vaulted hall swept by a current of air. The night had turned cold, the
stars had brightened icily, the rumble of the river had died away when
Bolly's ringing trot suddenly changed to a noiseless floundering walk.
She had come upon the sand. Hare saw the Blue Star in the cliff, and
once more loosed the rein on Bolly's neck. She stopped and champed her
bit, and turned her black head to him as if to intimate that she wanted
the guidance of a sure arm. But as it was not forthcoming she stepped
onward into the yielding sand.
With hands resting idly on the pommel Hare sat at ease in the saddle.
The billowy dunes reflected the pale starlight and fell away from him to
darken in obscurity. So long as the Blue Star remained in sight he kept
his sense of direction; when it had disappeared he felt himself lost.
Bolly's course seemed as crooked as the jagged outline of the cliffs.
She climbed straight up little knolls, descended them at an angle,
turned sharply at wind-washed gullies, made winding detours, zigzagged
levels that shone like a polished floor; and at last (so it seemed to
Hare) she doubled back on her trail. The black cliff receded over the
waves of sand; the stars changed positions, travelled round in the blue
dome, and the few that he knew finally sank below the horizon. Bolly
never lagged; she was like the homeward-bound horse, indifferent to
direction because sure of it, eager to finish the journey because now it
was short. Hare was glad though not surprised when she snorted and
cracked her iron-shod hoof on a stone at the edge of the sand. He smiled
with tightening lips as he rode into the shadow of a rock which he
recognized. Bolly had crossed the treacherous belt of dunes and washes
and had struck the trail on the other side.
The long level of wind-carved rocks under the cliffs, the ridges of the
desert, the miles of slow ascent up to the rough divide, the gradual
descent to the cedars--these stretches of his journey took the night
hours and ended with the brightening gray in the east. Within a mile of
Silver Cup Spring Hare dismounted, to tie folded pads of buckskin on
Bolly's hoofs. When her feet were muffled, he cautiously advanced on the
trail for the matter of a hundred rods or more; then sheered off to the
right into the cedars. He led Bolly slowly, without rattling a stone or
snapping a twig, and stopped every few paces to listen. There was no
sound other than the wind in the cedars. Presently, with a gasp, he
caught the dull gleam of a burned-out camp-fire. Then his movements
became as guarded, as noiseless as those of a scouting Indian. The dawn
broke over the red wall as he gained the trail beyond the spring.
He skirted the curve of the valley and led Bolly a little way up the
wooded slope to a dense thicket of aspens in a hollow. This thicket
encircled a patch of grass. Hare pressed the lithe aspens aside to admit
Bolly and left her there free. He drew his rifle from its sheath and,
after assuring himself that the mustang could not be seen or heard from
below, he bent his steps diagonally up the slope.
Every foot of this ground he knew, and he climbed swiftly until he
struck the mountain trail. Then, descending, he entered the cedars. At
last he reached a point directly above the cliff-camp where he had spent
so many days, and this he knew overhung the cabin built by Holderness.
He stole down from tree to tree and slipped from thicket to thicket. The
sun, red as blood, raised a bright crescent over the red wall; the soft
mists of the valley began to glow and move; cattle were working in
toward the spring. Never brushing a branch, never dislodging a stone,
Hare descended the slope, his eyes keener, his ears sharper with every
step. Soon the edge of the gray stone cliff below shut out the lower
level of cedars. While resting he listened. Then he marked his course
down the last bit of slanting ground to the cliff bench which faced the
valley. This space was open, rough with crumbling rock and dead cedar
brush--a difficult place to cross without sound. Deliberate in his
choice of steps, very slow in moving, Hare went on with a stealth which
satisfied even his intent ear. When the wide gray strip of stone drew
slowly into the circle of his downcast gaze he sank to the ground with a
slight trembling in all his limbs. There was a thick bush on the edge of
the cliff; in three steps he could reach it and, unseen himself, look
down upon the camp.
A little cloud or smoke rose lazily and capped a slender column of blue.
Sounds were wafted softly upward, the low voices of men in conversation,
a merry whistle, and then the humming of a tune. Hare's mouth was dry
and his temples throbbed as he asked himself what it was best to do. The
answer came instantaneously as though it had lain just below the level
of his conscious thought. “I'll watch till Holderness walks out into
sight, jump up with a yell when he comes, give him time to see me, to
draw his gun--then kill him!”
