was not conscious of having willed it to do so—­and even as he pressed the trigger he beheld a jet of smoke spurt from the muzzle aimed at him.  With the kick of his carbine he felt Bessie Belle give way—­it seemed to Dave that he shot while she was sinking.  The next instant his feet, still in the stirrups, were on the ground and his horse lay between them, motionless.  That nervous fling of her head had saved Dave’s life, for the rustler’s bullet had shattered her skull in its flight, and she lay prone, with scarcely a muscular twitch, so sudden had been her end.  The breath escaped slowly from her lungs; it was as if she heaved a lingering sigh; one leg contracted and then relaxed.

For a moment the Ranger was dazed.  He stood staring down at his pet; then the truth engulfed him.  He realized that he had ridden her to her death, and at the thought he became like a woman bereft of her child, like a lover who had seen his sweetheart slain.

A shout—­it was a hoarse, inarticulate cry; a swift, maddened scrutiny that searched the sodden scene of the ambush; then he was down beside the mare, calling her name heartbrokenly, his arms around her neck, his face against her warm, wet, velvet hide.

Law knew that two men had entered the thicket, and therefore one still remained to be reckoned with, but he gave no thought to that.  Nor did he rise to look after the grotesquely huddled figure that had been a cattle thief only a moment before—­both he and his assailant had been too close to miss.  From the corner of his eye he could see a pair of boot-soles staring at him out of the grass, and they told him there was no need for investigation.  Near the body he heard a calf stirring, but he let it struggle.

Bessie Belle’s bright eyes were glazing; she did not hear her lover’s voice.  Her muzzle, softer than any satin, was loose, her lips would never twitch with that clumsy, quivering caress which pleased her master so.  One front hoof, washed as clean as agate, was awkwardly bent under her, the other had plowed a furrow in the soft earth as she sank, and against this leg her head lay tipped.

Don Ricardo and his son burst out of the brush from opposite directions almost at the same moment, to find the Ranger with his face buried in his horse’s mane.

“Caramba!  What is this?” The old man flung himself from the saddle and came running.  “You are injured?”

Pedro, too, bent over the officer, his brown face pale with apprehension.  “Mother of God!” breathed the latter.  “It was a wild thing to do, to ride alone—–­”

“I’m all right,” Law said, rising stiffly, whereupon both Mexicans voiced their relief.

“The saints be praised!”

“Si!  What happened?  There was a shot!  Did you see nothing?”

Law jerked his head in the direction of the fallen man at his back, and Pedro uttered a loud cry.

“Look!” Father and son ran through the grass, then recoiled and broke into a jargon of oaths and exclamations.