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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 our 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;
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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.
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