“You might warn him against any such foolishness.  Jose has some sense.”

The woman looked up curiously.  “Don’t you know how to be afraid?  Haven’t you any fear?” she asked.

Dave’s gray eyes were steady as he answered:  “Yes’m!  I’m afraid this thing is going to spoil our friendship.  I’ve been desperately afraid, all along, that I might have hurt your reputation.  Even now I’m afraid, on your account, to make public Panfilo Sanchez’s death.  Yes’m, I know what it is to be afraid.”

“I presume the law would hold you blameless,” she said, thoughtfully.

“If there was any doubt about that it would be another matter entirely.  A Ranger can get away with a heap more than killing a Mexican.  No!  It’s up to you to say what I shall do.”

“Let me think it over.  Jose mustn’t know to-day, that’s certain.”

“I’m in your hands.”

They returned to the automobile in silence, but as they took their seats Dave said: 

“You’re tired, ma’am.  Won’t you let me drive?”

“Can you?”

When he smiled his answer, Alaire was only too glad to give up the wheel, for her nerves were indeed unsteady and she was grateful for an opportunity to think out the best course to pursue in this unexpected difficulty.  Later, as she listened to Law’s inconsequential talk with Dolores and Jose, and watched the way he handled the car, she marveled at his composure.  She wondered if this man could have a heart.

It became evident to Dave, as the afternoon progressed, that they would be very late in arriving at Las Palmas; for although he drove as rapidly as he dared over such roads, the miles were long and the going heavy.  They were delayed, too, by a mishap that held them back for an hour or two, and he began to fear that his hostess would feel in duty bound to insist upon his spending the night at her home.  To accept, after his clash with Ed Austin, was of course impossible, and he dreaded another explanation at this particular crisis.

That a crisis in their relations had arisen he felt sure.  He had tried to make plain his attitude of mind toward the killing of Panfilo Sanchez, and the wisdom of his course thereafter, but he doubted if Alaire understood the one or agreed with the other.  Probably she considered him inhuman, or, what was worse, cowardly in attempting to avoid the consequences of his act.  And yet he could not explain his full anxiety to protect her good name without confessing to a deeper interest in her than he dared.  And his interest was growing by leaps and bounds.  This woman fascinated him; he was infatuated—­bewitched by her personality.  To be near her affected him mentally and physically in a way too extraordinary to analyze or to describe.  It was as if they were so sympathetically attuned that the mere sound of her voice set his whole being into vibrant response, where all his life he had lain mute.  She played havoc with his resolutions, too, awaking in him the wildest envy and desire.  He no longer thought of her as unattainable; on the contrary, her husband’s shortcomings seemed providential.  Absurd, impossible ways of winning her suggested themselves.  To risk a further estrangement, therefore, was intolerable.