From the ridge below the spring he saw Silvermane beyond the valley, miles ahead of him.  This day seemed shorter than the foregoing one; it passed while he watched Silvermane grow smaller and smaller and disappear on the looming slope of Coconina.  Hare’s fear that Mescal would run into the riders Holderness expected from his ranch grew less and less after she had reached the cover of the cedars.  That she would rest the stallion at the Navajo pool on the mountain he made certain.  Late in the night he came to the camping spot and found no trace to prove that she had halted there even to let Silvermane drink.  So he tied the tired mustang and slept until daylight.

He crossed the plateau and began the descent.  Before he was half-way down the warm bright sun had cleared the valley of vapor and shadow.  Far along the winding white trail shone a speck.  It was Silvermane almost out of sight.

“Ten miles—­fifteen, more maybe,” said Hare.  “Mescal will soon be in the village.”

Again hours of travel flew by like winged moments.  Thoughts of time, distance, monotony, fatigue, purpose, were shut out from his mind.  A rushing kaleidoscopic dance of images filled his consciousness, but they were all of Mescal.  Safety for her had unsealed the fountain of happiness.

It was near sundown when he rode Black Bolly into White Sage, and took the back road, and the pasture lane to Bishop Caldwell’s cottage.  John, one of the Bishop’s sons, was in the barn-yard and ran to open the gate.

“Mescal!” cried Hare.

“Safe,” replied the Mormon.

“Have you hidden her?”

“She’s in a secret cave, a Mormon hiding-place for women.  Only a few men know of its existence.  Rest easy, for she’s absolutely safe.”

“Thank God! . . . then that’s settled.”  Hare drew a long, deep breath.

“Mescal told us what happened, how she got caught at the sand-strip and escaped from Holderness at Silver Cup.  Was Dene hurt?”

“Silvermane killed him.”

“Good God!  How things come about!  I saw you run Dene down that time here in White Sage.  It must have been written.  Did Holderness shoot Snap Naab?”

“Yes.”

“What of old Naab?  Won’t he come down here now to lead us Mormons against the rustlers?”

“He called the Navajos across the river.  He meant to take the trail alone and kill Holderness, keeping the Indians back a few days.  If he failed to return then they were to ride out on the rustlers.  But his plan must be changed, for I came ahead of him.”

“For what?  Mescal?”

“No.  For Holderness.”

“You’ll kill him!”

“Yes.”

“He’ll be coming soon?—­When?”

“To-morrow, possibly by daylight.  He wants Mescal.  There’s a chance Naab may have reached Silver Cup before Holderness left, but I doubt it.”

“May I know your plan?” The Mormon hesitated while his strong brown face flashed with daring inspiration.  “I—­I’ve a good reason.”