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"I didn't intend to shoot you," panted Mescal. "Naab, if this's your Mormon kind of wife excuse me! Though I ain't denyin' she's the sassiest an' sweetest little cat I ever seen!" "We Mormons don't talk about our women or hear any talk," returned Snap, a dancing fury in his pale eyes. "You're from Nebraska?"
I've tried to be friendly with you, Naab, but you won't have it. Anyway, I've wanted to see you lately to find out how we stand." "What do you mean?" "How we stand on several things to begin with, there Mescal." "You asked me several times for Mescal, and I said no." "But I never said I'd marry her. Now I want her, and I will marry her." "No," rejoined Naab, adding brevity to his coldness.
As he lay there the strange words of the Mormons linked the hard experience of the last few days with the stern reality of the present. "Martin Cole, I hold to the spirit of our fathers," replied Naab, like one reading from the Old Testament. "They came into this desert land to worship and multiply in peace.
He laid Dene in grave thirty-one. It was the grave that the outlaw had promised as the last resting-place of Dene's spy. Chance and Culver he buried together. It was noteworthy that no Mormon rites were conferred on Culver, once a Mormon in good standing, nor were any prayers spoken over the open graves. What did August Naab intend to do? That was the question in Hare's mind as he left the house.
George and Dave were close by their mustangs, and Snap Naab, mounted on a cream-colored pinto, reined him under August's arm, and faced the valley below. "Maybe you'll make them out," said August. "I can't, and I've watched those dust-clouds for hours. George can't decide, either." Hare, looking at Snap, was attracted by the eyes from which his father and brothers expected so much.
Snow drove the riders from the canyon-camp down to Silver Cup, where they found August Naab and Snap, who had ridden in the day before. "Now you couldn't guess how many cattle are back there in the canyons," said Dave to his father. "I haven't any idea," answered August, dubiously. "Five thousand head." "Dave!" His father's tone was incredulous. "Yes.
Then came the story of events growing out of her flight. When he told of the shooting at Silver Cup, Mescal rose with heaving bosom and blazing eyes. "It was nothing I wasn't hurt much. Only the intention was bad. We saw no more of Snap or Holderness. The worst of it all was that Snap's wife died." "Oh, I am sorry sorry. Poor Father Naab! How he must hate me, the cause of it all!
"Holderness, will you right the story about Hare?" inquired Naab. "You mean about his being a spy? Well, Naab, the truth is that was his job. I advised against sending a man down here for that sort of work. It won't do. These Mormons will steal each other's cattle, and they've got to get rid of them; so they won't have a man taking account of stock, brands, and all that.
For the most part thick cedars hid the surroundings from Hare's view; occasionally, however, he had a backward glimpse from a high point, or a wide prospect below, where the trail overlooked an oval hemmed-in valley. About midday August Naab brushed through a thicket, and came abruptly on a declivity. He turned to his companion with a wave of his hand. "The Navajo camp," he said.
Hare took a place on the seat beside Naab and faced the descent. The line of Navajos, a graceful straggling curve of color on the trail, led the way for the white-domed wagons. Naab pointed to a little calf lying half hidden under a bunch of sage. "That's what I hate to see. There's a calf, just born; its mother has gone in for water. Wolves and lions range this valley.
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