All about him cattle were lying in a thick gloom. It was penetrable for
only a few rods. The ground was like a cushion under Bolly's hoofs,
giving forth no sound. The mustang threw up her head, causing Hare to
peer into the night-fog. Rapid hoof-beats broke the silence, a vague
gray shadow moved into sight. He saw Silvermane and called as loudly as
he dared. The stallion melted into the misty curtain, the beating of
hoofs softened and ceased. Hare spurred Bolly to her fleetest. He had a
long, silent chase, but it was futile, and unnecessarily hard on the
mustang; so he pulled her in to a trot.
Hare kept Bolly to this gait the remainder of the night, and when the
eastern sky lightened he found the trail and reached Seeping Springs at
dawn. Silvermane's tracks were deep in the clay at the drinking-trough.
He rested a few moments, gave Bolly sparingly of grain and water, and
once more took to the trail.
From the ridge below the spring he saw Silvermane beyond the valley,
miles ahead of him. This day seemed shorter than the foregoing one; it
passed while he watched Silvermane grow smaller and smaller and
disappear on the looming slope of Coconina. Hare's fear that Mescal
would run into the riders Holderness expected from his ranch grew less
and less after she had reached the cover of the cedars. That she would
rest the stallion at the Navajo pool on the mountain he made certain.
Late in the night he came to the camping spot and found no trace to
prove that she had halted there even to let Silvermane drink. So he tied
the tired mustang and slept until daylight.
He crossed the plateau and began the descent. Before he was half-way
down the warm bright sun had cleared the valley of vapor and shadow. Far
along the winding white trail shone a speck. It was Silvermane almost
out of sight.
“Ten miles--fifteen, more maybe,” said Hare. “Mescal will soon be in the
village.”
Again hours of travel flew by like winged moments. Thoughts of time,
distance, monotony, fatigue, purpose, were shut out from his mind. A
rushing kaleidoscopic dance of images filled his consciousness, but they
were all of Mescal. Safety for her had unsealed the fountain of
happiness.
It was near sundown when he rode Black Bolly into White Sage, and took
the back road, and the pasture lane to Bishop Caldwell's cottage. John,
one of the Bishop's sons, was in the barn-yard and ran to open the gate.
“Mescal!” cried Hare.
“Safe,” replied the Mormon.
“Have you hidden her?”
“She's in a secret cave, a Mormon hiding-place for women. Only a few men
know of its existence. Rest easy, for she's absolutely safe.”
“Thank God!... then that's settled.” Hare drew a long, deep breath.
“Mescal told us what happened, how she got caught at the sand-strip and
escaped from Holderness at Silver Cup. Was Dene hurt?”
“Silvermane killed him.”
“Good God! How things come about! I saw you run Dene down that time here
in White Sage. It must have been written. 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? Mescal?”
“No. For Holderness.”
“You'll kill him!”
“Yes.”
“He'll be coming soon?--When?”
“To-morrow, possibly by daylight. He wants Mescal. There's a chance Naab
may have reached Silver Cup before Holderness left, but I doubt it.”
“May I know your plan?” The Mormon hesitated while his strong brown face
flashed with daring inspiration. “I--I've a good reason.”
“Plan?-- Yes. Hide Bolly and Silvermane in the little arbor down in the
orchard. I'll stay outside to-night, sleep a little--for I'm dead tired-
-and watch in the morning. Holderness will come here with his men,
perhaps not openly at first, to drag Mescal away. He'll mean to use
strategy. I'll meet him when he comes--that's all.”
“It's well. I ask you not to mention this to my father. Come in, now.
You need food and rest. Later I'll hide Bolly and Silvermane in the
arbor.”
Hare met the Bishop and his family with composure, but his arrival
following so closely upon Mescal's, increased their alarm. They seemed
repelled yet fascinated by his face. Hare ate in silence. John Caldwell
did not come in to supper; his brothers mysteriously left the table
before finishing the meal. A subdued murmur of voices floated in at the
open window.
Darkness found Hare wrapped in a blanket under the trees. He needed
sleep that would loose the strange deadlock of his thoughts, clear the
blur from his eyes, ease the pain in his head and weariness of limbs--
all these weaknesses of which he had suddenly become conscious. Time and
again he had almost wooed slumber to him when soft footsteps on the
gravel paths, low voices, the gentle closing of the gate, brought him
back to the unreal listening wakefulness. The sounds continued late into
the night, and when he did fall asleep he dreamed of them. He awoke to a
dawn clearer than the light from the noonday sun. In his ears was the
ringing of a bell. He could not stand still, and his movements were
subtle and swift. His hands took a peculiar, tenacious, hold of
everything he chanced to touch. He paced his hidden walk behind the
arbor, at every turn glancing sharply up and down the road. Thoughts
came to him clearly, yet one was dominant. The morning was curiously
quiet, the sons of the Bishop had strangely disappeared--a sense of
imminent catastrophe was in the air.