Hare slipped to the bush, drew in a deep long breath that stilled his
agitation, and peered over the cliff. The crude shingles of the cabin
first rose into sight; then beyond he saw the corral with a number of
shaggy mustangs and a great gray horse. Hare stared blankly. As in a
dream he saw the proud arch of a splendid neck, the graceful wave of a
white-crested mane.
“Silvermane!... My God!” he gasped, suddenly. “They caught him--after
all!”
He fell backward upon the cliff and lay there with hands clinching his
rifle, shudderingly conscious of a blow, trying to comprehend its
meaning.
“Silvermane!... they caught him--after all!” he kept repeating; then in
a flash of agonized understanding he whispered: “Mescal... Mescal!”
He rolled upon his face, shutting out the blue sky; his body stretched
stiff as a bent spring released from its compress, and his nails dented
the stock of his rifle. Then this rigidity softened to sobs that shook
him from head to foot. He sat up, haggard and wild-eyed.
Silvermane had been captured, probably by rustlers waiting at the
western edge of the sand-strip. Mescal had fallen into the hands of Snap
Naab. But Mescal was surely alive and Snap was there to be killed; his
long career of unrestrained cruelty was in its last day--something told
Hare that this thing must and should be. 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. The cabin
with its closed door facing him was scarcely two hundred feet down from
his hiding-place. One of the rustlers sang as he bent over the camp-fire
and raked the coals around the pots; others lounged on a bench waiting
for breakfast; some rolled out of their blankets; they stretched and
yawned, and pulling on their boots made for the spring. The last man to
rise was Snap Naab, and he had slept with his head on the threshold of
the door. Evidently Snap had made Mescal a prisoner in the cabin, and no
one could go in or out without stepping upon him. The rustler-foreman of
Holderness's company had slept with his belt containing two Colts, nor
had he removed his boots. Hare noted these details with grim humor. Now
the tall Holderness, face shining, gold-red beard agleam, rounded the
cabin whistling. Hare watched the rustlers sit down to breakfast, and
here and there caught a loud-spoken word, and marked their leisurely
care-free manner. Snap Naab took up a pan of food and a cup of coffee,
carried them into the cabin, and came out, shutting the door.
After breakfast most of the rustlers set themselves to their various
tasks. Hare watched them with the eyes of a lynx watching deer. Several
men were arranging articles for packing, and their actions were slow to
the point of laziness; others trooped down toward the corral. Holderness
rolled a cigarette and stooped over the campfire to reach a burning
stick. Snap Naab stalked to and fro before the door of the cabin. He
alone of the rustler's band showed restlessness, and more than once he
glanced up the trail that led over the divide toward his father's oasis.
Holderness sent expectant glances in the other direction toward Seeping
Springs. Once his clear voice rang out:
“I tell you, Naab, there's no hurry. We'll ride in tomorrow.”
A thousand thoughts flitted through Hare's mind--a steady stream of
questions and answers. Why did Snap look anxiously along the oasis
trail? It was not that he feared his father or his brothers alone, but
there was always the menace of the Navajos. Why was Holderness in no
hurry to leave Silver Cup? Why did he lag at the spring when, if he
expected riders from his ranch, he could have gone on to meet them,
obviously saving time and putting greater distance between him and the
men he had wronged? Was it utter fearlessness or only a deep-played
game? Holderness and his rustlers, all except the gloomy Naab, were
blind to the peril that lay beyond the divide. How soon would August
Naab strike out on the White Sage trail? Would he come alone? Whether he
came alone or at the head of his hard-riding Navajos he would arrive too
late. Holderness's life was not worth a pinch of the ashes he flecked so
carelessly from his cigarette. Snap Naab's gloom, his long stride, his
nervous hand always on or near the butt of his Colt, spoke the keenness
of his desert instinct. For him the sun had arisen red over the red
wall. Had he harmed Mescal? Why did he keep the cabin door shut and
guard it so closely?
While Hare watched and thought the hours sped by. Holderness lounged
about and Snap kept silent guard. 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. Hare longed to see the roan charger come up over
the crest; he longed to see a file of Navajos, plumes waving, dark
mustangs gleaming in the red light, sweep down the stony ridge toward
the cedars. “If they come,” he whispered, “I'll kill Holderness and Snap
and any man who tries to open that cabin door.”
