Briefly they turned their faces toward Law; then they crowded
closer, and he perceived that they were not talking. Some of them
had removed their hats and held them in their hands.
Dave's knees shook under him as he dismounted; for one sick, giddy
instant the scene swam before his eyes; then he ran toward the
house and up the steps. He tried to frame a question, but his lips
were stiff with fright. Heedless of those in his path, he forced
his way into the house, then down the hall toward an open door,
through which he saw a room full of people. From somewhere came
the shrill wailing of a woman; the house was full of hushed voices
and whisperings. Dave had but one thought. From the depths of his
being a voice called Alaire's name until his brain rang with it.
A bed was in the room, and around it was gathered a group of
white-faced people. With rough hands Law cleared a way for
himself, and then stopped, frozen in his tracks. His arms relaxed,
his fingers unclenched, a great sigh whistled slowly from his
lungs. Before him, booted, spurred, and fully dressed, lay the
dead body of Ed Austin.
Dave was still staring at the master of Las Palmas when the
prosecuting attorney spoke to him.
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