A band of horsemen closely grouped turned into the road and trotted
forward. Some of the men wore black masks. Holderness rode at the front,
his red-gold beard shining in the sunlight. The steady clip-clop of
hoofs and clinking of iron stirrups broke the morning quiet. 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. Bishop Caldwell
tottered from the cottage rapping the porch-floor with his cane.
“Good-morning, Bishop,” greeted Holderness, blandly, baring his head.
“To you, sir,” quavered the old man, with his wavering blue eyes fixed
on the spurred and belted rustler. Holderness stepped out in front of
his companions, a superb man, courteous, smiling, entirely at his ease.
“I rode in to--”
Hare leaped from his hiding-place.
“Holderness!”
The rustler pivoted on whirling heels.
“Dene's spy!” he exclaimed, aghast. Swift changes swept his mobile
features. Fear flickered in his eyes as he faced his foe; then came
wonder, a glint of amusement, dark anger, and the terrible instinct of
death impending.
“Naab's trick!” hissed Hare, with his hand held high. 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.
Hare's fateful glance, impossible to elude, his strung form slightly
crouched, his cold deliberate mention of Naab's trick, and more than all
the poise of that quivering hand, filled the rustler with a terror that
he could not hide.
He had been bidden to draw and he could not summon the force.
“Naab's trick!” repeated Hare, mockingly.
Suddenly Holderness reached for his gun.
Hare's hand leapt like a lightning stroke. Gleam of blue--spurt of red--
crash!
Holderness swayed with blond head swinging backward; the amber of his
eyes suddenly darkened; the life in them glazed; like a log he fell
clutching the weapon he had half drawn.
XX. THE RAGE OF THE OLD LION
“TAKE Holderness away--quick!” ordered Hare. A thin curl of blue smoke
floated from the muzzle of his raised weapon.
The rustlers started out of their statue-like immobility, and lifting
their dead leader dragged him down the garden path with his spurs
clinking on the gravel and ploughing little furrows.
“Bishop, go in now. They may return,” said Hare. He hurried up the steps
to place his arm round the tottering old man.
“Was that Holderness?”
“Yes,” replied Hare.
“The deeds of the wicked return unto them! God's will!”
Hare led the Bishop indoors. The sitting-room was full of wailing women
and crying children. None of the young men were present. Again Hare made
note of their inexplicable absence. He spoke soothingly to the
frightened family. The little boys and girls yielded readily to his
persuasion, but the women took no heed of him.
“Where are your sons?” asked Hare.
“I don't know,” replied the Bishop. “They should be here to stand by
you. It's strange. I don't understand. Last night my sons were visited
by many men, coming and going in twos and threes till late. They didn't
sleep in their beds. I know not what to think.”
Hare remembered John Caldwell's enigmatic face.
“Have the rustlers really come?” asked a young woman, whose eyes were
red and cheeks tear-stained.
“They have. Nineteen in all. I counted them,” answered Hare.
The young woman burst out weeping afresh, and the wailing of the others
answered her. Hare left the cottage. He picked up his rifle and went
down through the orchard to the hiding-place of the horses. Silvermane
pranced and snorted his gladness at sight of his master. The desert king
was fit for a grueling race. Black Bolly quietly cropped the long grass.
Hare saddled the stallion to have him in instant readiness, and then
returned to the front of the yard.
He heard the sound of a gun down the road, then another, and several
shots following in quick succession. A distant angry murmuring and
trampling of many feet drew Hare to the gate. Riderless mustangs were
galloping down the road; several frightened boys were fleeing across the
square; not a man was in sight. Three more shots cracked, and the low
murmur and trampling swelled into a hoarse uproar. Hare had heard that
sound before; it was the tumult of mob-violence. A black dense throng of
men appeared crowding into the main street, and crossing toward the
square. The procession had some order; it was led and flanked by mounted
men. But the upflinging of many arms, the craning of necks, and the
leaping of men on the outskirts of the mass, the pressure inward and the
hideous roar, proclaimed its real character.