So he waited in tense watchfulness, his gaze alternating between the
wavy line of the divide and the camp glade. Out in the valley it was
still daylight, but under the cliff twilight had fallen. All day Hare
had strained his ears to hear the talk of the rustlers, and it now
occurred to him that if he climbed down through the split in the cliff
to the bench where Dave and George had always hidden to watch the spring
he would be just above the camp. This descent involved risk, but since
it would enable him to see the cabin door when darkness set in, he
decided to venture. The moment was propitious, for the rustlers were
bustling around, cooking dinner, unrolling blankets, and moving to and
fro from spring and corral. Hare crawled back a few yards and along the
cliff until he reached the split. It was a narrow steep crack which he
well remembered. Going down was attended with two dangers--losing his
hold, and the possible rattling of stones. Face foremost he slipped
downward with the gliding, sinuous movement of a snake, and reaching the
grassy bench he lay quiet. Jesting voices and loud laughter from below
reassured him. He had not been heard. His new position afforded every
chance to see and hear, and also gave means of rapid, noiseless retreat
along the bench to the cedars. Lying flat he crawled stealthily to the
bushy fringe of the bench.
A bright fire blazed under the cliff. Men were moving and laughing. The
cabin door was open. Mescal stood leaning back from Snap Naab,
struggling to release her hands.
“Let me untie them, I say,” growled Snap.
Mescal tore loose from him and stepped back. Her hands were bound before
her, and twisting them outward, she warded him off. Her dishevelled hair
almost hid her dark eyes. They burned in a level glance of hate and
defiance. She was a little lioness, quivering with fiery life, fight in
every line of her form.
“All right, don't eat then--starve!” said Snap.
“I'll starve before I eat what you give me.”
The rustlers laughed. Holderness blew out a puff of smoke and smiled.
Snap glowered upon Mescal and then upon his amiable companions. One of
them, a ruddy-faced fellow, walked toward Mescal.
“Cool down, Snap, cool down,” he said. “We're not goin' to stand for a
girl starvin'. She ain't eat a bite yet. Here, Miss, let me untie your
hands--there. . . . Say! Naab, d--n you, her wrists are black an' blue!”
“Look out! Your gun!” yelled Snap.
With a swift movement Mescal snatched the man's Colt from its holster
and was raising it when he grasped her arm. She winced and dropped the
weapon.
“You little Indian devil!” exclaimed the rustler, in a rapt admiration.
“Sorry to hurt you, an' more'n sorry to spoil your aim. Thet wasn't kind
to throw my own gun on me, jest after I'd played the gentleman, now, was
it?”
“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?”
“Yep, jest a plain Nebraska rustler, cattle-thief, an' all round no-good
customer, though I ain't taken to houndin' women yet.”
For answer Snap Naab's right hand slowly curved upward before him and
stopped taut and inflexible, while his strange eyes seemed to shoot
sparks.
“See here, Naab, why do you want to throw a gun on me?” asked the
rustler, coolly. “Haven't you shot enough of your friends yet? I reckon
I've no right to interfere in your affairs. I was only protestin'
friendly like, for the little lady. She's game, an' she's called your
hand. An' it's not a straight hand. Thet's all, an' d--n if I care
whether you are a Mormon or not. I'll bet a hoss Holderness will back me
up.”
“Snap, he's right,” put in Holderness, smoothly. “You needn't be so
touchy about Mescal. She's showed what little use she's got for you. If
you must rope her around like you do a mustang, be easy about it. Let's
have supper. Now, Mescal, you sit here on the bench and behave yourself.
I don't want you shooting up my camp.”
Snap turned sullenly aside while Holderness seated Mescal near the door
and fetched her food and drink. The rustlers squatted round the camp-
fire, and conversation ceased in the business of the meal.
To Hare the scene had brought a storm of emotions. Joy at the sight of
Mescal, blessed relief to see her unscathed, pride in her fighting
spirit--these came side by side with gratitude to the kind Nebraska
rustler, strange deepening insight into Holderness's game,
unextinguishable white-hot hatred of Snap Naab. And binding all was the
ever-mounting will to rescue Mescal, which was held in check by an
inexorable judgment; he must continue to wait. And he did wait with
blind faith in the something to be, keeping ever in mind the last
resort--the rifle he clutched with eager hands. Meanwhile the darkness
descended, the fire sent forth a brighter blaze, and the rustlers
finished their supper. Mescal arose and stepped across the threshold of
the cabin door.
