he had--" Such a possibility, oddly enough, seemed to choke the
speaker, and the ferocity of his unfinished threat caused Mrs.
Austin to look up at him curiously. There was a moment of silence,
then he said, shortly: "Well, we've got a horse apiece now. Let's
go."

The stars had thickened and brightened, rounding the night sky
into a glittering dome. Anto, the murderer, with his ankles lashed
beneath his horse's belly, rode first; next, in a sullen silence,
came the Ranger, his chin upon his breast; and in the rear
followed Alaire Austin.

In spite of her release from a trying predicament, the woman was
scarcely more eager to go home than was the prisoner, for while
Anto's trail led to a jail, hers led to Las Palmas, and there was
little difference. These last two days in the open had been like a
glimpse of freedom; for a time Alaire had almost lost the taste of
bitter memories. It had required an effort of will to drug
remembrance, but she had succeeded, and had proven her ability to
forget. But now--Las Palmas! It meant the usual thing, the same
endless battle between her duty and her desire. She was tired of
the fight that resulted neither in victory nor defeat; she longed
now, more than ever, to give up and let things take their course.
Why could not women, as well as men, yield to their inclinations--
drift with the current instead of breasting it until they were
exhausted? There was David Law, for instance; he was utterly
carefree, no duties shackled him. He had his horse, his gun, and
his blanket, and they were enough; Alaire, like him, was young,
her mind was eager, her body ripe, and her veins full of fire.
Life must be sweet to those who were free and happy.