Dave agreed, although reluctantly, for at this moment he wished nothing
less than to undertake a mental effort, and he feared, in spite of
Strange's statement, that he might hear Alaire's voice over the wire.
That would be too much; he felt as if he could not summon the strength
to control himself in such a case. Nevertheless, he went to the
telephone, leaving Phil to wait.
When he emerged from the house a few moments later, it was with a
queer, set look upon his face.
"I got 'em," he said. "She's gone--left three days ago."
"Where did she go?"
"They wouldn't tell me."
"They WOULDN'T?" Strange looked up sharply.
"Wouldn't or couldn't." The men eyed each other silently; then Phil
inquired:
"Well, what do you make of it?"
"I don't know. She wasn't kidnapped, that's a cinch, for Dolores went
with her. I--think we're exciting ourselves unduly."
The little fortune-teller broke out excitedly: "The hell we are! Why do
you suppose I've been playing that Morales girl? I tell you there's
something crooked going on. Don't I know? Didn't I wise you three weeks
ago that something like this was coming off?" It was plain that Phil
put complete faith in his powers of divination, and at this moment his
earnestness carried a certain degree of conviction. Dave made an effort
to clear his tired brain.
"Very well," he said. "If you're so sure, I'll go to Las Palmas. I'll
find out all about it, and where she went. If anybody has dared to--"
He drew a deep breath and his listlessness vanished; his eyes gleamed
with a hint of their customary fire. "I reckon I've got one punch left
in me." He turned and strode to his room.
As Dave changed into his service clothes he was surprised to feel a new
vigor in his limbs and a new strength of purpose in his mind. His brain
was clearer than it had been for a long time. The last cobweb was gone,
and for the moment at least he was lifted out of himself as by a
strong, invigorating drink. When he stood in his old boots and felt the
familiar drag of his cartridge-belt, when he tested his free muscles,
he realized that he was another man. Even yet he could not put much
faith in Phil Strange's words--nevertheless, there might be a danger
threatening Alaire; and if so, it was time to act.
Phil watched his friend saddle the bay mare, then as Dave tied his
Winchester scabbard to its thongs he laughed nervously.
"You're loaded for bear."
The horseman answered, grimly: "I'm loaded for José Sanchez. If I lay
hands on him I'll learn what he knows."
"You can't get nothing out of a Mexican,"
"No? I've made Filipinos talk. Believe me, I can be some persuasive
when I try." With that he swung a leg over Montrosa's back and rode
away.
Law found it good to feel a horse between his knees. He had not
realized until now how long Montrosa's saddle had been empty. The sun
was hot and friendly, the breeze was sweet in his nostrils as he swept
past the smiling fields and out into the mesquite country. Heat waves
danced above the patches of bare ground; insects sang noisily from
every side; far ahead the road ran a wavering course through a
deceitful mirage of rippling ponds. It was all familiar, pleasant; it
was home; black moods were impossible amid such surroundings. The
chemistry of air and earth and sunshine were at work dissolving away
the poisons of his imagination. Of course Dave's trouble did not wholly
vanish; it still lurked in the back of his mind and rode with him; but
from some magic source he was deriving a power to combat it. With every
mile he covered his strength and courage increased.
Such changes had come into his life since his last visit to Las Palmas
that it gave him a feeling of unreality to discover no alteration in
the ranch. He had somehow felt that the buildings would look older,
that the trees would have grown taller, and so when he finally came in
sight of his destination he reined in to look.
Behind him he heard the hum of an approaching motor, and he turned to
behold a car racing along the road he had just traveled. The machine
was running fast, as a long streamer of choking dust gave evidence, and
Dave soon recognized it as belonging to Jonesville's prosecuting
attorney. As it tore past him its owner shouted something, but the
words were lost. In the automobile with the driver were several
passengers, and one of these likewise called to Dave and seemed to
motion him to follow. When the machine slowed down a half-mile ahead
and veered abruptly into the Las Palmas gateway, Dave lifted Montrosa
to a run, wondering what pressing necessity could have induced the
prosecuting attorney to risk such a reckless burst of speed.
Dave told himself that he was unduly apprehensive; that Strange's
warnings had worked upon his nerves. Nevertheless, he continued to ride
so hard that almost before the dust had settled he, too, turned into
the shade of the palms.
Yes, there was excitement here; something was evidently very much
amiss, judging from the groups of ranch-hands assembled upon the porch.
They were clustered about the doors and windows, peering in. 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.
"God! This is terrible, isn't it?" he said. "He must have died
instantly."
"Who--did it?"
"We don't know yet. Benito found him and brought him in. He hasn't been
dead an hour."
Law ran his eyes over the room, and then asked, sharply, "Where is Mrs.
Austin?"
He was answered by Benito Gonzales, who had edged closer. "She's not
here, señor."
"Have you notified her?"