“Hold on!” ordered Snap, as he approached with swift strides. “Stick out
your hands!”
Some of the rustlers grumbled; and one blurted out: “Aw no, Snap, don't
tie her up--no!”
“Who says no?” hissed the Mormon, with snapping teeth. As he wheeled
upon them his Colt seemed to leap forward, and suddenly quivered at
arm's-length, gleaming in the ruddy fire-rays.
Holderness laughed in the muzzle of the weapon. “Go ahead, Snap, tie up
your lady love. What a tame little wife she's going to make you! Tie her
up, but do it without hurting her.”
The rustlers growled or laughed at their leader's order. Snap turned to
his task. Mescal stood in the doorway and shrinkingly extended her
clasped hands. Holderness whirled to the fire with a look which betrayed
his game. Snap bound Mescal's hands securely, thrust her inside the
cabin, and after hesitating for a long moment, finally shut the door.
“It's funny about a woman, now, ain't it?” said Nebraska,
confidentially, to a companion. “One minnit she'll snatch you bald-
headed; the next, she'll melt in your mouth like sugar. An' I'll be
darned if the changeablest one ain't the kind to hold a feller longest.
But it's h--l. I was married onct. Not any more for mine! A pal I had
used to say thet whiskey riled him, thet rattlesnake pisen het up his
blood some, but it took a woman to make him plumb bad. D--n if it ain't
so. When there's a woman around there's somethin' allus comin' off.”
But the strain, instead of relaxing, became portentous. Holderness
suddenly showed he was ill at ease; he appeared to be expecting arrivals
from the direction of Seeping Springs. Snap Naab leaned against the side
of the door, his narrow gaze cunningly studying the rustlers before him.
More than any other he had caught a foreshadowing. Like the desert-hawk
he could see afar. Suddenly he pressed back against the door, half
opening it while he faced the men.
“Stop!” commanded Holderness. The change in his voice was as if it had
come from another man. “You don't go in there!”
“I'm going to take the girl and ride to White Sage,” replied Naab, in
slow deliberation.
“Bah! You say that only for the excuse to get into the cabin with her.
You tried it last night and I blocked you. Shut the door, Naab, or
something'll happen.”
“There's more going to happen than ever you think of, Holderness. Don't
interfere now, I'm going.”
“Well, go ahead--but you won't take the girl!”
Snap Naab swung off the step, slamming the door behind him.
“So-ho!” he exclaimed, sneeringly. “That's why you've made me foreman,
eh?” His claw-like hand moved almost imperceptibly upward while his pale
eyes strove to pierce the strength behind Holderness's effrontery. The
rustler chief had a trump card to play; one that showed in his sardonic
smile.
“Naab, you don't get the girl.”
“Maybe you'll get her?” hissed Snap.
“I always intended to.”
Surely never before had passion driven Snap's hand to such speed. His
Colt gleamed in the camp-fire light. Click! Click! Click! The hammer
fell upon empty chambers.
“H--l!” he shrieked.
Holderness laughed sarcastically.
“That's where you're going!” he cried. “Here's to Naab's trick with a
gun--Bah!” And he shot his foreman through the heart.
Snap plunged upon his face. His hands beat the ground like the shuffling
wings of a wounded partridge. His fingers gripped the dust, spread
convulsively, straightened, and sank limp.
Holderness called through the door of the cabin. “Mescal, I've rid you
of your would-be husband. Cheer-up!” Then, pointing to the fallen man,
he said to the nearest bystanders: “Some of you drag that out for the
coyotes.”
The first fellow who bent over Snap happened to be the Nebraska rustler,
and he curiously opened the breech of the six-shooter he picked up. “No
shells!” he said. He pulled Snap's second Colt from his belt, and
unbreeched that. “No shells! Well, d--n me!” He surveyed the group of
grim men, not one of whom had any reply.
Holderness again laughed harshly, and turning to the cabin, he fastened
the door with a lasso.
