“Judas Iscariot!” thundered Naab.  “False to thyself, thy kin, and thy God!  Thrice traitor! . . .  Why didn’t you get yourself killed? . . .  Why are you left?  Ah-h! for me—­a rustler for me to kill—­with my own hands!—­A rope there—­a rope!”

“I wanted them to hang me,” hoarsely cried Caldwell, writhing in Naab’s grasp.

Hare threw all his weight and strength upon the Mormon’s iron arm.  “Naab!  Naab!  For God’s sake, hear!  He saved Mescal.  This man, thief, traitor, false Mormon—­whatever he is—­he saved Mescal.”

August Naab’s eyes were bloodshot.  One shake of his great body flung Hare off.  He dragged Paul Caldwell across the grass toward the cottonwood as easily as if he were handling an empty grain-sack.

Hare suddenly darted after him.  “August!  August!—­look! look!” he cried.  He pointed a shaking finger down the square.  The old Bishop came tottering over the grass, leaning on his cane, shading his eyes with his hand.  “August.  See, the Bishop’s coming.  Paul’s father!  Do you hear?”

Hare’s appeal pierced Naab’s frenzied brain.  The Mormon Elder saw his old Bishop pause and stare at the dark shapes suspended from the cottonwoods and hold up his hands in horror.

Naab loosed his hold.  His frame seemed wrenched as though by the passing of an evil spirit, and the reaction left his face transfigured.

“Paul, it’s your father, the Bishop,” he said, brokenly.  “Be a man.  He must never know.”  Naab spread wide his arms to the crowd.  “Men, listen,” he said.  “Of all of us Mormons I have lost most, suffered most.  Then hear me.  Bishop Caldwell must never know of his son’s guilt.  He would sink under it.  Keep the secret.  Paul will be a man again.  I know.  I see.  For, Mormons, August Naab has the gift of revelation!”

XXI MESCAL

Summer gleams of golden sunshine swam under the glistening red walls of the oasis.  Shadows from white clouds, like sails on a deep-blue sea, darkened the broad fields of alfalfa.  Circling columns of smoke were wafted far above the cottonwoods and floated in the still air.  The desert-red color of Navajo blankets brightened the grove.

Half-naked bronze Indians lolled in the shade, lounged on the cabin porches and stood about the sunny glade in idle groups.  They wore the dress of peace.  A single black-tipped white eagle feather waved above the band binding each black head.  They watched the merry children tumble round the playground.  Silvermane browsed where he listed under the shady trees, and many a sinewy red hand caressed his flowing mane.  Black Bolly neighed her jealous displeasure from the corral, and the other mustangs trampled and kicked and whistled defiance across the bars.  The peacocks preened their gorgeous plumage and uttered their clarion calls.  The belligerent turkey-gobblers sidled about ruffling their feathers.  The blackbirds and swallows sang and twittered their happiness to find old nests in the branches and under the eaves.  Over all boomed the dull roar of the Colorado in flood.