“By Heaven!” exclaimed Hare. “The Mormons have risen against the
rustlers. I understand now. John Caldwell spent last night in secretly
rousing his neighbors. They have surprised the rustlers. Now what?”
Hare vaulted the fence and ran down the road. A compact mob of men, a
hundred or more, had halted in the village under the wide-spreading
cottonwoods. Hare suddenly grasped the terrible significance of those
outstretched branches, and out of the thought grew another which made
him run at bursting break-neck speed.
“Open up! Let me in!” he yelled to the thickly thronged circle. Right
and left he flung men. “Make way!” His piercing voice stilled the angry
murmur. Fierce men with weapons held aloft fell back from his face.
“Dene's spy!” they cried.
The circle opened and closed upon him. He saw bound rustlers under armed
guard. Four still forms were on the ground. Holderness lay outstretched,
a dark-red blot staining his gray shirt. Flinty-faced Mormons, ruthless
now as they had once been mild, surrounded the rustlers. John Caldwell
stood foremost, with ashen lips breaking bitterly into speech:
“Mormons, this is Dene's spy, the man who killed Holderness!”
The listeners burst into the short stern shout of men proclaiming a
leader in war.
“What's the game?” demanded Hare.
“A fair trial for the rustlers, then a rope,” replied John Caldwell. The
low ominous murmur swelled through the crowd again.
“There are two men here who have befriended me. I won't see them
hanged.”
“Pick them out!” A strange ripple of emotion made a fleeting break in
John Caldwell's hard face.
Hare eyed the prisoners.
“Nebraska, step out here,” said he.
“I reckon you're mistaken,” replied the rustler, his blue eyes intently
on Hare. “I never seen you before. An' I ain't the kind of a feller to
cheat the man you mean.”
“I saw you untie the girl's hands.”
“You did? Well, d--n me!”
“Nebraska, if I save your life will you quit rustling cattle? You
weren't cut out for a thief.”
“Will I? D--n me! I'll be straight an' decent. I'll take a job ridin'
for you, stranger, an' prove it.”
“Cut him loose from the others,” said Hare. He scrutinized the line of
rustlers. Several were masked in black. “Take off those masks!”
“No! Those men go to their graves masked.” Again the strange twinge of
pain crossed John Caldwell's face.
“Ah, I see,” exclaimed Hare. Then quickly: “I couldn't recognize the
other man anyhow; I don't know him. But Mescal can tell. He saved her
and I'll save him. But how?”
Every rustler, except the masked ones standing stern and silent,
clamored that he was the one to be saved.
“Hurry back home,” said Caldwell in Hare's ear. “Tell them to fetch
Mescal. Find out and hurry back. Time presses. The Mormons are wavering.
You've got only a few minutes.”
Hare slipped out of the crowd, sped up the road, jumped the fence on the
run, and burst in upon the Bishop and his family.
“No danger--don't be alarmed--all's well,” he panted. “The rustlers are
captured. I want Mescal. Quick! Where is she? Fetch her, somebody.”
One of the women glided from the room. Hare caught the clicking of a
latch, the closing of a door, hollow footfalls descending on stone, and
dying away under the cottage. They rose again, ending in swiftly
pattering footsteps. Like a whirlwind Mescal came through the hall,
black hair flying, dark eyes beaming.
“My darling!” Oblivious of the Mormons he swung her up and held her in
his arms. “Mescal! Mescal!”
When he raised his face from the tumbling mass of her black hair, the
Bishop and his family had left the room.
“Listen, Mescal. Be calm. I'm safe. The rustlers are prisoners. One of
them released you from Holderness. Tell me which one?”
“I don't know,” replied Mescal. “I've tried to think. I didn't see his
face; I can't remember his voice.”
“Think! Think! He'll be hanged if you don't recall something to identify
him. He deserves a chance. Holderness's crowd are thieves, murderers.
But two were not all bad. That showed the night you were at Silver Cup.
I saved Nebraska--”
“Were you at Silver Cup? Jack!”
“Hush! don't interrupt me. We must save this man who saved you. Think!
Mescal! Think!”
“Oh! I can't. What--how shall I remember?”
“Something about him. Think of his coat, his sleeve. You must remember
something. Did you see his hands?”
“Yes, I did--when he was loosing the cords,” said Mescal, eagerly.
“Long, strong fingers. I felt them too. He has a sharp rough wart on one
hand, I don't know which. He wears a leather wristband.”
