Hare’s slumbers that night were broken.  He dreamed of a great gray horse leaping in the sky from cloud to cloud with the lightning and the thunder under his hoofs, the storm-winds sweeping from his silver mane.  He dreamed of Mescal’s brooding eyes.  They were dark gateways of the desert open only to him, and he entered to chase the alluring stars deep into the purple distance.  He dreamed of himself waiting in serene confidence for some unknown thing to pass.  He awakened late in the morning and found the house hushed.  The day wore on in a repose unstirred by breeze and sound, in accord with the mourning of August Naab.  At noon a solemn procession wended its slow course to the shadow of the red cliff, and as solemnly returned.

Then a long-drawn piercing Indian whoop broke the midday hush.  It heralded the approach of the Navajos.  In single-file they rode up the lane, and when the falcon-eyed Eschtah dismounted before his white friend, the line of his warriors still turned the corner of the red wall.  Next to the chieftain rode Scarbreast, the grim war-lord of the Navajos.  His followers trailed into the grove.  Their sinewy bronze bodies, almost naked, glistened wet from the river.  Full a hundred strong were they, a silent, lean-limbed desert troop.

“The White Prophet’s fires burned bright,” said the chieftain.  “Eschtah is here.”

“The Navajo is a friend,” replied Naab.  “The white man needs counsel and help.  He has fallen upon evil days.”

“Eschtah sees war in the eyes of his friend.”

“War, chief, war!  Let the Navajo and his warriors rest and eat.  Then we shall speak.”

A single command from the Navajo broke the waiting files of warriors.  Mustangs were turned into the fields, packs were unstrapped from the burros, blankets spread under the cottonwoods.  When the afternoon waned and the shade from the western wall crept into the oasis, August Naab came from his cabin clad in buckskins, with a large blue Colt swinging handle outward from his left hip.  He ordered his sons to replenish the fire which had been built in the circle, and when the fierce-eyed Indians gathered round the blaze he called to his women to bring meat and drink.

Hare’s unnatural calmness had prevailed until he saw Naab stride out to front the waiting Indians.  Then a ripple of cold passed over him.  He leaned against a tree in the shadow and watched the gray-faced giant stalking to and fro before his Indian friends.  A long while he strode in the circle of light to pause at length before the chieftains and to break the impressive silence with his deep voice.

“Eschtah sees before him a friend stung to his heart.  Men of his own color have long injured him, yet have lived.  The Mormon loved his fellows and forgave.  Five sons he laid in their graves, yet his heart was not hardened.  His first-born went the trail of the fire-water and is an outcast from his people.  Many enemies has he and one is a chief.  He has killed the white man’s friends, stolen his cattle, and his water.  To-day the white man laid another son in his grave.  What thinks the chief?  Would he not crush the scorpion that stung him?”