It was the morning of Mescal’s wedding-day.

August Naab, for once without a task, sat astride a peeled log of driftwood in the lane, and Hare stood beside him.

“Five thousand steers, lad!  Why do you refuse them?  They’re worth ten dollars a head to-day in Salt Lake City.  A good start for a young man.”

“No, I’m still in your debt.”

“Then share alike with my sons in work and profit?”

“Yes, I can accept that.”

“Good!  Jack, I see happiness and prosperity for you.  Do you remember that night on the White Sage trail?  Ah!  Well, the worst is over.  We can look forward to better times.  It’s not likely the rustlers will ride into Utah again.  But this desert will never be free from strife.”

“Tell me of Mescal,” said Hare.

“Ah!  Yes, I’m coming to that.”  Naab bent his head over the log and chipped off little pieces with his knife.  “Jack, will you come into the Mormon Church?”

Long had Hare shrunk from this question which he felt must inevitably come, and now he met it as bravely as he could, knowing he would pain his friend.

“No, August, I can’t,” he replied.  “I feel—­differently from Mormons about—­about women.  If it wasn’t for that!  I look upon you as a father.  I’ll do anything for you, except that.  No one could pray to be a better man than you.  Your work, your religion, your life—­ Why!  I’ve no words to say what I feel.  Teach me what little you can of them, August, but don’t ask me—­that.”

“Well, well,” sighed Naab.  The gray clearness of his eagle eyes grew shadowed and his worn face was sad.  It was the look of a strong wise man who seemed to hear doubt and failure knocking at the gate of his creed.  But he loved life too well to be unhappy; he saw it too clearly not to know there was nothing wholly good, wholly perfect, wholly without error.  The shade passed from his face like the cloud-shadow from the sunlit lane.

“You ask about Mescal,” he mused.  “There’s little more to tell.”

“But her father—­can you tell me more of him?”

“Little more than I’ve already told.  He was evidently a man of some rank.  I suspected that he ruined his life and became an adventurer.  His health was shattered when I brought him here, but he got well after a year or so.  He was a splendid, handsome fellow.  He spoke very seldom and I don’t remember ever seeing him smile.  His favorite walk was the river trail.  I came upon him there one day, and found him dying.  He asked me to have a care of Mescal.  And he died muttering a Spanish word, a woman’s name, I think.”

“I’ll cherish Mescal the more,” said Hare.

“Cherish her, yes.  My Bible will this day give her a name.  We know she has the blood of a great chief.  Beautiful she is and good.  I raised her for the Mormon Church, but God disposes after all, and I—­”

A shrill screeching sound split the warm stillness, the long-drawn-out bray of a burro.