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 wrung 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 whom 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. Ham! 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 some day.” 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.

II WHITE SAGE

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.