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The roll of cedar level, the heave of craggy ridge, the dip of white-sage valley gave this side a diversity widely differing from the two steps of the Vermillion tableland. August Naab followed a trail leading back toward the river.
Did Holderness shoot Snap Naab?" "Yes." "What of old Naab? Won't he come down here now to lead us Mormons against the rustlers?" "He called the Navajos across the river. He meant to take the trail alone and kill Holderness, keeping the Indians back a few days. If he failed to return then they were to ride out on the rustlers. But his plan must be changed, for I came ahead of him." "For what?
He bade Hare, after he had rested awhile, to pack and ride out to the range, and tell his sons that he would come later. It was a relief to leave the oasis, and Hare started the same day, and made Silver Cup that night. As he rode under the low-branching cedars toward the bright camp-fire he looked about him sharply. But not one of the four faces ruddy in the glow belonged to Snap Naab.
"Ugh!" said Piute, pointing across to the dark line of cliffs. "Of course he'd see it first," laughed Naab. "Dave, have you caught it yet? Jack, see if you can make out a fire over on Echo Cliffs." "No, I don't see any light, except that white star. Have you seen it?" "Long ago," replied Naab. "Here, sight along my finger, and narrow your eyes down." "I believe I see it yes, I'm sure." "Good.
The rustlers smoked, slept, and moved about; the day waned, and the shadow of the cliff crept over the cabin. To Hare the time had been as a moment; he was amazed to find the sun had gone down behind Coconina. If August Naab had left the oasis at dawn he must now be near the divide, unless he had been delayed by a wind-storm at the strip of sand.
His silver crest had the same proud beauty, his neck still the splendid arch, his head the noble outline, but his was a broken spirit. "Here, my lad," said August Naab, throwing the bridle-rein over Hare's arm. "What did I say once about seeing you on a great gray horse? Ah! Well, take him and know this: you've the swiftest horse in this desert country."
Whereupon he turned his back to the wind. The afternoon grew apace; the sun glistened on the white patches of Coconina Mountain; it set; and the wind died. "Five miles of red sand," said Naab. "Here's what kills the horses. Getup." There was no trail. All before was red sand, hollows, slopes, levels, dunes, in which the horses sank above their fetlocks.
August Naab whooped when he reached the valley, and Indian braves appeared, to cluster round him, shake his hand and Hare's, and lead them toward the centre of the encampment. The hogans where these desert savages dwelt were all alike; only the chief's was larger. From without it resembled a mound of clay with a few white logs, half imbedded, shining against the brick red.
Sleep did not close his eyes again that night; he lay in a fever waiting for the dawn, and when the gray gloom lightened he knew what he must do. After breakfast he sought August Naab. "May I go across the river?" he asked. The old man looked up from his carpenter's task and fastened his glance on Hare. "Mescal?" "Yes." "I saw it long ago." He shook his head and spread his great hands.
"Be still boy!" ordered his father. "Hare, this was madness but tell me what you learned." Briefly Hare repeated all that he had been told at the Bishop's, and concluded with the killing of Martin Cole by Dene. August Naab bowed his head and his giant frame shook under the force of his emotion. Martin Cole was the last of his life-long friends.
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