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  Hare sank back against the stone. He knew the foremost of those horsemen, although he had never seen him.

  “Dene,” whispered Mescal, and confirmed his instinctive fear.

  Hare was nervously alive to the handsome presence of the outlaw. Glimpses that he had caught of bad men returned vividly as he noted the clean-shaven face, the youthful, supple body, the cool, careless mien. Dene’s eyes glittered as he pulled off his gauntlets and beat the sand out of them, and but for that quick fierce glance his leisurely friendly manner would have disarmed suspicion.

  “Are you the Mormon Naab?” he queried.

  “August Naab, I am.”

  “Dry camp, eh? Hosses tired, I reckon. Shore it’s a sandy trail. Where’s the rest of you fellers?”

  “Cole and his men were in a hurry to make White Sage tonight. They were traveling light . . . I’ve heavy wagons.”

  “Naab, I reckon you shore wouldn’t tell a lie?”

  “I have never lied.”

  “Heerd of a young feller thet was in Lund . . . pale chap . . . lunger, we’d call him back East?”

  “I heard that he had been mistaken for a spy at Lund and had fled toward Bane.”

  “Hain’t seen nothin’ of him this side of Lund?”

  “No.”

  “Seen any Navvies?”

  “Yes.”

  The outlaw stared hard at him. Apparently he was about to speak of the Navajos, for his quick uplift of head at Naab’s blunt affirmative suggested the impulse. But he checked himself and slowly drew on his gloves.

  “Naab, I’m shore comin’ to visit you someday. Never been over thet range. Heerd you hed fine water, fine cattle. An’ say, I seen thet little Navajo girl you have, an’ I wouldn’t mind seein’ her again.”

  August Naab kicked the fire into brighter blaze. “Yes, fine range,” he presently replied, his gaze fixed on Dene. “Fine water, fine cattle, fine browse. I’ve a fine graveyard, too . . . thirty graves, and not one a woman’s. Fine place for graves, the cañon country. You don’t have to dig. There’s one grave the Indians never named . . . it’s three thousand feet deep.”

  “Thet must be in hell,” replied Dene, with a smile, ignoring the covert meaning. He leisurely surveyed Naab’s four sons, the wagons and horses, till his eye fell upon Hare and Mescal. With that he swung in his saddle as if to dismount.

  “I shore want a look around.”

  “Get down, get down,” returned the Mormon. The deep voice, unwelcoming, vibrant with an odd ring, would have struck a less suspicious man than Dene. The outlaw swung his leg back over the pommel, sagged in the saddle, and appeared to be pondering the question. Plainly he was uncertain of his ground. But his indecision was brief.

  “Two-Spot, you look ’em over,” he ordered.

  The third horseman dismounted and went toward the wagons.

  Hare, watching this scene, became conscious that his fear had intensified with the recognition of Two-Spot as Chance, the outlaw who he would not soon forget. In his excitement he moved against Mescal and felt her trembling violently.

  “Are you afraid?” he whispered.

  “Yes, of Dene.”

  The outlaw rummaged in one of the wagons, pulled aside the canvas flaps of the other, laughed harshly, and then with clinking spurs tramped through the camp, kicking the beds, overturning a pile of saddles, and making disorder generally, till he spied the couple sitting on the stone in the shadow.

  As the outlaw lurched that way, Hare, with a start of recollection, took Mescal in his arms and leaned his head against hers. He felt one of her hands lightly brush his shoulder and rest there, trembling.

  Shuffling footsteps scraped the sand, sounded nearer and nearer, slowed and paused.

  “Sparkin’! Dead to the world. Haw! Haw! Haw!”

  The coarse laugh gave place to moving footsteps. The rattling clink of stirrup and spur mingled with the restless stamp of horse. Chance had mounted. Dene’s voice drawled out: “Good bye, Naab. I shore will see you all someday.” The heavy thuds of many hoofs evened into a roar that diminished as it rushed away.

  In unutterable relief Hare realized his deliverance. He tried to rise, but power of movement had gone from him. He was fainting, yet his sensations were singularly acute.

