by Zane Grey
exclaimed. "Mescal, I don't like that."
"Use your Colt," suggested Mescal.
The distance was too great. Hare missed, and the deer bounded away into
the forest.
Hare built a fire under a sheltering pine where no snow covered the soft
mat of needles, and while Mescal dried the blankets and roasted the last
portion of meat he made a wind-break of spruce boughs. When they had
eaten, not forgetting to give Wolf a portion, Hare fed Silvermane the
last few handfuls of grain, and tied him with a long halter on the
grassy bank. The daylight failed and darkness came on apace. The old
familiar roar of the wind in the pines was disturbing; it might mean
only the lull and crash of the breaking night-gusts, and it might mean
the north wind, storm, and snow. It whooped down the hollow, scattering
the few scrub-oak leaves; it whirled the red embers of the fire away
into the dark to sputter in the snow, and blew the burning logs into a
white glow. Mescal slept in the shelter of the spruce boughs with Wolf
snug and warm beside her. Hare stretched his tired limbs in the heat of
the blaze.
When he awakened the fire was low and he was numb with cold. He took
care to put on logs enough to last until morning; then he lay down once
more, but did not sleep. The dawn came with a gray shade in the forest;
it was a cloud, and it rolled over him soft, tangible, moist, and cool,
and passed away under the pines. With its vanishing the dawn lightened.
"Mescal, if we're on the spur of Coconina, it's only ten miles or so to
Silver Cup," said Hare, as he saddled Silvermane. "Mount now and we'll
go up out of the hollow and get our bearings."
While ascending the last step to the rim Hare revolved in his mind the
probabilities of marking a straight course to Silver Cup.
"Oh! Jack!" exclaimed Mescal, suddenly. "Vermillion Cliffs and home!"
"I've travelled in a circle!" replied Hare.
Mescal was enraptured at the scene. Vermillion Cliffs shone red as a
rose. The split in the wall marking the oasis defined its outlines
sharply against the sky. Miles of the Colorado River lay in sight. Hare
knew he stood on the highest point of Coconina overhanging the Grand
Canyon and the Painted Desert, thousands of feet below. He noted the
wondrous abyss sleeping in blue mist at his feet, while he gazed across
to the desert awakening in the first red rays of the rising sun.
"Mescal, your Thunder River Canyon is only one little crack in the
rocks. It is lost in this chasm," said Hare.
"It's lost, surely. I can't even see the tip of the peak that stood so
high over the valley."
Once more turning to the left Hare ran his eye over the Vermillion
Cliffs, and the strip of red sand shining under them, and so calculating
his bearings he headed due north for Silver Cup. What with the snow and
the soggy ground the first mile was hard going for Hare, and Silvermane
often sank deep. Once off the level spur of the mountain they made
better time, for the snow thinned out on the slope and gradually gave
way to the brown dry aisles of the forest. Hare mounted in front of
Mescal, and put the stallion to an easy trot; after two hours of riding
they struck a bridle-trail which Hare recognized as one leading down to
the spring. In another hour they reached the steep slope of Coconina,
and saw the familiar red wall across the valley, and caught glimpses of
gray sage patches down through the pines.
"I smell smoke," said Hare.
"The boys must be at the spring," rejoined Mescal.
"Maybe. I want to be sure who's there. We'll leave the trail and slip
down through the woods to the left. I wish we could get down on the home
side of the spring. But we can't; we've got to pass it."
With many a pause to peer through openings in the pines Hare traversed a
diagonal course down the slope, crossed the line of cedars, and reached
the edge of the valley a mile or more above Silver Cup. Then he turned
toward it, still cautiously leading Silvermane under cover of the fringe
of cedars.
"Mescal, there are too many cattle in the valley," he said, looking at
her significantly.
"They can't all be ours, that's sure," she replied. "What do you think?"
"Holderness!" With the word Hare's face grew set and stern. He kept on,
cautiously leading the horse under the cedars, careful to avoid breaking
brush or rattling stones, occasionally whispering to Wolf; and so worked
his way along the curve of the woody slope till further progress was
checked by the bulging wall of rock.
"Only cattle in the valley, no horses," he said. "I've a good chance to
cut across this curve and reach the trail. If I take time to climb up
and see who's at the spring maybe the chance will be gone. I don't
believe Dave and the boys are there."
He pondered a moment, then climbed up in front of Mescal, and directed
the gray out upon the valley. Soon he was among the grazing cattle. He
felt no surprise to see the H brand on their flanks.
"Jack, look at that brand," said Mescal, pointing to a white-flanked
steer. "There's an old brand like a cross, Father Naab's cross, and a
new brand, a single bar. Together they make an H!"
"Mescal! You've hit it. I remember that steer. He was a very devil to
brand. He's the property of August Naab, and Holderness has added the
bar, making a clumsy H. What a rustler's trick! It wouldn't deceive a
child."
They had reached the cedars and the trail when Wolf began to sniff
suspiciously at the wind.
"Look!" whispered Mescal, calling Hare's attention from the dog. "Look!
A new corral!"
Bending back to get in line with her pointing finger Hare looked through
a network of cedar boughs to see a fence of stripped pines. Farther up
were piles of unstripped logs, and close by the spring there was a new
cabin with smoke curling from a stone chimney. Hare guided Silvermane
off the trail to softer ground and went on. He climbed the slope, passed
the old pool, now a mud-puddle, and crossed the dry wash to be brought
suddenly to a halt. Wolf had made an uneasy stand with his nose pointing
to the left, and Silvermane pricked up his ears. Presently Hare heard
the stamping of hoofs off in the cedars, and before he had fully
determined the direction from which the sound came three horses and a
man stepped from the shade into a sunlit space.
As luck would have it Hare happened to be well screened by a thick
cedar; and since there was a possibility that he might remain unseen he
chose to take it. Silvermane and Wolf stood still in their tracks. Hare
felt Mescal's hands tighten on his coat and he pressed them to reassure
her. Peeping out from his covert he saw a man in his shirt-sleeves
leading the horses--a slender, clean-faced, dark-haired man--Dene! The
blood beat hotly in Hare's temples and he gripped the handle of his
Colt. It seemed a fatal chance that sent the outlaw to that trail. He
was whistling; he had two halters in one hand and with the other he led
his bay horse by the mane. Then Hare saw that he wore no belt; he
was
unarmed; on the horses were only the halters and clinking hobbles. Hare
dropped his Colt back into its holster.
Dene sauntered on, whistling "Dixie." When he reached the trail, instead
of crossing it, as Hare had hoped, he turned into it and came down.
Hare swung the switch he had broken from an aspen and struck Silvermane
a stinging blow on the flanks. The gray leaped forward. The crash of
brush and rattle of hoofs stampeded Dene's horses in a twinkling. But
the outlaw paled to a ghastly white and seemed rooted to the trail. It
was not fear of a man or a horse that held Dene fixed; in his starting
eyes was the terror of the supernatural.
The shoulder of the charging stallion struck Dene and sent him spinning
out of the trail. In a backward glance Hare saw the outlaw fall, then
rise unhurt to shake his fists wildly and to run yelling
