“Dave, where are the boys?” asked Naab.

“Not so loud!  The boys are coming,” replied Dave in a whisper.  “Dene is wild.  I guess you snapped a bone in his arm.  He swears he’ll kill us all.  But Chance and the rest of the gang won’t be in till late.  We’ve time to reach the Coconina Trail, if we hustle.”

“Any news of Snap?”

“He rode out before sundown.”

Three more forms emerged from the gloom.

“All right, boys.  Go ahead, Dave, you lead.”

Dave and George Naab mounted their mustangs and rode through the gate; the first wagon rolled after them, its white dome gradually dissolving in the darkness; the second one started; then August Naab stepped to his seat on the third with a low cluck to the team.  Hare shut the gate and climbed over the tail-board of the wagon.

A slight swish of weeds and grasses brushing the wheels was all the sound made in the cautious advance.  A bare field lay to the left; to the right low roofs and sharp chimneys showed among the trees; here and there lights twinkled.  No one hailed; not a dog barked.

Presently the leaders turned into a road where the iron hoofs and wheels cracked and crunched the stones.

Hare thought he saw something in the deep shade of a line of poplar-trees; he peered closer, and made out a motionless horse and rider, just a shade blacker than the deepest gloom.  The next instant they vanished, and the rapid clatter of hoofs down the road told Hare his eyes had not deceived him.

“Getup,” growled Naab to his horses.  “Jack, did you see that fellow?”

“Yes.  What was he doing there?”

“Watching the road.  He’s one of Dene’s scouts.”

“Will Dene—­”

One of Naab’s sons came trotting back.  “Think that was Larsen’s pal.  He was laying in wait for Snap.”

“I thought he was a scout for Dene,” replied August.

“Maybe he’s that too.”

“Likely enough.  Hurry along and keep the gray team going lively.  They’ve had a week’s rest.”

Hare watched the glimmering lights of the village vanish one by one, like Jack-o’-lanterns.  The horses kept a steady, even trot on into the huge windy hall of the desert night.  Fleecy clouds veiled the stars, yet transmitted a wan glow.  A chill crept over Hare.  As he crawled under the blankets Naab had spread for him his hand came into contact with a polished metal surface cold as ice.  It was his rifle.  Naab had placed it under the blankets.  Fingering the rifle Hare found the spring opening on the right side of the breech, and, pressing it down, he felt the round head of a cartridge.  Naab had loaded the weapon, he had placed it where Hare’s hand must find it, yet he had not spoken of it.  Hare did not stop to reason with his first impulse.  Without a word, with silent insistence, disregarding his shattered health, August Naab had given him a man’s part to play.  The full meaning lifted Hare out of his self-abasement; once more he felt himself a man.