A new moon was swinging in the sky as Alaire and Dave rode back
toward Las Palmas. The dry, gray grass was beginning to jewel with
dew; the paths were ribbons of silver between dark blots of ink
where the bushes grew. Behind rose the jingle of spurs and
bridles, the creak of leather, the voices of men. It was an hour
in which to talk freely, an environment suited to confidences, and
Dave Law was happier than he had been for years. He closed his
eyes to the future, he stopped his ears to misgivings; with a song
in his heart he rode at the stirrup of the woman he adored.
How or when Alaire Austin came to feel that this man loved her she
never knew. Certainly he gave no voice to his feeling, save,
perhaps, by some unconscious tone or trick of speech; rather, the
knowledge came to her intuitively as the result of some
subconscious interchange of thought, some responsive vibration,
which only a psychologist could analyze. However it was, Alaire
knew to-night that she was dear to her companion, and, strange to
say, this certainty did not disturb her. Inasmuch as the thing
existed, why deny its right to exist? she asked herself. Since it
was in no wise dishonorable, how could it be wrong, provided it
went no further? Alaire had been repelled by Luis Longorio's
evident love for her, but a similar emotion in this man's breast
had quite the opposite effect.
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