“Only cattle in the valley, no horses,” he said.  “I’ve a good chance to cut across this cube 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.