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

"Why!" exclaimed Hare. "When you came out of the wagon I took you for an
Indian girl. But the moment you spoke--you talk so well--no one would

dream--"
"Mormons are well educated and teach the children they raise," she said,

as he paused in embarrassment.
He Ranted to ask if she were a Mormon by religion, but the question

seemed curious and unnecessary. His interest was aroused; he realized
suddenly that he had found pleasure in her low voice; it was new and

strange, unlike any woman's voice he had ever heard; and he regarded her
closely. He had only time for a glance at her straight, dean-cut

profile, when she turned startled eyes on him, eyes black as the night.
And they were eyes that looked through and beyond him. She held up a

hand, slowly bent toward the wind, and whispered:
"Listen."

Hare heard nothing save the barking of coyotes and the breeze in the
sage. He saw, however, the men rise from round the camp-fire to face the

north, and the women climb into the wagon, and close the canvas flaps.
And he prepared himself, with what fortitude he could command for the

approach of the outlaws. He waited, straining to catch a sound. His
heart throbbed audibly, like a muffled bum, and for an endless moment his

ears seemed deadened to aught else. Then a stronger puff of wind whipped
in, banging the rhythmic beat of flying hoofs. Suspense ended. Hare

felt the easing of a weight upon him Whatever was to be his fate, it
would be soon decided The sound grew into a clattering roar. A black

mass hurled itself over the border of opaque circle, plunged into tile
light, and halted.

August Naab deliberately threw a bundle of grease-wood upon the
camp-fire. A blaze leaped up, sending abroad a red flare. "Who comes?"

he called.
"Friends, Mormons, friends," was the answer.

"Get down--friends--and come to the fire."
Three horsemen advanced to the foreground; others, a troop of eight or

ten, remained in the shadow, a silent group.
Hare sank back against the stone. He knew the foremost of those horsemen

though he had never seen him.
"Dene," whispered Mescal, and confirmed his instinctive fear.

Hare was nervously alive to the handsome presence of the outlaw.
Glimpses that he had caught of "bad" men returned vividly as he noted the

clean-shaven face, the youthful, supple body, the cool, careless mien.
Dene's eyes glittered as he pulled off his gauntlets and beat the sand

out of them; and but for that quick fierce glance his leisurely friendly
manner would have disarmed suspicion.

"Are you the Mormon Naab?" he queried.
"August Naab, I am."

"Dry camp, eh? Hosses tired, I reckon. Shore it's a sandy trail.
Where's the rest of you fellers?"

"Cole and his men were in a hurry to make White Sage to-night. They were
travelling light; I've heavy wagons."

"Naab, I reckon you shore wouldn't tell a lie?"
"I have never lied."

"Heerd of a young feller thet was in Lund--pale chap--lunger, we'd call
him back West?"

"I heard that he had been mistaken for a spy at Lund and had fled toward
Bane."

"Hadn't seen nothin' of him this side of Lund?"
"No."

"Seen any Navvies?"
"Yes."

The outlaw stared hard at him. Apparently he was about to speak of the
Navajos, for his quick uplift of head at Naab's blunt affirmative

suggested the impulse. But he checked himself and slowly drew on his
gloves.

"Naab, I'm shore comin' to visit you some day. Never been over thet
range. Heerd you hed fine water, fine cattle. An' say, I seen thet

little Navajo girl you have, an' I wouldn't mind seein' her again."
August Naab kicked the fire into brighter blaze. "Yes fine range," he

presently replied, his gaze fixed on Dene. "Fine water, fine cattle,
fine browse. I've a fine graveyard, too; thirty graves, and not one a

woman's. Fine place for graves, the canyon country. You don't have to
dig. There's one grave the Indians never named; it's three thousand feet

deep."
"Thet must be in hell," replied Dene, with a smile, Ignoring the covert

meaning. He leisurely surveyed Naab's four sons, the wagons and horses,
till his eye fell upon Hare and Mescal. 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