  Mescal’s hand dropped from his shoulder; her cheek, that had been cold against his, grew hot; she quivered through all her slender length. Confusion claimed his senses. Gratitude and hope flooded his soul. Something sweet and beautiful, the touch of this desert girl, rioted in his blood; his heart swelled in exquisite agony. Then he was whirling in darkness, and he knew no more.

  Chapter Two

  The night was as a blank to Hare; the morning like a drifting of hazy clouds before his eyes. He felt himself moving, and, when he awakened clearly to consciousness, he lay upon a couch on the vine-covered porch of a cottage. He saw August Naab open a garden gate to admit Martin Cole. They met as friends; no trace of scorn marred August’s greeting, and Martin was not the same man who had shown fear on the desert. His welcome was one of respectful regard for his superior.

  “Elder, I heard you were safe in,” he said fervently. “We feared . . . I know not what. I was distressed till I got the news of your arrival. How’s the young man?”

  “He’s very ill. But while there’s life, there’s hope.”

  “Will the bishop administer to him?”

  “Gladly, if the young man’s willing. Come, let’s go in.”

  “Wait, August,” said Cole. “Did you know your son Snap was in the village?”

  “My son here?” August Naab betrayed anxiety. “I left him home with work. He shouldn’t have come. Is . . . is he . . .?”

  “He’s drinking and in an ugly mood. It seems he traded horses with Jeff Larsen, and got the worst of the deal. There’s pretty sure to be a fight.”

  “He always hated Larsen.”

  “Small wonder. Larsen is mean . . . he’s as bad as we’ve got and that’s saying a good deal. Snap has done worse things than fight with Larsen. He’s doing a worse thing now, August . . . he’s too friendly with Dene.”

  “I’ve heard . . . I’ve heard it before. But, Martin, what can I do?”

  “Do? God knows. What can any of us do? Times have changed, August. Dene is here in White Sage, free, welcome in many homes. Some of our neighbors, perhaps men we trust, are secret members of this rustler’s band.”

  “You’re right, Cole. There are Mormons who are cattle thieves. To my eternal shame I confess it. Under cover of night they ride with Dene, and here in our midst they meet him in easy tolerance. Driven from Montana, he comes here to corrupt our young men. God’s mercy.”

  “August, some of our young men need no one to corrupt them. Dene had no great task to win them. He rode in here with a few outlaws and now he has a strong band. We’ve got to face it. We haven’t any law, but he can be killed. Someone must kill him. Yet bad as Dene is, he doesn’t threaten our living as Holderness does. Dene steals a few cattle, kills a man here and there. Holderness reaches out and takes our springs. Because we’ve no law to stop him, he steals the blood of our life . . . water . . . water . . . God’s gift to the desert. Someone must kill Holderness, too!”

  “Martin, this lust to kill is a fearful thing. Come in . . . you must pray with the bishop.”

  “No, it’s not prayer I need, Elder,” replied Cole stubbornly. “I’m still a good Mormon. What I want is the stock I’ve lost, and my fields green again.”

  August Naab had no answer for his friend. A very old man with snow-white hair and beard came out on the porch.

  “Bishop Caldwell, brother Martin is railing again,” said Naab as Cole bared his head.

  “Martin, my son, unbosom thyself,” rejoined the bishop.

  “Black doubt and no light,” said Cole despondently. “I’m of the younger generation of Mormons, and faith is harder for me. I see signs you can’t see. I’ve had trials hard to bear. I was rich in cattle, sheep, and water. These Gentiles, th
is rancher Holderness and this outlaw Dene, have driven my cattle, killed my sheep, piped my water off my fields. I don’t like the present. We are no longer in the old days. Our young men are drifting away, and the few who return come with ideas opposed to Mormonism. Our girls and boys are growing up influenced by the Gentiles among us. They intermarry, and that’s a death blow to our creed.”

  “Martin, cast out this poison from your heart. Return to your faith. The millennium will come. Christ will reign on earth again. The ten tribes of Israel will be restored. The Book of Mormon is the Word of God. The creed will live. We may suffer here and die, but our spirits will go marching on . . . and the City of Zion will be builded over our graves.”

  Cole held up his hands in a meekness that signified hope if not faith.

