“They’ve turned back, Mescal.  We’re safe.  Why, you look as you did the day the bear ran for you.”

“I’d rather a bear got me than Snap.  Jack, did you see him?”

“See him?  Rather!  I’ll bet he nearly killed his pinto.  Mescal, what do you think of Silvermane now?  Can he run?  Can he outrun Bolly?”

“Yes—­yes.  Oh!  Jack! how I’ll love him!  Look back again.  Are we safe?  Will we ever be safe?”

It was still daylight when they rounded the portal of the oasis and entered the lane with the familiar wall on one side, the peeled fence-pickets on the other.  Wolf dashed on ahead, and presently a chorus of barks announced that he had been met by the other dogs.  Silvermane neighed shrilly, and the horses and mustangs in the corrals trooped noisily to the lower sides and hung inquisitive heads over the top bars.

A Navajo whom Hare remembered stared with axe idle by the woodpile, then Judith Naab dropped a bundle of sticks and with a cry of gladness ran from the house.  Before Silvermane had come to a full stop Mescal was off.  She put her arms around his neck and kissed him, then she left Judith to dart to the corral where a little black mustang had begun to whistle and stamp and try to climb over the bars.

August Naab, bareheaded, with shaggy locks shaking at every step, strode off the porch and his great hands lifted Hare from the saddle.

“Every day I’ve watched the river for you,” he said.  His eyes were warm and his grasp like a vise.

“Mescal—­child!” he continued, as she came running to him.  “Safe and well.  He’s brought you back.  Thank the Lord!” He took her to his breast and bent his gray head over her.

Then the crowd of big and little Naabs burst from the house and came under the cottonwoods to offer noisy welcome to Mescal and Hare.

“Jack, you look done up,” said Dave Naab solicitously, when the first greetings had been spoken, and Mother Ruth had led Mescal indoors.  “Silvermane, too—­he’s wet and winded.  He’s been running?”

“Yes, a little,” replied Hare, as he removed the saddle from the weary horse.

“Ah!  What’s this?” questioned August Naab, with his hand on Silvermane’s flank.  He touched a raw groove, and the stallion flinched.  “Hare, a bullet made that!”

“Yes.”

“Then you didn’t ride in by the Navajo crossing?”

“No.  I came by Silver Cup.”

“Silver Cup?  How on earth did you get down there?”

“We climbed out of the canyon up over Coconina, and so made the spring.”

Naab whistled in surprise and he flashed another keen glance over Hare and his horse.  “Your story can wait.  I know about what it is—­after you reached Silver Cup.  Come in, come in, Dave will look out for the stallion.”