"I overheard them talking in the back seat," she said. "They think there's going to be a lynching at Tascosa--that the mob is going to hang the Mexican who killed my brother. Are you going to let them do it?" "Not in this year of our Lord, Miss Wadley," he answered evenly. "Can you stop them?" "That's what I draw a dollar a day for." "You mustn't let them do it!" she cried, a little wildly. "Let the law punish him!" "Suits me. I'll try to persuade the boys to look at it that way." "But what can you do? You're only a boy." With a grim little smile he paraphrased Roy Bean's famous phrase: "I'm law east of the Pecos right now, Miss Wadley. Don't you worry. The Dinsmores won't get him if I can help it." "I might speak to my father," she went on, thinking aloud. "But he's so bitter I'm afraid he won't do anything." "He will after I've talked with him." Her anxious young eyes rested in his clear, steady gaze. There was something about this youth that compelled confidence. His broad-shouldered vigor, the virile strength so confidently reposeful, were expressions of personality rather than accidentals of physique. The road dipped suddenly into a deep wash that was almost a little gulch. There was a grinding of brakes, then a sudden lurch that threw Ramona against the shoulder of the Ranger. "The brake's done bust," she heard the ex-Confederate say. Another violent swing flung Ramona outward. The horses were off the road, and the coach swayed ominously on two wheels. The girl caught at the Ranger's hand and clung to it. Gently he covered her hand with his other one, released his fingers, and put a strong arm round her shoulders. Hank's whip snaked out across the backs of the wheelers. He flung at his horses a torrent of abuse. The stage reached the bottom of the wash in a succession of lurches. Then, as suddenly as the danger had come upon them, it had passed; the stage was safely climbing the opposite side of the ravine. The Ranger's arm slipped from the shoulders of the girl. Her hand crept from under his. He did not look at her, but he knew that a shell-pink wave had washed into the wan face. The slim bosom of the girl rose and fell fast. Already she was beginning to puzzle over the difficulties of a clear-cut right and wrong, to discover that no unshaded line of cleavage differentiates them sometimes. Surely this young fellow could not be all bad. Of course she did not like him. She was quite sure of that. He was known as a tough citizen. He had attacked and beaten brutally her brother Rutherford--the wild brother whose dissipations she had wept and prayed over, and whose death she was now mourning. Yet Fate kept throwing him in her way to do her services. He had saved her life. He had adroitly--somehow, she did not quite know in what way--rid her of an offensive fellow traveler. She had just asked a favor of him, and there was yet another she must ask.