On his way to the Lewis ranch Dave Law had a struggle with himself.  He had earned a reputation as a man of violent temper, and the time was not long past when a fraction of the insult Ed Austin had offered him would have provoked a vigorous counterblast.  The fact that on this occasion he had managed to restrain himself argued an increase of self-control that especially gratified him, because his natural tendency to “fly off the handle” had led more than once to regrettable results.  In fact, it was only since he had assumed the duties of a peace officer that he had made a serious effort at self-government.  A Ranger’s work calls for patience and forbearance, and Dave had begun to realize the perils of his temperament.  Normally he was a level-headed, conservative fellow, but when angered a thousand devils sprang up in him and he became capable of the wildest excess.  This instability, indeed, had been largely to blame for his aimless roaming.  Deep inside himself he knew that it was nothing but his headstrong temper which had brought on all his misfortunes and left him, well along in his thirties, a wanderer, with nothing he could call his own.  As with most men of his turbulent disposition, fits of fury were usually followed by keen revulsions of feeling.  In Dave these paroxysms had frequently been succeeded by such a sense of shame as to drive him from the scene of his actions, and in the course of his rovings he had acquired an ample store of regrets—­bitter food for thought during the silent hours when he sat over his camp-fire or rode alone through the mesquite.  His hatreds were keen and relentless, his passions wild, and yet, so far as he knew, they had never led him to commit a mean or a downright evil deed.  He had killed men, to be sure, but never, he was thankful to say, in one of his moments of frenzy.

The killing of men in the fierce exultation of battle, the slaying of a criminal by an officer under stress of duty, even the taking of life under severe personal provocation, were acts that did not put one beyond the pale.  Such blood washes off.  But there were stains of a different kind.

Dave was glad that he had swallowed “Young Ed’s” incivility, not only for his own sake, but for the sake of Alaire.

After all, he argued, it was barely possible that Ed had spoken the truth.  There were many sorrel horses; the evidence of those rain-washed hoof-prints was far from conclusive; even the fact that Urbina belonged to the Tad Lewis outfit was no more than a suspicious circumstance.  And yet, earnestly as he strove to convince himself of these possibilities, the Ranger could not down the conviction that the rancher had lied and that he himself was on the right track.

It was late when he arrived at his destination, but Lewis’s house was dark, and it required some effort to awaken the owner.  When Tad at last appeared, clad in undershirt and trousers, he greeted the Ranger with a leveled Winchester; but when Dave had made known his identity he invited him in, though with surly reluctance.