“Yes, I did—­when he was loosing the cords,” said Mescal, eagerly.  “Long, strong fingers.  I felt them too.  He has a sharp rough wart on one hand, I don’t know which.  He wears a leather wristband.”

“That’s enough!” Hare bounded out upon the garden walk and raced back to the crowded square.  The uneasy circle stirred and opened for him to enter.  He stumbled over a pile of lassoes which had not been there when he left.  The stony Mormons waited; the rustlers coughed and shifted their feet.  John Caldwell turned a gray face.  Hare bent over the three dead rustlers lying with Holderness, and after a moment of anxious scrutiny he rose to confront the line of prisoners.

“Hold out your hands.”

One by one they complied.  The sixth rustler in the line, a tall fellow, completely masked, refused to do as he was bidden.  Twice Hare spoke.  The rustler twisted his bound hands under his coat.

“Let’s see them,” said Hare, quickly.  He grasped the fellow’s arm and received a violent push that almost knocked him over.  Grappling with the rustler, he pulled up the bound hands, in spite of fierce resistance, and there were the long fingers, the sharp wart, the laced wristband.  “Here’s my man!” he said.

“No,” hoarsely mumbled the rustler.  The perspiration ran down his corded neck; his breast heaved convulsively.

“You fool!” cried Hare, dumfounded and resentful.  “I recognized you.  Would you rather hang than live?  What’s your secret?”

He snatched off the black mask.  The Bishop’s eldest son stood revealed.

“Good God!” cried Hare, recoiling from that convulsed face.

“Brother!  Oh!  I feared this,” groaned John Caldwell.

The rustlers broke out into curses and harsh laughter.

“—–­ —–­ you Mormons!  See him!  Paul Caldwell!  Son of a Bishop!  Thought he was shepherdin’ sheep?”

“D—­n you, Hare!” shouted the guilty Mormon, in passionate fury and shame.  “Why didn’t you hang me?  Why didn’t you bury me unknown?”

“Caldwell!  I can’t believe it,” cried Hare, slowly coming to himself.  “But you don’t hang.  Here, come out of the crowd.  Make way, men!”

The silent crowd of Mormons with lowered and averted eyes made passage for Hare and Caldwell.  Then cold, stern voices in sharp questions and orders went on with the grim trial.  Leading the bowed and stricken Mormon, Hare drew off to the side of the town-hall and turned his back upon the crowd.  The constant trampling of many feet, the harsh medley of many voices swelled into one dreadful sound.  It passed away, and a long hush followed.  But this in turn was suddenly broken by an outcry: 

“The Navajos!  The Navajos!”

Hare thrilled at that cry and his glance turned to the eastern end of the village road where a column of mounted Indians, four abreast, was riding toward the square.

“Naab and his Indians,” shouted Hare.  “Naab and his Indians!  No fear!” His call was timely, for the aroused Mormons, ignorant of Naab’s pursuit, fearful of hostile Navajos, were handling their guns ominously.