It was a long time before Hare recovered from the startling revelation
of the plot which had put Mescal into Holderness's power. Bad as Snap
Naab had been he would have married her, and such a fate was infinitely
preferable to the one that now menaced her. Hare changed his position
and settled himself to watch and wait out the night. Every hour
Holderness and his men tarried at Silver Cup hastened their approaching
doom. Hare's strange prescience of the fatality that overshadowed these
men had received its first verification in the sudden taking off of Snap
Naab. The deep-scheming Holderness, confident that his strong band meant
sure protection, sat and smoked and smiled beside the camp-fire. He had
not caught even a hint of Snap Naab's suggested warning. Yet somewhere
out on the oasis trail rode a man who, once turned from the saving of
life to the lust to kill, would be as immutable as death itself. Behind
him waited a troop of Navajos, swift as eagles, merciless as wolves,
desert warriors with the sunheated blood of generations in their veins.
As Hare waited and watched with all his inner being cold, he could
almost feel pity for Holderness. His doom was close. Twice, when the
rustler chief had sauntered nearer to the cabin door, as if to enter,
Hare had covered him with the rifle, waiting, waiting for the step upon
the threshold. But Holderness always checked himself in time, and Hare's
finger eased its pressure upon the trigger.
The night closed in black; the clouded sky gave forth no starlight; the
wind rose and moaned through the cedars. One by one the rustlers rolled
in their blankets and all dropped into slumber while the camp-fire
slowly burned down. The night hours wore on to the soft wail of the
breeze and the wild notes of far-off trailing coyotes.
Hare, watching sleeplessly, saw one of the prone figures stir. The man
raised himself very cautiously; he glanced at his companions, and looked
long at Holderness, who lay squarely in the dimming light. Then he
softly lowered himself. Hare wondered what the rustler meant to do.
Presently he again lifted his head and turned it as if listening
intently. His companions were motionless in deep-breathing sleep. Gently
he slipped aside his blankets and began to rise. He was slow and guarded
of movement; it took him long to stand erect. He stepped between the
rustlers with stockinged feet which were as noiseless as an Indian's,
and he went toward the cabin door.
He softly edged round the sleeping Holderness, showing a glinting six-
shooter in his hand. Hare's resolve to kill him before he reached the
door was checked. What did it mean, this rustler's stealthy movements,
his passing by Holderness with his drawn weapon! Again doom hovered over
the rustler chief. If he stirred!--Hare knew instantly that this softly
stepping man was a Mormon; he was true to Snap Naab, to the woman
pledged in his creed. He meant to free Mescal.
If ever Hare breathed a prayer it was then. What if one of the band
awakened! As the rustler turned at the door his dark face gleamed in the
flickering light. He unwound the lasso and opened the door without a
sound.
Hare whispered: “Heavens! if he goes in she'll scream! that will wake
Holderness--then I must shoot--I must!”
But the Mormon rustler added wisdom to his cunning and stealth.
“Hist!” he whispered into the cabin. “Hist!”
Mescal must have been awake; she must have guessed instantly the meaning
of that low whisper, for silently she appeared in the doorway, silently
she held forth her bound hands. The man untied the bonds and pointed
into the cedars toward the corral. Swift and soundless as a flitting
shadow Mescal vanished in the gloom. The Mormon stole with wary,
unhurried steps back to his bed and rolled in his blankets.
Hare rose unsteadily, wavering in the hot grip of a moment that seemed
to have but one issue--the killing of Holderness. Mescal would soon be
upon Silvermane, far out on the White Sage trail, and this time there
would be no sand-strip to trap her. But Hare could not kill the rustler
while he was sleeping; and he could not awaken him without revealing to
his men the escape of the girl. Hare stood there on the bench, gazing
down on the blanketed Holderness. Why not kill him now, ending forever
his power, and trust to chance for the rest? No, no! Hare flung the
temptation from him. To ward off pursuit as long as possible, to aid
Mescal in every way to some safe hiding-place, and then to seek
Holderness--that was the forethought of a man who had learned to wait.
Under the dark projection of the upper cliff Hare felt his way to the
cedar slope, and the trail, and then he went swiftly down into the
little hollow where he had left Bolly. The darkness of the forest
hindered him, but he came at length to the edge of the aspen thicket; he
penetrated it, and guided toward Bolly by a suspicious stamp and neigh,
he found her and quieted her with a word. He rode down the hollow, out
upon the level valley.