Alaire was startled by hearing other hoof-beats now; their drumming came faint but unmistakable.  Yes, there were two horses racing down the arroyo.  Anto, the fugitive, rose to his feet and stared into the dusk.  “Sit down!” Alaire ordered, sharply.  He obeyed, muttering beneath his breath, but his head was turned as if in an effort to follow the sounds of the pursuit.

Next came the distant rattle of loosened stones—­evidently one horse was being urged toward the open high ground—­then the peaceful quiet evening was split by the report of Law’s thirty-thirty.  Another shot followed, and then a third.  Both Alaire and her prisoner were on their feet, the woman shaking in every limb, the Mexican straining his eyes into the gloom and listening intently.

Soon there came a further echo of dry earth and gravel dislodged, but whether by Law’s horse or by that of Sanchez was uncertain.  Perhaps both men had gained the mesa.

It had all happened so quickly and so unexpectedly that Alaire felt she must be dreaming, or that there had been some idiotic mistake.  She wondered if the Ranger’s sudden charge had not simply frightened Panfilo into a panicky flight, and she tried to put her thoughts into words the Mexican would understand, but his answer was unintelligible.  His black scowl, however, was eloquent of uncertainty and apprehension.

Alaire had begun to feel the strain of the situation and was trying to decide what next to do, when David Law came riding out of the twilight.  He was astride the gray; behind him at the end of a lariat was Bessie Belle, and her saddle was empty.

Mrs. Austin uttered a sharp cry.

Law dismounted and strode to the prisoner.  His face was black with fury; he seemed gigantic in his rage.  Without a word he raised his right hand and cuffed the Mexican to his knees.  Then he leaped upon him, as a dog might pounce upon a rabbit, rolled him to his face, and twisted the fellow’s arms into the small of his back.  Anto cursed, he struggled, but he was like a child in the Ranger’s grasp.  Law knelt upon him, and with a jerk of his riata secured the fellow’s wrists; rising, he set the knot with another heave that dragged the prisoner to his knees.  Next he booted Anto to his feet.

“By God!  I’ve a notion to bend a gun over your head,” Law growled.  “Clever little game, wasn’t it?”

“Where—?  Did you—­kill him?” the woman gasped.

Alaire had never beheld such a demoniac expression as Law turned upon her.  The man’s face was contorted, his eyes were blazing insanely, his chest was heaving, and for an instant he seemed to include her in his anger.  Ignoring her inquiry, he went to his mare and ran his shaking hands over her as if in search of an injury; his questing palms covered every inch of glistening hide from forelock to withers, from shoulder to hoof, and under cover of this task he regained in some degree his self-control.