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Hare walked down the avenue of cottonwoods and was about to turn the corner of the old forge when he stopped short. "Now mind you, I'll take a bead on this white-faced spy if you send him up there." It was Snap Naab's voice, and his speech concluded with the click of teeth characteristic of him in anger. "Stand there!" August Naab exclaimed in wrath. "Listen.
August Naab drew aside a blanket hanging over a door, and entered, beckoning his companion to follow. Inured as Hare had become to the smell and smart of wood-smoke, for a moment he could not see, or scarcely breathe, so thick was the atmosphere.
There have been men here before you, men who talked to me, and I doubted before I ever saw you. And afterward I knew." "Would not Father Naab release you?" "Release me? Why, he would have taken me as a wife for himself but for Mother Mary. She hates me. So he pledged me to Snap." "Does August Naab love you?" "Love me? No. Not in the way you mean perhaps as a daughter.
"Jack, look at that brand," said Mescal, pointing to a white-flanked steer. "There's an old brand like a cross, Father Naab's cross, and a new brand, a single bar. Together they make an H!" "Mescal! You've hit it. I remember that steer. He was a very devil to brand. He's the property of August Naab, and Holderness has added the bar, making a clumsy H. What a rustler's trick!
Hare moved away silently; the shock of Snap's first words had kept him fast in his tracks long enough to hear the conversation. Why did Snap threaten him? Where was August Naab going to send him? Hare had no means of coming to an understanding of either question. He was disturbed in mind and resolved to keep out of Snap's way.
It was that of a slight man, flat on his back, his arms wide, his long black hair in the dust. Under the white level brow the face had been crushed into a bloody curve. "Dene!" burst from Hare, in a whisper. "Killed by a horse!" exclaimed August Naab. "Ah! What horse?" "Silvermane!" replied George. "Who rode my horse tell me quick!" cried Hare, in a frenzy. "It was Mescal. Listen.
The stern deliberation of his intent to kill Holderness, the passion of his purpose to pay his debt to August Naab, were as nothing compared to the gathering might of this new resolve; suddenly he felt free and strong as an untamed lion broken free from his captors. From the cover of the bush he peered again over the cliff.
She looked tired and unhappy, and her gaze, instead of meeting his, wandered to the crags. "Nothing," she replied. "But there must be something. You have given me no chance to talk to you, and I wanted to know if you'd let me speak to Father Naab." "To Father Naab? Why what about?" "About you, of course and me that I love you and want to marry you." She turned white. "No no!"
"Hello, Jack," called Dave Naab, into the dark. "I knew that was you. Silvermane sure rings bells when he hoofs it down the stones. How're you and dad? and did you find Mescal? I'll bet that desert child led you clear to the Little Colorado." Hare told the story of the fruitless search. "It's no more than we expected," said Dave. "The man doesn't live who can trail the peon.
The wheels ploughed deep, and little red streams trailed down from the tires. Naab trudged on foot with the reins in his hands. Hare essayed to walk also, soon tired, and floundered behind till Naab ordered him to ride again. Twilight came with the horses still toiling. "There! thankful I am when we get off that strip! But, Jack, that trailless waste prevents a night raid on my home.
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