But there came a cry of recognition—­“August Naab!”

Onward came the band, Naab in the lead on his spotted roan.  The mustangs were spent and lashed with foam.  Naab reined in his charger and the keen-eyed Navajos closed in behind him.  The old Mormon’s eagle glance passed over the dark forms dangling from the cottonwoods to the files of waiting men.

“Where is he?”

“There!” answered John Caldwell, pointing to the body of Holderness.

“Who robbed me of my vengeance?  Who killed the rustler?” Naab’s stentorian voice rolled over the listening multitude.  In it was a hunger of thwarted hate that held men mute.  He bent a downward gaze at the dead Holderness as if to make sure of the ghastly reality.  Then he seemed to rise in his saddle, and his broad chest to expand.  “I know—­I saw it all—­blind I was not to believe my own eyes!  Where is he?  Where is Hare?”

Some one pointed Hare out.  Naab swung from his saddle and scattered the men before him as if they had been sheep.  His shaggy gray head and massive shoulders towered above the tallest there.

Hare felt again a cold sense of fear.  He grew weak in all his being.  He reeled when the gray shaggy giant laid a huge hand on his shoulder and with one pull dragged him close.  Was this his kind Mormon benefactor, this man with the awful eyes?

“You killed Holderness?” roared Naab.

“Yes,” whispered Hare.

“You heard me say I’d go alone?  You forestalled me?  You took upon yourself my work? . . .  Speak.”

“I—­did.”

“By what right?”

“My debt—­duty—­your family—­Dave!”

“Boy!  Boy!  You’ve robbed me.”  Naab waved his arm from the gaping crowd to the swinging rustlers.  “You’ve led these white-livered Mormons to do my work.  How can I avenge my sons—­seven sons?”

His was the rage of the old desert-lion.  He loosed Hare and strode in magnificent wrath over Holderness and raised his brawny fists.

“Eighteen years I prayed for wicked men,” he rolled out.  “One by one I buried my sons.  I gave my springs and my cattle.  Then I yielded to the lust for blood.  I renounced my religion.  I paid my soul to everlasting hell for the life of my foe.  But he’s dead!  Killed by a wild boy!  I sold myself to the devil for nothing!”

August Naab raved out his unnatural rage amid awed silence.  His revolt was the flood of years undammed at the last.  The ferocity of the desert spirit spoke silently in the hanging rustlers, in the ruthlessness of the vigilantes who had destroyed them, but it spoke truest in the sonorous roll of the old Mormon’s wrath.

“August, young Hare saved two of the rustlers,” spoke up an old friend, hoping to divert the angry flood.  “Paul Caldwell there, he was one of them.  The other’s gone.”

Naab loomed over him.  “What!” he roared.  His friend edged away, repeating his words and jerking his thumb backward toward the Bishop’s son.