Holderness's insulting blow at the beginning, his murder of a beloved
friend at the end! For Hare remembered the blow, and never would he

forget Dave's last words. Yet unforgetable as these were, it was duty
rather than revenge that called him. This was August Naab's hour of

need. Hare knew himself to be the tool of inscrutable fate; he was the
one to fight the old desert-scarred Mormon's battle. Hare recalled how

humbly he had expressed his gratitude to Naab, and the apparent
impossibility of ever repaying him, and then Naab's reply: "Lad, you can

never tell how one man may repay another." Hare could pay his own debt
and that of the many wanderers who had drifted across the sands to find a

home with the Mormon. These men stirred in their graves, and from out
the shadow of the cliff whispered the voice of Mescal's nameless father:

"Is there no one to rise up for this old hero of the desert?"
Softly Hare slipped into his room. Putting on coat and belt and catching

up his rifle he stole out again stealthily, like an Indian. In the
darkness of the wagon-shed he felt for his saddle, and finding it, he

groped with eager hands for the grain-box; raising the lid he filled a
measure with grain, and emptied it into his saddle-bag. Then lifting the

saddle he carried it out of the yard, through the gate and across the
lane to the corrals. The wilder mustangs in the far corral began to kick

and snort, and those in the corral where Black Bolly was kept trooped
noisily to the bars. Bolly whinnied and thrust her black muzzle over the

fence. Hare placed a caressing hand on her while he waited listening and
watching. It was not unusual for the mustangs to get restless at any

time, and Hare was confident that this would pass without investigation.
Gradually the restless stampings and suspicious snortings ceased, and

Hare, letting down the bars, led Bolly out into the lane. It was the
work of a moment to saddle her; his bridle hung where he always kept it,

on the pommel, and with nimble fingers he shortened the several straps to
fit Bolly's head, and slipped the bit between her teeth. Then he put up

the bars of the gate.
Before mounting he stood a moment thinking coolly, deliberately" target="_blank" title="ad.故意地；慎重地">deliberately numbering

the several necessities he must not forget--grain for Bolly, food for
himself, his Colt and Winchester, cartridges, canteen, matches, knife.

He inserted a hand into one of his saddle-bags expecting to find some
strips of meat. The bag was empty. He felt in the other one, and under

the grain he found what he sought. The canteen lay in the coil of his
lasso tied to the saddle, and its heavy canvas covering was damp to his

touch. With that he thrust the long Winchester into its saddle-sheath,
and swung his leg over the mustang.

The house of the Naabs was dark and still. The dying council-fire cast
flickering shadows under the black cottonwoods where the Navajos slept.

The faint breeze that rustled the leaves brought the low sullen roar of
the river.

Hare guided Bolly into the thick dust of the lane, laid the bridle
loosely on her neck for her to choose the trail, and silently rode out

into the lonely desert night.
XIX

UNLEASHED
Hare, listening breathlessly" target="_blank" title="ad.气喘吁吁地">breathlessly, rode on toward the gateway of the cliffs,

and when he had passed the corner of the wall he sighed in relief.
Spurring Bolly into a trot he rode forward with a strange elation. He

had slipped out of the oasis unheard, and it would be morning before
August Naab discovered his absence, perhaps longer before he divined his

purpose. Then Hare would have a long start. He thrilled with something
akin to fear when he pictured the old man's rage, and wondered what

change it would make in his plans. Hare saw in mind Naab and his sons,
and the Navajos sweeping in pursuit to save him from the rustlers.

But the future must take care of itself, and he addressed all the
faculties at his command to cool consideration of the present. The strip

of sand under the Blue Star had to be crossed at night--a feat which even
the Navajos did not have to their credit. Yet Hare had no shrinking; he

had no doubt; he must go on. As he had been drawn to the Painted Desert
by a voiceless call, so now he was urged forward by something nameless.

