. . . Mescal, come.” The slender girl obeyed, gliding noiselessly like a shadow. “Take his arm.” Between them they led Hare to a jumble of stones on the outer edge of the circle of light.

“It wouldn’t do to hide,” continued Naab, lowering his voice to a swift whisper, “that might be fatal. You’re in sight from the camp-fire, but indistinct. By-and-by the outlaws will get here, and if any of them prowl around close, you and Mescal must pretend to be sweethearts. Understand? They’ll pass by Mormon love-making without a second look. Now, lad, courage . . . Mescal, it may save his life.”

Naab returned to the fire, his shadow looming in gigantic proportions on the white canopy of a covered wagon. Fitful gusts of wind fretted the blaze; it roared and crackled and sputtered, now illuminating the still forms, then enveloping them in fantastic obscurity. Hare shivered, per- haps from the cold air, perhaps from growing dread. Westward lay the desert, an impenetrable black void; in front, the gloomy mountain wall lifted jagged peaks close to the stars; to the right rose the ridge, the rocks and stunted cedars of its summit standing in weird relief. Suddenly Hare’s fugitive glance descried a dark object; he watched intently as it moved and rose from behind the summit of the ridge to make a bold black figure silhouetted against the cold clearness of sky. He saw it distinctly, realized it was close, and breathed hard as the wind-swept mane and tail, the lean, wild shape and single plume resolved themselves into the unmistakable outline of an Indian mustang and rider.

“Look!” he whispered to the girl. “See, a mounted Indian, there on the ridge–there, he’s gone–no, I see him again. But that’s another. Look! there are more.” He ceased in breathless suspense and stared fearfully at a line of mounted Indians moving in single file over the ridge to become lost to view in the intervening blackness. A faint rattling of gravel and the peculiar crack of unshod hoof on stone gave reality to that shadowy train.

“Navajos,” said Mescal.

“Navajos!” he echoed. “I heard of them at Lund; ‘desert hawks’ the men called them, worse than Piutes. Must we not alarm the men?–You–aren’t you afraid?

“No.”

“But they are hostile.”

“Not to him.” She pointed at the stalwart figure standing against the firelight.

“Ah! I remember. The man Cole spoke of friendly Navajos. They must be close by. What does it mean?”

“I’m not sure. I think they are out there in the cedars, waiting.”

“Waiting! For what?”

“Perhaps for a signal.”

“Then they were expected?”

“I don’t know; I only guess. We used to ride often to White Sage and Lund; now we go seldom, and when we do there seem to be Navajos near the camp at night, and riding the ridges by day. I believe Father Naab knows.”

“Your father’s risking much for me. He’s good. I wish I could show my gratitude.”

“I call him Father Naab, but he is not my father.”

“A niece or granddaughter, then?”

“I’m no relation. Father Naab raised me in his family. My mother was a Navajo, my father a Spaniard.”

“Why!” exclaimed Hare.