in full. "And--and see here, dad--that's not all. Snap's gone to the
bad."

Dave Naab hid his face while he told of his brother's treachery; the
others turned away, and Hare closes his eyes.

For long moments there was silence broken only by the tramp of the old
man as he strode heavily to and fro. At last the footsteps ceased, and

Hare opened his eyes to see Naab's tall form erect, his arms uplifted,
his shaggy head rigid.

"Hare," began August, presently. "I'm responsible for this cowardly
attack on you. I brought you out here. This is the second one. Beware

of the third! I see--but tell me, do you remember that I said you must
meet Snap as man to man?"

"Yes."
"Don't you want to live?"

"Of course."
"You hold to no Mormon creed?"

"Why, no," Hare replied, wonderingly.
"What was the reason I taught you my trick with a gun?"

"I suppose it was to help me to defend myself."
"Then why do you let yourself be shot down in cold blood? Why did you

hang up your gun? Why didn't you draw on Snap? Was it because of his
father, his brothers, his family?"

"Partly, but not altogether," replied Hare, slowly. "I didn't know
before what I know now. My flesh sickened at the thought of killing a

man, even to save my own life; and to kill--your son--"
"No son of mine!" thundered Naab. "Remember that when next you meet. I

don't want your blood on my hands. Don't stand to be killed like a
sheep! If you have felt duty to me, I release you."

Zeke finished bandaging the wound. Making a bed of blankets he lifted
Hare into it, and covered him, cautioning him to lie still. Hare had a

sensation of extreme lassitude, a deep drowsiness which permeated even to
his bones. There were intervals of oblivion, then a time when the stars

blinked in his eyes; he heard the wind, Silvermane's bell, the murmur of
voices, yet all seemed remote from him, intangible as things in a dream.

He rode home next day, drooping in the saddle and fainting at the end of
the trail, with the strong arm of August Naab upholding him. His wound

was dressed and he was put to bed, where he lay sleeping most of the
time, brooding the rest.

In three weeks he was in the saddle again, riding out over the red strip
of desert toward the range. During his convalescence he had learned that

he had come to the sombre line of choice. Either he must deliberately
back away, and show his unfitness to survive in the desert, or he must

step across into its dark wilds. The stern question haunted him. Yet he
knew a swift decision waited on the crucial moment.

He sought lonely rides more than ever, and, like Silvermane, he was
always watching and listening. His duties carried him half way to

Seeping Springs, across the valley to the red wall, up the slope of
Cocnina far into the forest of stately pines. What with Silvermane's

wonderful scent and sight, and his own constant watchfulness, there were
never range-riders or wild horses nor even deer near him without his

knowledge.
The days flew by; spring had long since given place to summer; the blaze

of sun and blast of flying sand were succeeded by the cooling breezes
from the mountain; October brought the flurries of snow and November the

dark storm-clouds.
Hare was the last of the riders to be driven off the mountain. The

brothers were waiting for him at Silver Cup, and they at once packed and
started for home.

August Naab listened to the details of the range-riding since his
absence, with silent surprise. Holderness and Snap had kept away from

Silver Cup after the supposed killing of Hare. Occasionally a group of
horsemen rode across the valley or up a trail within sight of Dave and

his followers, but there was never a meeting. Not a steer had been
driven off the range that summer and fall; and except for the menace

always hanging in the blue smoke over Seeping Springs the range-riding
had passed without unusual incident.

So for Hare the months had gone by swiftly; though when he looked back
afterward they seemed years. The winter at the oasis he filled as best

he could, with the children playing in the yard, with Silvermane under
the sunny lee of the great red wall, with any work that offered itself.

It was during the long evenings, when he could not be active, that time
oppressed him, and the memories of the past hurt him. A glimpse of the

red sunset through the cliff-gate toward the west would start the train
of thought; he both loved and hated the Painted Desert. Mescal was there

in the purple shadows. He dreamed of her in the glowing embers of the
log-fire. He saw her on Black Bolly with hair flying free to the wind.

And he could not shut out the picture of her sitting in the corner of the
room, silent, with bowed head, while the man to whom she was pledged hung

close over her. That memory had a sting. It was like a spark of fire
dropped on the wound in his breast where the desert-hawk had struck him.

It was like a light gleaming on the sombre line he was waiting to cross.
XIV

WOLF
ON the anniversary of the night Mescal disappeared the mysterious voice

which had called to Hare so often and so strangely again pierced his
slumber, and brought him bolt upright in his bed shuddering and

listening. The dark room was as quiet as a tomb. He fell back into his
blankets trembling with emotion. Sleep did not close his eyes again that

night; he lay in a fever waiting for the dawn, and when the gray gloom
lightened he knew what he must do.

After breakfast he sought August Naab. "May I go across the river?" he
asked.

The old man looked up from his carpenter's task and fastened his glance
on Hare. "Mescal?"

"Yes."
"I saw it long ago." He shook his head and spread his great hands."

There's no use for me to say what the desert is. If you ever come back
you'll bring her. Yes, you may go. It's a man's deed. God keep you!"

Hare spoke to no other person; he filled one saddle-bag with grain,
another with meat, bread, and dried fruits, strapped a five-gallon

leather water-sack back of Silvermane's saddle, and set out toward the
river. At the crossing-bar he removed Silvermane's equipments and placed

them in the boat. At that moment a long howl, as of a dog baying the
moon, startled him from his musings, and his eyes sought the river-bank,

up and down, and then the opposite side. An animal, which at first he
took to be a gray timber -wolf, was running along the sand-bar of the

landing.
"Pretty white for a wolf," he muttered. "Might be a Navajo dog."

The beast sat down on his haunches and, lifting a lean head, sent up a
doleful howl. Then he began trotting along the bar, every few paces

stepping to the edge of the water. Presently he spied Hare, and he began
to bark furiously.

"It's a dog all right; wants to get across," said Hare. "Where have I
seen him?"

Suddenly he sprang to his feet, almost upsetting the boat. "He's like
Mescal's Wolf!" He looked closer, his heart beginning to thump, and then

he yelled: "Ki-yi! Wolf! Hyer! Hyer!"
The dog leaped straight up in the air, and coming down, began to dash

back and forth along the sand with piercing yelps.
"It's Wolf! Mescal must be near," cried Hare. A veil obscured his sight,

and every vein was like a hot cord. "Wolf! Wolf! I'm coming!"
With trembling hands he tied Silvermane's bridle to the stern seat of the

boat and pushed off. In his eagerness he rowed too hard, dragging
Silvermane's nose under water, and he had to check himself. Time and

again he turned to call to the dog. At length the bow grated on the
sand, and Silvermane emerged with a splash and a snort.