“You look as if you enjoyed that water,” remarked Naab, when Hare presented himself at the fire.  “Well, it’s good, only a little salty.  Seeping Springs this is, and it’s mine.  This ridge we call The Saddle; you see it dips between wall and mountain and separates two valleys.  This valley we go through to-day is where my cattle range.  At the other end is Silver Cup Spring, also mine.  Keep your eyes open now, my lad.”

How different was the beginning of this day!  The sky was as blue as the sea; the valley snuggled deep in the embrace of wall and mountain.  Hare took a place on the seat beside Naab and faced the descent.  The line of Navajos, a graceful straggling curve of color on the trail, led the way for the white-domed wagons.

Naab pointed to a little calf lying half hidden under a bunch of sage.  “That’s what I hate to see.  There’s a calf, just born; its mother has gone in for water.  Wolves and lions range this valley.  We lose hundreds of calves that way.”

As far as Hare could see red and white and black cattle speckled the valley.

“If not overstocked, this range is the best in Utah,” said Naab.  “I say Utah, but it’s really Arizona.  The Grand Canyon seems to us Mormons to mark the line.  There’s enough browse here to feed a hundred thousand cattle.  But water’s the thing.  In some seasons the springs go almost dry, though Silver Cup holds her own well enough for my cattle.”

Hare marked the tufts of grass lying far apart on the yellow earth; evidently there was sustenance enough in every two feet of ground to support only one tuft.

“What’s that?” he asked, noting a rolling cloud of dust with black bobbing borders.

“Wild mustangs,” replied Naab.  “There are perhaps five thousand on the mountain, and they are getting to be a nuisance.  They’re almost as bad as sheep on the browse; and I should tell you that if sheep pass over a range once the cattle will starve.  The mustangs are getting too plentiful.  There are also several bands of wild horses.”

“What’s the difference between wild horses and mustangs?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet.  Some say the Spaniards left horses in here three hundred years ago.  Wild?  They are wilder than any naturally wild animal that ever ran on four legs.  Wait till you get a look at Silvermane or Whitefoot.”

“What are they?”

“Wild stallions.  Silvermane is an iron gray, with a silver mane, the most beautiful horse I ever saw.  Whitefoot’s an old black shaggy demon, with one white foot.  Both stallions ought to be killed.  They fight my horses and lead off the mares.  I had a chance to shoot Silvermane on the way over this trip, but he looked so splendid that I just laid down my rifle.”

“Can they run?” asked Hare eagerly, with the eyes of a man who loved a horse.

“Run?  Whew!  Just you wait till you see Silvermane cover ground!  He can look over his shoulder at you and beat any horse in this country.  The Navajos have given up catching him as a bad job.  Why—­here!  Jack! quick, get out your rifle—­coyotes!”