now flew instinctively to the holsters, but finding the weapons gone,
he spread his fingers outward with the eloquent, abjuring, deprecating
Latin gesture, and stood like a rock. Seeing his plight, the newcomer
unbuckled his own belt containing two revolvers, threw it upon the
ground, and continued to advance.

"Splendid!" murmured Alvarita, with flashing eyes.


As Bob Buckley, according to the mad code of bravery that his
sensitive conscience imposed upon his cowardly nerves, abandoned his
guns and closed in upon his enemy, the old, inevitable nausea of
abject fear wrung him. His breath whistled through his constricted air
passages. His feet seemed like lumps of lead. His mouth was dry as
dust. His heart, congested with blood, hurt his ribs as it thumped
against them. The hot June day turned to moist November. And still he
advanced, spurred by a mandatory pride that strained its uttermost
against his weakling flesh.

The distance between the two men slowly lessened. The Mexican stood,
immovable, waiting. When scarce five yards separated them a little
shower of loosened gravel rattled down from above to the ranger's
feet. He glanced upward with instinctive caution. A pair of dark eyes,
brilliantly soft, and fierily tender, encountered and held his own.
The most fearful heart and the boldest one in all the Rio Bravo
country exchanged a silent and inscrutable communication. Alvarita,
still seated within her vine, leaned forward above the breast-high
chaparral. One hand was laid across her bosom. One great dark braid
curved forward over her shoulder. Her lips were parted; her face was
lit with what seemed but wonder--great and absolute wonder. Her eyes