“That hombre of yours—­didn’t look right to me,” he said, finally.  Laying his cheek against Bessie Belle’s neck, as a woman snuggles close to the man of her choice, he addressed the mare:  “I reckon nobody is going to steal you, eh?  Not if I know it.  No, sir; that hombre wasn’t any good, was he?”

Alaire wet her lips.  “Then you—­shot him?”

Law laughed grimly, almost mockingly.  “Say!  He must be a favorite of yours?”

“N-no!  I hardly knew the fellow.  But—­did you?”

“I didn’t say I shot him,” he told her, gruffly.  “I warned him first, and he turned on me—­blew smoke in my face.  Then he took to the brush, afoot, and—­I cut down on him once more to help him along.”

“He got away?”

“I reckon so.”

“Oh, oh!” Alaire’s tone left no doubt of her relief.  “He was always a good man—­”

“Good?  Didn’t he steal my horse?  Didn’t he aim to get me at the first chance and free his compadre?  That’s why he wanted his Winchester.  Say!  I reckon he—­needs killin’ about as much as anybody I know.”

“I can’t understand it.”  Alaire sat down weakly.  “One of my men, too.”

“This fellow behaved himself while I was gone, eh?” Law jerked his head in Anto’s direction.  “I was afraid he—­he’d try something.  If he had—­” Such a possibility, oddly enough, seemed to choke the speaker, and the ferocity of his unfinished threat caused Mrs. Austin to look up at him curiously.  There was a moment of silence, then he said, shortly:  “Well, we’ve got a horse apiece now.  Let’s go.”

The stars had thickened and brightened, rounding the night sky into a glittering dome.  Anto, the murderer, with his ankles lashed beneath his horse’s belly, rode first; next, in a sullen silence, came the Ranger, his chin upon his breast; and in the rear followed Alaire Austin.

In spite of her release from a trying predicament, the woman was scarcely more eager to go home than was the prisoner, for while Anto’s trail led to a jail, hers led to Las Palmas, and there was little difference.  These last two days in the open had been like a glimpse of freedom; for a time Alaire had almost lost the taste of bitter memories.  It had required an effort of will to drug remembrance, but she had succeeded, and had proven her ability to forget.  But now—­Las Palmas!  It meant the usual thing, the same endless battle between her duty and her desire.  She was tired of the fight that resulted neither in victory nor defeat; she longed now, more than ever, to give up and let things take their course.  Why could not women, as well as men, yield to their inclinations—­ drift with the current instead of breasting it until they were exhausted?  There was David Law, for instance; he was utterly carefree, no duties shackled him.  He had his horse, his gun, and his blanket, and they were enough; Alaire, like him, was young, her mind was eager, her body ripe, and her veins full of fire.  Life must be sweet to those who were free and happy.