  August Naab bent over Hare. “I would like to have Bishop Caldwell 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. It entails no obligation. Accept it as a prayer.”

  “I’m willing,” replied the young man.

  Thereupon Naab spoke a few low words to someone through the open door. Voices ceased; soft footsteps sounded without; women crossed the threshold, followed by tall young men and rosy-cheeked girls and round-eyed children. A white-haired old woman came forward with solemn dignity. She carried a silver bowl that she held for the bishop as he stood close by Hare’s couch. The bishop put his hands into the bowl, anointing them with fragrant oil, then he placed them on the young man’s head, and offered up a brief prayer, beautiful in its simplicity and tremulous utterance.

  The ceremony ended, the onlookers came forward with pleasant words on their lips, pleasant smiles on their faces. The children filed by his couch, bashful yet sympathetic; the women murmured; the young men grasped his hand. Mescal flitted by with downcast eye, with shy smile, but no word.

  “Your fever is gone,” said August Naab, with his hand on Hare’s cheek.

  “It comes and goes suddenly,” replied Hare. “I feel better now, only I’m oppressed. I can’t breathe freely. I want air, and I’m hungry.”

  “Mother Mary, the lad’s hungry. Judith, Esther, where are your wits? Help your mother. Mescal, wait on him, see to his comfort.”

  Mescal brought a little table and a pillow, and the other girls soon followed with food and drink, then they hovered about, absorbed in caring for him.

  They said I fell among thieves, mused Hare, when he was once more alone. I’ve fallen among saints as well. He felt that he could never repay this August Naab. “If only I might live!” he ejaculated. How restful was this cottage garden. The green sward was a balm to his eyes. Flowers new to him, although of familiar springtime hue, lifted fresh faces everywhere; fruit trees, with branches intermingling, blended the white and pink of blossoms. There was the soft laughter of children in the garden. Strange birds darted among the trees. Their notes were new, but their song was the old delicious monotone—the joy of living and love of spring. A green-bowered irrigation ditch led by the porch and unseen water flowed gently, with gurgle and tinkle, with music in its hurry. Innumerable bees murmured amid the blossoms.

  Hare fell asleep. Upon returning drowsily to consciousness he caught through half-open eyes the gleam of level shafts of gold sunlight low down in the trees, then he felt himself being carried into the house to be laid upon a bed. Someone gently unbuttoned his shirt at the neck, removed his shoes, and covered him with a blanket.

  Before he had fully awakened he was left alone, and quiet settled over the house. A languorous sense of ease and rest lulled him to sleep again. In another moment, it seemed to him, he was awake, bright daylight streamed through the window, and a morning breeze stirred the faded curtain.

  The drag in his breathing that was always a forerunner of a coughing spell warned him now; he put on coat and shoes and went out-side, where his cough attacked him, had its sway, and left him.

  “Good morning,” sang out August Naab’s cheery voice. “Sixteen hours of sleep, my lad!”

  “I did sleep, didn’t I? No wonder I feel well this morning. A peculiarity of my illness is that one day I’m down, the next day up.”

  “With the goodness of God, my lad, we’ll gradually increase the days up. Go in to breakfast. Afterward I want to talk to you. This’ll be a busy day for me, shoeing the horses and packing supplies. I want to start for home tomorrow.”

  Hare pondered over Naab’s words while he ate. The suggestion in them, implying a relation to his future, made him wonder if the good Mormon intended to take him to his desert home. He hoped so, and warmed anew to this friend. But he had no enthusiasm for himself, his future seemed hopeless.

  Naab was waiting for him on the porch, and drew him away from the cottage down the path toward the gate. “I want you to go home with me.”

  “You’re kind . . . I’m only a sort of beggar. I’ve no strength left to work my way. I’ll go . . . though it’s only to die.”

  “I haven’t the gift of revelation . . . yet somehow I see that you won’t die of this illness. You will come home with me. It’s a beautiful place, my Navajo oasis. The Indians call it the Garden of Eschtah. If you can get well anywhere, it’ll be there.”

  “I’ll go . . . but I ought not. What can I do for you? Nothing.”

  “No man can ever tell what he may do for another. The time may come . . . well, John, is it settled?” He offered his huge broad hand.