“That's enough!” Hare bounded out upon the garden walk and raced back to
the crowded square. The uneasy circle stirred and opened for him to
enter. He stumbled over a pile of lassoes which had not been there when
he left. The stony Mormons waited; the rustlers coughed and shifted
their feet. John Caldwell turned a gray face. Hare bent over the three
dead rustlers lying with Holderness, and after a moment of anxious
scrutiny he rose to confront the line of prisoners.
“Hold out your hands.”
One by one they complied. The sixth rustler in the line, a tall fellow,
completely masked, refused to do as he was bidden. Twice Hare spoke. The
rustler twisted his bound hands under his coat.
“Let's see them,” said Hare, quickly. He grasped the fellow's arm and
received a violent push that almost knocked him over. Grappling with the
rustler, he pulled up the bound hands, in spite of fierce resistance,
and there were the long fingers, the sharp wart, the laced wristband.
“Here's my man!” he said.
“No,” hoarsely mumbled the rustler. The perspiration ran down his corded
neck; his breast heaved convulsively.
“You fool!” cried Hare, dumfounded and resentful. “I recognized you.
Would you rather hang than live? What's your secret?”
He snatched off the black mask. The Bishop's eldest son stood revealed.
“Good God!” cried Hare, recoiling from that convulsed face.
“Brother! Oh! I feared this,” groaned John Caldwell.
The rustlers broke out into curses and harsh laughter.
“--- --- you Mormons! See him! Paul Caldwell! Son of a Bishop! Thought
he was shepherdin' sheep?”
“D--n you, Hare!” shouted the guilty Mormon, in passionate fury and
shame. “Why didn't you hang me? Why didn't you bury me unknown?”
“Caldwell! I can't believe it,” cried Hare, slowly coming to himself.
“But you don't hang. Here, come out of the crowd. Make way, men!”
The silent crowd of Mormons with lowered and averted eyes made passage
for Hare and Caldwell. Then cold, stern voices in sharp questions and
orders went on with the grim trial. Leading the bowed and stricken
Mormon, Hare drew off to the side of the town-hall and turned his back
upon the crowd. The constant trampling of many feet, the harsh medley of
many voices swelled into one dreadful sound. It passed away, and a long
hush followed. But this in turn was suddenly broken by an outcry:
“The Navajos! The Navajos!”
Hare thrilled at that cry and his glance turned to the eastern end of
the village road where a column of mounted Indians, four abreast, was
riding toward the square.
“Naab and his Indians,” shouted Hare. “Naab and his Indians! No fear!”
His call was timely, for the aroused Mormons, ignorant of Naab's
pursuit, fearful of hostile Navajos, were handling their guns ominously.
But there came a cry of recognition--“August Naab!”
Onward came the band, Naab in the lead on his spotted roan. The mustangs
were spent and lashed with foam. Naab reined in his charger and the
keen-eyed Navajos closed in behind him. The old Mormon's eagle glance
passed over the dark forms dangling from the cottonwoods to the files of
waiting men.
“Where is he?”
“There!” answered John Caldwell, pointing to the body of Holderness.
“Who robbed me of my vengeance? Who killed the rustler?” Naab's
stentorian voice rolled over the listening multitude. In it was a hunger
of thwarted hate that held men mute. He bent a downward gaze at the dead
Holderness as if to make sure of the ghastly reality. Then he seemed to
rise in his saddle, and his broad chest to expand. “I know--I saw it
all--blind I was not to believe my own eyes! Where is he? Where is
Hare?”
Some one pointed Hare out. Naab swung from his saddle and scattered the
men before him as if they had been sheep. His shaggy gray head and
massive shoulders towered above the tallest there.
Hare felt again a cold sense of fear. He grew weak in all his being. He
reeled when the gray shaggy giant laid a huge hand on his shoulder and
with one pull dragged him close. Was this his kind Mormon benefactor,
this man with the awful eyes?
“You killed Holderness?” roared Naab.
“Yes,” whispered Hare.
“You heard me say I'd go alone? You forestalled me? You took upon
yourself my work?... Speak.”
“I--did.”
“By what right?”
“My debt--duty--your family--Dave!”
“Boy! Boy! You've robbed me.” Naab waved his arm from the gaping crowd
to the swinging rustlers. “You've led these white-livered Mormons to do
my work. How can I avenge my sons--seven sons?”
His was the rage of the old desert-lion. He loosed Hare and strode in
magnificent wrath over Holderness and raised his brawny fists.
