!  I left him at the ranch.  I don’t know how he came to be here, unless—­It is rather strange!”

Dave shot a swift, interrogatory glance at Panfilo’s traveling companion, but Anto’s face was stony, his black eyes were fixed upon the fire.

With an abrupt gesture Law flung aside the contents of his cup and strode to Panfilo’s horse, which stood dejectedly with reins hanging.

“Where are you—­going?” Alaire rose nervously.

It was nearly dark now; only the crests of the ridges were plain against the luminous sky; in the brushy bottom of the arroyo the shadows were deep.  Alaire had no wish to be left alone with the prisoner.

With bridle-rein and carbine in his left hand, the Ranger halted, then, stooping for Anto’s discarded cartridge-belt, he looped it over his saddle-horn.  He vaulted easily into the seat, saying: 

“I hid that mare pretty well.  Your man may not be able to find her.”  Then he turned his borrowed horse’s head toward the brush.

Anto had squatted motionless until this moment; he had not even turned his eyes; but now, without the slightest warning, he uttered a loud call.  It might have served equally well as a summons or as an alarm, but it changed the Ranger’s suspicions into certainty.  Dave uttered an angry exclamation, then to the startled woman he cried: 

“Watch this man!  He can’t hurt you, for I’ve got his shells.”  To his prisoner he said, sharply:  “Stay where you are!  Don’t move!” The next instant he had loped into the brush on the tracks of Panfilo Sanchez, spurring the tired gray pony into vigorous action.

It was an uncomfortable situation in which Alaire now found herself.  Law was too suspicious, she murmured to herself; he was needlessly melodramatic; she felt exceedingly ill at ease as the pony’s hoof-beats grew fainter.  She was not afraid of Anto, having dealt with Mexican vaqueros for several years, yet she could not forget that he was a murderer, and she wondered what she was expected to do if he should try to escape.  It was absurd to suppose that Panfilo, her own hired man, could be capable of treachery; the mere suspicion was a sort of reflection upon her.