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It was a beautiful weapon, finely polished and carved, entirely out of place among the plain coarse-sighted and coarse-stocked guns in the rack. "Never had a chance to sell it," said Abe. "Too long and heavy for the riders. I'll let it go cheap, half price, and the cartridges also, two thousand." "Taken," replied Naab, quickly, with a satisfaction which showed he liked a bargain.
Her hair, braided, and fastened at the back, was bound by a double band closely fitting her black head. Hare walked, leading two mustangs by the halters, and Naab and Mescal rode, each of them followed by two other spare mounts. August tied three mustangs at one point along the level stretch, and three at another.
Why, even an Indian respects desert law!" "Bah! I'm not a Mormon or an Indian. I'm a cattleman. It's plain business with me. Once more I make you the offer." Naab scorned to reply. The men faced each other for a silent moment, their glances scintillating. Then Holderness whirled on his heel, jostling into Hare. "Get out of my way," said the rancher, in the disgust of intense irritation.
Cole held up his hands in a meekness that signified hope if not faith. August Naab bent over Hare. "I would like to have the Bishop administer to you," he said. "What's that?" asked Hare. "A Mormon custom, 'the laying on of hands. We know its efficacy in trouble and illness. A Bishop of the Mormon Church has the gift of tongues, of prophecy, of revelation, of healing. Let him administer to you.
I wish I could show my gratitude." "I call him Father Naab, but he is not my father." "A niece or granddaughter, then?" "I'm no relation. Father Naab raised me in his family. My mother was a Navajo, my father a Spaniard." "Why!" exclaimed Hare. "When you came out of the wagon I took you for an Indian girl. But the moment you spoke you talk so well no one would dream "
The women-folk waited upon them as if they could not do enough. There were pleasant words and smiles; but in spite of them something sombre attended the meal. There was a shadow in each face, each step was slow, each voice subdued. Naab and his sons were waiting for Hare when he entered the sitting room, and after his entrance the door was closed.
Blood oozed through the fingers pressed to his breast. Zeke was trying to calm the women. "My God! Dave!" cried Hare. "You're not hard hit? Don't say it!" "Hard hit Jack old fellow," replied Dave, with a pale smile. His face was white and clammy. August Naab looked once at him and groaned, "My son! My son!" "Dad I got Chance and Culver there they lie in the road not bungled, either!"
If he, a stranger of a few years, could be moulded in the flaming furnace of its fiery life, what then must be the cast of August Naab, born on the desert, and sleeping five nights out of seven on the sands for sixty years? The desert! Hare trembled as he grasped all its meaning. Then he slowly resolved that meaning.
A wan smile lightened John Hare's face as he spoke weakly: "I fear your generous act can't save me... may bring you harm. I'd rather you left me seeing you have women in your party." "Don't try to talk yet," said August Naab. "You're faint. Here drink." He stooped to Hare, who was leaning against a sage-bush, and held a flask to his lips. Rising, he called to his men: "Make camp, sons.
We passed through full two miles of this fertility, with three or four villages Souat, Nogat, Arrawa, and Old Naab, with mosque, minar, and a fine old house all tumbling into ruins. Wadi Yeramis is much opened out here, and the lower part is bounded by the basalt in walls about 200 feet high, sometimes with mounds within them again, and hillocks of the same formation as the high mountains.
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