Naab’s prayers were more fervent than ever, and he even prayed for the soul of the man who had robbed him.  Mescal’s cheeks soon rounded out to their old contour and her eyes shone with a happier light than Hare had ever seen there.  The races between Silvermane and Black Bolly were renewed on the long stretch under the wall, and Mescal forgot that she had once acknowledged the superiority of the gray.  The cottonwoods showered silken floss till the cabins and grass were white; the birds returned to the oasis; the sun kissed warm color into the cherries, and the distant noise of the river seemed like the humming of a swarm of bees.

“Here, Jack,” said August Naab, one morning, “get a spade and come with me.  There’s a break somewhere in the ditch.”

Hare went with him out along the fence by the alfalfa fields, and round the corner of red wall toward the irrigating dam.

“Well, Jack, I suppose you’ll be asking me for Mescal one of these days,” said Naab.

“Yes,” replied Hare.

“There’s a little story to tell you about Mescal, when the day comes.”

“Tell it now.”

“No.  Not yet.  I’m glad you found her.  I never knew her to be so happy, not even when she was a child.  But somehow there’s a better feeling between her and my womenfolk.  The old antagonism is gone.  Well, well, life is so.  I pray that things may turn out well for you and her.  But I fear—­I seem to see—­Hare, I’m a poor man once more.  I can’t do for you what I’d like.  Still we’ll see, we’ll hope.”

Hare was perfectly happy.  The old Mormon’s hint did not disturb him; even the thought of Snap Naab did not return to trouble his contentment.  The full present was sufficient for Hare, and his joy bubbled over, bringing smiles to August’s grave face.  Never had a summer afternoon in the oasis been so fair.  The green fields, the red walls, the blue sky, all seemed drenched in deeper, richer hues.  The wind-song in the crags, the river-murmur from the canyon, filled Hare’s ears with music.  To be alive, to feel the sun, to see the colors, to hear the sounds, was beautiful; and to know that Mescal awaited him, was enough.

Work on the washed-out bank of the ditch had not gone far when Naab raised his head as if listening.

“Did you hear anything?” he asked.

“No,” replied Hare.

“The roar of the river is heavy here.  Maybe I was mistaken.  I thought I heard shots.”  Then he went on spading clay into the break, but he stopped every moment or so, uneasily, as if he could not get rid of some disturbing thought.  Suddenly he dropped the spade and his eyes flashed.

“Judith!  Judith!  Here!” he called.  Wheeling with a sudden premonition of evil Hare saw the girl running along the wall toward them.  Her face was white as death; she wrung her hands and her cries rose above the sound of the river.  Naab sprang toward her and Hare ran at his heels.