  “It’s settled . . . I . . . .” Hare faltered as he put his hand in Naab’s. The Mormon’s grip straightened his frame and braced him. Strength and simplicity flowed from the giant’s toil-hardened palm. Hare swallowed his thanks along with his emotion, and for what he had intended to say he substituted: “No one ever called me John. I don’t know the name. Call me Jack.”

  “Very well, Jack, and now let’s see. You’ll need some things from the store. Can you come with me? It’s not far.”

  “Surely. And now what I need most is a razor to scrape the alkali and stubble off my face.”

  The wide street, bordered by cottages peeping out of green and white orchards, stretched in a straight line to the base of the ascent that led up to the Pink Cliffs. A green square enclosed a gray church, a schoolhouse, and public hall. Farther down the main thoroughfare were several weather-boarded whitewashed stores. Two dusty men were riding along, one on each side of the wildest, most vicious little horse Hare had ever seen. It reared and bucked and kicked, trying to escape from two lassoes. In front of the largest store were a number of mustangs all standing free, with bridles thrown over their heads and trailing on the ground. The loungers leaning against the railing and about the doors were lank brown men very like Naab’s sons. Some wore sheepskin chaps, some blue overalls. All wore boots and spurs, wide soft hats, and in their belts, far to the back, hung large Colt revolvers.

  “We’ll buy what you need, just as if you expected to ride the ranges for me tomorrow,” said Naab. “The first thing we ask a new man is can he ride? Next, can he shoot?”

  “I could ride before I got so weak. I’ve never handled a revolver, but I can shoot a rifle. Never shot at anything except targets, and it seemed to come natural for me to hit them.”

  “Good. We’ll show you some targets . . . lions, bears, deer, cats, wolves. There’s a fine Forty-Four Winchester here that my friend Abe has been trying to sell. It has a long barrel and weighs eight pounds. Our desert riders like the light carbines that go easy on a saddle. Most of the mustangs aren’t weight carriers. This rifle has a great range . . . I’ve shot it, and it’s just the gun for you to use on wolves and coyotes. You’ll need a Colt and a saddle, too.”

  “By the way,” he went on as they mounted the store steps, “here’s the kind of money we use in this country.” He handed Hare a slip of blue paper, a written check for a sum of mon
ey, signed, but without register of bank or name of firm. “We don’t use real money,” he added. “There’s very little coin or currency in southern Utah. Most of the Gentiles lately come in have money, and some of us Mormons have a bag or two of gold, but scarcely any of it gets into circulation. We use these checks, which go from man to man sometimes for six months. The roundup of a check means sheep, cattle, horses, grain, merchandise, or labor. Every man gets his real money’s value without paying out an actual cent.”

  “Such a system at least means honest men,” said Hare, laughing his surprise.

  They went into a wide door to tread a maze of narrow aisles between boxes and barrels, stacks of canned vegetables, and piles of harness and dry goods; they entered an open space where several men leaned on a counter.

  “Hello, Abe,” said Naab. “Seen anything of Snap?”

  “Hello, August. Yes, Snap’s inside. So’s Holderness. Says he rode in off the range on purpose to see you.” Abe designated an open doorway from which issued loud voices. Hare glanced into a long narrow room full of smoke and the fumes of rum. Through the haze he made out a crowd of men at a rude bar. Abe went to the door and called out: “Hey, Snap, your dad wants you! Holderness, here’s August Naab!”

  A man staggered up the few steps leading to the store and swayed in. His long face had a hawkish cast, and it was gray, not with age, but with the sage-gray color of the desert. His eyes were of the same hue, cold yet burning with little fiery flecks in their depths. He appeared short of stature because of a curvature of the spine, but straightened up he would have been tall. He wore a blue flannel shirt and blue overalls, around his lean hips was a belt holding two Colt revolvers, their heavy, dark butts projecting outward, and he had on high boots with long, cruel spurs.

  “Howdy, Father,” he said.

  “I’m packing today,” returned August Naab. “We ride out tomorrow. I need your help.”

  “All right. When I get my pinto from Larsen.”

  “Never mind Larsen. If he got the better of you, let the matter drop.”