Law smiled slowly, and, setting his plate aside, selected a fresh cigarette; then as he reached for a coal he explained: 

“I haven’t got what you’d exactly call an appointment.  This feller I’m expectin’ is a Mexican, and day before yesterday he killed a man over in Jim Wells County.  They got me by ’phone at Hebbronville and told me he’d left.  He’s headin’ for the border, and he’s due here about sundown, now that Arroyo Grande’s dry.  I was aimin’ to let you ride his horse.”

“Then—­you’re an officer?”

“Yes’m.  Ranger.  So you see I can’t help you to get home till my man comes.  Do you live around here?” The speaker looked up inquiringly, and after an instant’s hesitation the woman said, quietly: 

“I am Mrs. Austin.”  She was grateful for the gloom that hid her face.  “I rode out this way to examine a tract of grazing-land.”

It seemed fully a minute before the Ranger answered; then he said, in a casual tone, “I reckon Las Palmas is quite a ranch, ma’am.”

“Yes.  But we need more pasture.”

“I know your La Feria ranch, too.  I was with General Castro when we had that fight near there.”

“You were a Maderista?”

“Yes’m.  Machine-gun man.  That’s a fine country over there.  Seems like God Almighty got mixed and put the Mexicans on the wrong side of the Rio Grande.  But I reckon you haven’t seen much of La Feria since the last revolution broke out.”

“No.  We have tried to remain neutral, but—­” Again she hesitated.  “Mr. Austin has enemies.  Fortunately both sides have spared La Feria.”

Law shrugged his broad shoulders.  “Oh, well, the revolution isn’t over!  A ranch in Mexico is my idea of a bad investment.”  He rose and, taking his blanket, sought a favorable spot upon which to spread it.  Then he helped Mrs. Austin to her feet—­her muscles had stiffened until she could barely stand—­after which he fetched his saddle for a pillow.  He made no apologies for his meager hospitality, nor did his guest expect any.

When he had staked out his horse for the night he returned to find the woman rolled snugly in her covering, as in a cocoon.  The dying embers flickered into flame and lit her hair redly.  She had laid off her felt Stetson, and one loosened braid lay over her hard pillow.  Thinking her asleep, Law stood motionless, making no attempt to hide his expression of wonderment until, unexpectedly, she spoke.

“What will you do with me when your Mexican comes?” she said.

“Well, ma’am, I reckon I’ll hide you out in the brush till I tame him.  I hope you sleep well.”

“Thank you.  I’m used to the open.”

He nodded as if he well knew that she was; then, shaking out his slicker, turned away.