“Naab, if this’s your Mormon kind of wife—­excuse me!  Though I ain’t denyin’ she’s the sassiest an’ sweetest little cat I ever seen!”

“We Mormons don’t talk about our women or hear any talk,” returned Snap, a dancing fury in his pale eyes.  “You’re from Nebraska?”

“Yep, jest a plain Nebraska rustler, cattle-thief, an’ all round no-good customer, though I ain’t taken to houndin’ women yet.”

For answer Snap Naab’s right hand slowly curved upward before him and stopped taut and inflexible, while his strange eyes seemed to shoot sparks.

“See here, Naab, why do you want to throw a gun on me?” asked the rustler, coolly.  “Haven’t you shot enough of your friends yet?  I reckon I’ve no right to interfere in your affairs.  I was only protestin’ friendly like, for the little lady.  She’s game, an’ she’s called your hand.  An’ it’s not a straight hand.  Thet’s all, an’ d—­n if I care whether you are a Mormon or not.  I’ll bet a hoss Holderness will back me up.”

“Snap, he’s right,” put in Holderness, smoothly.  “You needn’t be so touchy about Mescal.  She’s showed what little use she’s got for you.  If you must rope her around like you do a mustang, be easy about it.  Let’s have supper.  Now, Mescal, you sit here on the bench and behave yourself.  I don’t want you shooting up my camp.”

Snap turned sullenly aside while Holderness seated Mescal near the door and fetched her food and drink.  The rustlers squatted round the camp-fire, and conversation ceased in the business of the meal.

To Hare the scene had brought a storm of emotions.  Joy at the sight of Mescal, blessed relief to see her unscathed, pride in her fighting spirit—­these came side by side with gratitude to the kind Nebraska rustler, strange deepening insight into Holderness’s game, unextinguishable white-hot hatred of Snap Naab.  And binding all was the ever-mounting will to rescue Mescal, which was held in check by an inexorable judgment; he must continue to wait.  And he did wait with blind faith in the something to be, keeping ever in mind the last resort--the rifle he clutched with eager hands.  Meanwhile the darkness descended, the fire sent forth a brighter blaze, and the rustlers finished their supper.  Mescal arose and stepped across the threshold of the cabin door.

“Hold on!” ordered Snap, as he approached with swift strides.  “Stick out your hands!”

Some of the rustlers grumbled; and one blurted out:  “Aw no, Snap, don’t tie her up—­no!”

“Who says no?” hissed the Mormon, with snapping teeth.  As he wheeled upon them his Colt seemed to leap forward, and suddenly quivered at arm’s-length, gleaming in the ruddy fire-rays.

Holderness laughed in the muzzle of the weapon.  “Go ahead, Snap, tie up your lady love.  What a tame little wife she’s going to make you!  Tie her up, but do it without hurting her.”

The rustlers growled or laughed at their leader’s order.  Snap turned to his task.  Mescal stood in the doorway and shrinkingly extended her clasped hands.  Holderness whirled to the fire with a look which betrayed his game.  Snap bound Mescal’s hands securely, thrust her inside the cabin, and after hesitating for a long moment, finally shut the door.