Twilight had enfolded the plateau when Hare traced his way back to camp.  Mescal was not there.  His supper awaited him; Piute hummed a song; the peon sat grimacing at the fire.  Hare told them to eat, and moved away toward the rim.

Mescal was at her favorite seat, with the white dog beside her; and she watched the desert where the last glow of sunset gilded the mesas.  How cold and calm was her face!  How strange to him in this new character!

“Mescal, I didn’t know I loved you—­then—­but I know it now.”

Her face dropped quickly from its level poise, hiding the brooding eyes; her hand trembled on Wolf’s head.

“You spoke the truth.  I’ll get well.  I’d rather have had it from your lips than from any in the world.  I mean to live my life here where these wonderful things have come to me.  The friendship of the good man who saved me, this wild, free desert, the glory of new hope, strength, life—­ and love.”

He took her hand in his and whispered, “For I love you.  Do you care for me?  Mescal!  It must be complete.  Do you care—­a little?”

The wind blew her dusky hair; he could not see her face; he tried gently to turn her to him.  The hand he had taken lay warm and trembling in his, but it was not withdrawn.  As he waited, in fear, in hope, it became still.  Her slender form, rigid within his arm, gradually relaxed, and yielded to him; her face sank on his breast, and her dark hair loosened from its band, covered her, and blew across his lips.  That was his answer.

The wind sang in the cedars.  No longer a sigh, sad as thoughts of a past forever flown, but a song of what had come to him, of hope, of life, of Mescal’s love, of the things to be!

VII SILVERMANE

Little dew fell on the night of July first; the dawn brightened without mists; a hot sun rose; the short summer of the plateau had begun.

As Hare rose, refreshed and happy from his breakfast, his whistle was cut short by the Indian.

“Ugh!” exclaimed Piute, lifting a dark finger.  Black Bolly had thrown her nose-bag and slipped her halter, and she moved toward the opening in the cedars, her head high, her black ears straight up.

“Bolly!” called Mescal.  The mare did not stop.

“What the deuce?” Hare ran forward to catch her.

“I never knew Bolly to act that way,” said Mescal.  “See—­she didn’t eat half the oats.  Well, Bolly—­Jack! look at Wolf!”

The white dog had risen and stood warily shifting his nose.  He sniffed the wind, turned round and round, and slowly stiffened with his head pointed toward the eastern rise of the plateau.

“Hold, Wolf, hold!” called Mescal, as the dog appeared to be about to dash away.

“Ugh!” grunted Piute.

“Listen, Jack; did you hear?” whispered the girl.

“Hear what?”

“Listen.”