She earnestly hoped so; this breathless vigil was getting
on her nerves, and the sight of that threatening figure had set
her pulses to throbbing. The rider was on his guard, that was
plain; he was armed, too, and probably desperate. The ominous
possibilities of this ambush struck her forcibly.
Alaire lay close, as she had been directed, praying that the
horseman had been warned; but shortly she heard again the rustle
of stiff branches, and out into the opening rode a Mexican. He was
astride a wiry gray pony, and in the strong twilight Alaire could
see his every feature--the swarthy cheeks, the roving eyes beneath
the black felt hat. A carbine lay across his saddle-horn, a riata
was coiled beside his leg, a cartridge-belt circled his waist.
There was something familiar about the fellow, but at the moment
Alaire could not determine what it was.
After one swift appraising glance the new-comer rode straight to
the verge of the water-hole and dismounted; then he and his horse
drank side by side.
It was the moment for a complete and effective surprise, but
nothing happened. Why didn't Law act? Alaire bent low, straining
eyes and ears, but no command came from the Ranger.
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