It was an uncomfortable situation in which Alaire now found
herself. Law was too suspicious, she murmured to herself; he was
needlessly melodramatic; she felt exceedingly ill at ease as the
pony's hoof-beats grew fainter. She was not afraid of Anto, having
dealt with Mexican vaqueros for several years, yet she could not
forget that he was a murderer, and she wondered what she was
expected to do if he should try to escape. It was absurd to
suppose that Panfilo, her own hired man, could be capable of
treachery; the mere suspicion was a sort of reflection upon her.
Alaire was startled by hearing other hoof-beats now; their
drumming came faint but unmistakable. Yes, there were two horses
racing down the arroyo. Anto, the fugitive, rose to his feet and
stared into the dusk. "Sit down!" Alaire ordered, sharply. He
obeyed, muttering beneath his breath, but his head was turned as
if in an effort to follow the sounds of the pursuit.
Next came the distant rattle of loosened stones--evidently one
horse was being urged toward the open high ground--then the
peaceful quiet evening was split by the report of Law's thirty-
thirty. Another shot followed, and then a third.
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