Law dismounted and strode to the prisoner. His face was black with
fury; he seemed gigantic in his rage. Without a word he raised his
right hand and cuffed the Mexican to his knees. Then he leaped
upon him, as a dog might pounce upon a rabbit, rolled him to his
face, and twisted the fellow's arms into the small of his back.
Anto cursed, he struggled, but he was like a child in the Ranger's
grasp. Law knelt upon him, and with a jerk of his riata secured
the fellow's wrists; rising, he set the knot with another heave
that dragged the prisoner to his knees. Next he booted Anto to his
feet.

"By God! I've a notion to bend a gun over your head," Law growled.
"Clever little game, wasn't it?"

"Where--? Did you--kill him?" the woman gasped.

Alaire had never beheld such a demoniac expression as Law turned
upon her. The man's face was contorted, his eyes were blazing
insanely, his chest was heaving, and for an instant he seemed to
include her in his anger. Ignoring her inquiry, he went to his
mare and ran his shaking hands over her as if in search of an
injury; his questing palms covered every inch of glistening hide
from forelock to withers, from shoulder to hoof, and under cover
of this task he regained in some degree his self-control.

"That hombre of yours--didn't look right to me," he said, finally.
Laying his cheek against Bessie Belle's neck, as a woman snuggles
close to the man of her choice, he addressed the mare: "I reckon
nobody is going to steal you, eh? Not if I know it. No, sir; that
hombre wasn't any good, was he?"