In the blackness of the night it seemed as if he were riding through a
vaulted hall swept by a current of air. The night had turned cold, the

stars had brightened icily, the rumble of the river had died away when
Bolly's ringing trot suddenly changed to a noiseless floundering walk.

She had come upon the sand. Hare saw the Blue Star in the cliff, and
once more loosed the rein on Bolly's neck. She stopped and champed her

bit, and turned her black head to him as if to intimate that she wanted
the guidance of a sure arm. But as it was not forthcoming she stepped

onward into the yielding sand.
With hands resting idly on the pommel Hare sat at ease in the saddle.

The billowy dunes reflected the pale starlight and fell away from him to
darken in obscurity. So long as the Blue Star remained in sight he kept

his sense of direction; when it had disappeared he felt himself lost.
Bolly's course seemed as crooked as the jagged outline of the cliffs.

She climbed straight up little knolls, descended them at an angle, turned
sharply at wind-washed gullies, made winding detours, zigzagged levels

that shone like a polished floor; and at last (so it seemed to Hare) she
doubled back on her trail. The black cliff receded over the waves of

sand; the stars changed positions, travelled round in the blue dome, and
the few that he knew finally sank below the horizon. Bolly never lagged;

she was like the homeward - bound horse, indifferent to direction because
sure of it, eager to finish the journey because now it was short. Hare

was glad though not surprised when she snorted and cracked her iron-shod
hoof on a stone at the edge of the sand. He smiled with tightening lips

as he rode into the shadow of a rock which he recognized. Bolly had
crossed the treacherous belt of dunes and washes and had struck the trail

on the other side.
The long level of wind-carved rocks under the cliffs, the ridges of the

desert, the miles of slow ascent up to the rough divide, the gradual
descent to the cedars--these stretches of his journey took the night

hours and ended with the brightening gray in the east. Within a mile of
Silver Cup Spring Hare dismounted, to tie folded pads of buckskin on

Bolly's hoofs. When her feet were muffled, he cautiouslyadvanced on the
trail for the matter of a hundred rods or more; then sheered off to the

right into the cedars. He led Bolly slowly, without rattling a stone or
snapping a twig, and stopped every few paces to listen. There was no

sound other than the wind in the cedars. Presently, with a gasp, he
caught the dull gleam of a burned-out camp-fire. Then his movements

became as guarded, as noiseless as those of a scouting Indian. The dawn
broke over the red wall as he gained the trail beyond the spring.

He skirted the curve of the valley and led Bolly a little way up the
wooded slope to a dense thicket of aspens in a hollow. This thicket

encircled a patch of grass. Hare pressed the lithe aspens aside to admit
Bolly and left her there free. He drew his rifle from its sheath and,

after assuring himself that the mustang could not be seen or heard from
below, he bent his steps diagonally up the slope.

Every foot of this ground he knew, and he climbed swiftly until he struck
the mountain trail. Then, descending, he entered the cedars. At last he

reached a point directly above the cliff-camp where he had spent so many
days, and this he knew overhung the cabin built by Holderness. He stole

down from tree to tree and slipped from thicket to thicket. The sun, red
as blood, raised a bright crescent over the red wall; the soft mists of

the valley began to glow and move; cattle were working in toward the
spring. Never brushing a branch, never dislodging a stone, Hare

descended the slope, his eyes keener, his ears sharper with every step.
Soon the edge of the gray stone cliff below shut out the lower level of

cedars. While resting he listened. Then he marked his course down the
last bit of slanting ground to the cliff bench which faced the valley.

This space was open, rough with crumbling rock and dead cedar brush--a
difficult place to cross without sound. Deliberate in his choice of

steps, very slow in moving, Hare went on with a stealth which satisfied
even his intent ear. When the wide gray strip of stone drew slowly into

the circle of his downcast gaze he sank to the ground with a slight
trembling in all his limbs. There was a thick bush on the edge of the

cliff; in three steps he could reach it and, unseen himself, look down
upon the camp.