“Eighteen years I prayed for wicked men,” he rolled out. “One by one I
buried my sons. I gave my springs and my cattle. Then I yielded to the
lust for blood. I renounced my religion. I paid my soul to everlasting
hell for the life of my foe. But he's dead! Killed by a wild boy! I sold
myself to the devil for nothing!”
August Naab raved out his unnatural rage amid awed silence. His revolt
was the flood of years undammed at the last. The ferocity of the desert
spirit spoke silently in the hanging rustlers, in the ruthlessness of
the vigilantes who had destroyed them, but it spoke truest in the
sonorous roll of the old Mormon's wrath.
“August, young Hare saved two of the rustlers,” spoke up an old friend,
hoping to divert the angry flood. “Paul Caldwell there, he was one of
them. The other's gone.”
Naab loomed over him. “What!” he roared. His friend edged away,
repeating his words and jerking his thumb backward toward the Bishop's
son.
“Judas Iscariot!” thundered Naab. “False to thyself, thy kin, and thy
God! Thrice traitor!... Why didn't you get yourself killed? ... Why are
you left? Ah-h! for me--a rustler for me to kill--with my own hands!--A
rope there--a rope!”
“I wanted them to hang me,” hoarsely cried Caldwell, writhing in Naab's
grasp.
Hare threw all his weight and strength upon the Mormon's iron arm.
“Naab! Naab! For God's sake, hear! He saved Mescal. This man, thief,
traitor, false Mormon--whatever he is--he saved Mescal.”
August Naab's eyes were bloodshot. One shake of his great body flung
Hare off. He dragged Paul Caldwell across the grass toward the
cottonwood as easily as if he were handling an empty grain-sack.
Hare suddenly darted after him. “August! August!--look! look!” he cried.
He pointed a shaking finger down the square. The old Bishop came
tottering over the grass, leaning on his cane, shading his eyes with his
hand. “August. See, the Bishop's coming. Paul's father! Do you hear?”
Hare's appeal pierced Naab's frenzied brain. The Mormon Elder saw his
old Bishop pause and stare at the dark shapes suspended from the
cottonwoods and hold up his hands in horror.
Naab loosed his hold. His frame seemed wrenched as though by the passing
of an evil spirit, and the reaction left his face transfigured.
“Paul, it's your father, the Bishop,” he said, brokenly. “Be a man. He
must never know.” Naab spread wide his arms to the crowd. “Men, listen,”
he said. “Of all of us Mormons I have lost most, suffered most. Then
hear me. Bishop Caldwell must never know of his son's guilt. He would
sink under it. Keep the secret. Paul will be a man again. I know. I see.
For, Mormons, August Naab has the gift of revelation!”
XXI. MESCAL
SUMMER gleams of golden sunshine swam under the glistening red walls of
the oasis. Shadows from white clouds, like sails on a deep-blue sea,
darkened the broad fields of alfalfa. Circling columns of smoke were
wafted far above the cottonwoods and floated in the still air. The
desert-red color of Navajo blankets brightened the grove.
Half-naked bronze Indians lolled in the shade, lounged on the cabin
porches and stood about the sunny glade in idle groups. They wore the
dress of peace. A single black-tipped white eagle feather waved above
the band binding each black head. They watched the merry children tumble
round the playground. Silvermane browsed where he listed under the shady
trees, and many a sinewy red hand caressed his flowing mane. Black Bolly
neighed her jealous displeasure from the corral, and the other mustangs
trampled and kicked and whistled defiance across the bars. The peacocks
preened their gorgeous plumage and uttered their clarion calls. The
belligerent turkey-gobblers sidled about ruffling their feathers. The
blackbirds and swallows sang and twittered their happiness to find old
nests in the branches and under the eaves. Over all boomed the dull roar
of the Colorado in flood.
It was the morning of Mescal's wedding-day.
August Naab, for once without a task, sat astride a peeled log of
driftwood in the lane, and Hare stood beside him.
“Five thousand steers, lad! Why do you refuse them? They're worth ten
dollars a head to-day in Salt Lake City. A good start for a young man.”
“No, I'm still in your debt.”
“Then share alike with my sons in work and profit?”
“Yes, I can accept that.”
“Good! Jack, I see happiness and prosperity for you. Do you remember
that night on the White Sage trail? Ah! Well, the worst is over. We can
look forward to better times. It's not likely the rustlers will ride
into Utah again. But this desert will never be free from strife.”
“Tell me of Mescal,” said Hare.