by Zane Grey
the stopping of the dance or the quick spark in
Hare's eyes that suddenly quieted the room. Hare had once vowed to
himself that he would never forget the scarred face; it belonged to the
outlaw Chance.
The sight of it flashed into the gulf of Hare's mind like a meteor into
black night. A sudden madness raced through his veins.
"Hello, Don't you know me?" he said, with a long step that brought him
close to Chance.
The outlaw stood irresolute. Was this an old friend or an enemy? His
beady eyes scintillated and twitched as if they sought to look him over,
yet dared not because it was only in the face that intention could be
read.
The stillness of the room broke to a hoarse whisper from some one.
"Look how he packs his gun."
Another man answering whispered: "There's not six men in Utah who pack a
gun thet way."
Chance heard these whispers, for his eye shifted downward the merest
fraction of a second. The brick color of his face turned a dirty white.
"Do you know me?" demanded Hare.
Chance's answer was a spasmodic jerking of his hand toward his hip.
Hare's arm moved quicker, and Chance's Colt went spinning to the floor.
"Too slow," said Hare. Then he flung Chance backward and struck him
blows that sent his head with sodden thuds against the log wall. Chance
sank to the floor in a heap.
Hare kicked the outlaw's gun out of the way, and wheeled to the crowd.
Holderness stood foremost, his tall form leaning against the bar, his
clear eyes shining like light on ice.
"Do you know me?" asked Hare, curtly.
Holderness started slightly. "I certainly don't," he replied.
"You slapped my face once." Hare leaned close to the rancher. "Slap it
now--you rustler!"
In the slow, guarded instant when Hare's gaze held Holderness and the
other men, a low murmuring ran through the room.
"Dene's spy!" suddenly burst out Holderness.
Hare slapped his face. Then he backed a few paces with his right arm
held before him almost as high as his shoulder, the wrist rigid, the
fingers quivering.
"Don't try to draw, Holderness. Thet's August Naab's trick with a gun,"
whispered a man, hurriedly.
"Holderness, I made a bonfire over at Seeping Springs," said Hare. "I
burned the new corrals your men built, and I tracked them to your ranch.
Snood threw up his job when he heard it. He's an honest man, and no
honest man will work for a water-thief, a cattle-rustler, a sheep-
killer. You're shown up, Holderness. Leave the country before some one
kills you--understand, before some one kills you!"
Holderness stood motionless against the bar, his eyes fierce with
passionate hate.
Hare backed step by step to the outside door, his right hand still high,
his look holding the crowd bound to the last instant. Then he slipped
out, scattered the group round Silvermane, and struck hard with the
spurs.
The gray, never before spurred, broke down the road into his old wild
speed.
Men were crossing from the corner of the green square. One, a compact
little fellow, swarthy, his dark hair long and flowing, with jaunty and
alert air, was Dene, the outlaw leader. He stopped, with his companions,
to let the horse cross.
Hare guided the thundering stallion slightly to the left. Silvermane
swerved and in two mighty leaps bore down on the outlaw. Dene saved
himself by quickly leaping aside, but even as he moved Silvermane struck
him with his left fore-leg, sending him into the dust.
At the street corner Hare glanced back. Yelling men were rushing from
the saloon and some of them fired after him. The bullets whistled
harmlessly behind Hare. Then the corner house shut off his view.
Silvermane lengthened out and stretched lower with his white mane flying
and his nose pointed level for the desert.
XI. THE DESERT-HAWK
TOWARD the close of the next day Jack Hare arrived at Seeping Springs. A
pile of gray ashes marked the spot where the trimmed logs had lain.
Round the pool ran a black circle hard packed into the ground by many
hoofs. Even the board flume had been burned to a level with the glancing
sheet of water. Hare was slipping Silvermane's bit to let him drink when
he heard a halloo. Dave Naab galloped out of the cedars, and presently
August Naab and his other sons appeared with a pack-train.
"Now you've played bob!" exclaimed Dave. He swung out of his saddle and
gripped Hare with both hands. "I know what you've done; I know where
you've been. Father will be furious, but don't you care."
The other Naabs trotted down the slope and lined their horses before the
pool. The sons stared in blank astonishment; the father surveyed the
scene slowly, and then fixed wrathful eyes on Hare.
"What does this mean?" he demanded, with the sonorous roll of his angry
voice.
Hare told all that had happened.
August Naab's gloomy face worked, and his eagle-gaze had in it a strange
far-seeing light; his mind was dwelling upon his mystic power of
revelation.
"I see--I see," he said haltingly.
"Ki--yi-i-i!" yelled Dave Naab with all the power of his lungs. His head
was back, his mouth wide open, his face red, his neck corded and swollen
with the intensity of his passion.
"Be still--boy!" ordered his father. "Hare, this was madness--but tell
me what you learned."
Briefly Hare repeated all that he had been told at the Bishop's, and
concluded with the killing of Martin Cole by Dene.
August Naab bowed his head and his giant frame shook under the force of
his emotion. Martin Cole was the last of his life-long friends.
"This--this outlaw--you say you ran him down?" asked Naab, rising
haggard and shaken out of his grief.
"Yes. He didn't recognize me or know what was coming till Silvermane was
on him. But he was quick, and fell sidewise. Silvermane's knee sent him
sprawling."
"What will it all lead to?" asked August Naab, and in his extremity he
appealed to his eldest son.
"The bars are down," said Snap Naab, with a click of his long teeth.
"Father," began Dave Naab earnestly, "Jack has done a splendid thing.
The news will fly over Utah like wildfire. Mormons are slow. They need a
leader. But they can follow and they will. We can't cure these evils by
hoping and praying. We've got to fight!"
"Dave's right, dad, it means fight," cried George, with his fist
clinched high.
"You've been wrong, father, in holding back," said Zeke Naab, his lean
jaw bulging. "This Holderness will steal the water and meat out of our
children's mouths. We've got to fight!"
"Let's ride to White Sage," put in Snap Naab, and the little flecks in
his eyes were dancing. "I'll throw a gun on Dene. I can get to him.
We've been tolerable friends. He's wanted me to join his band. I'll kill
him."
He laughed as he raised his right hand and swept it down to his left
side; the blue Colt lay on his outstretched palm. Dene's life and
Holderness's, too, hun
g in the balance between two deadly snaps of this
desert-wolf's teeth. He was one of the Naabs, and yet apart from them,
for neither religion, nor friendship, nor life itself mattered to him.
August Naab's huge bulk shook again, not this time with grief, but in
wrestling effort to withstand the fiery influence of this unholy
fighting spirit among his sons.
"I am forbidden."
His answer was gentle, but its very gentleness breathed of his battle
over himself, of allegiance to something beyond earthly