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Updated: June 4, 2025
Holderness, with two of his men, dismounted before the Bishop's gate; the others of the band trotted on down the road. The ring of Holderness's laugh preceded the snap of the gate-latch. Hare stood calm and cold behind his green covert watching the three men stroll up the garden path. Holderness took a cigarette from his lips as he neared the porch and blew out circles of white smoke.
"Such a trick we never heard of," replied August Naab. "If we had we might have spared ourselves the labor of branding the stock." "But that new brand of Holderness's upon yours proves his guilt." "It's not now a question of proof. It's one of possession. Holderness has stolen my water and my stock." "They are worse than rustlers; firing on Mescal and me proves that."
We've been tolerable friends. He's wanted me to join his band. I'll kill him." He laughed as he raised his right hand and swept it down to his left side; the blue Colt lay on his outstretched palm. Dene's life and Holderness's, too, hung in the balance between two deadly snaps of this desert-wolf's teeth.
The suggestion in his words, the meaning in his look, held the three rustlers transfixed. The surprise was his strength. In Holderness's amber eyes shone his desperate calculation of chances.
Later Hare sought an interview alone with the Bishop's sons, and he told them of the loss of the sheep, of the burning of the new corrals, of the tracks leading to Holderness's ranch. In turn they warned him of his danger, and gave him information desired by August Naab.
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