“Your father’s risking much for me.  He’s good.  I wish I could show my gratitude.”

“I call him Father Naab, but he is not my father.”

“A niece or granddaughter, then?”

“I’m no relation.  Father Naab raised me in his family.  My mother was a Navajo, my father a Spaniard.”

“Why!” exclaimed Hare.  “When you came out of the wagon I took you for an Indian girl.  But the moment you spoke—­you talk so well—­no one would dream—­”

“Mormons are well educated and teach the children they raise,” she said, as he paused in embarrassment.

He wanted to ask if she were a Mormon by religion, but the question seemed curious and unnecessary.  His interest was aroused; he realized suddenly that he had found pleasure in her low voice; it was new and strange, unlike any woman’s voice he had ever heard; and he regarded her closely.  He had only time for a glance at her straight, clean-cut profile, when she turned startled eyes on him, eyes black as the night.  And they were eyes that looked through and beyond him.  She held up a hand, slowly bent toward the wind, and whispered: 

“Listen.”

Hare heard nothing save the barking of coyotes and the breeze in the sage.  He saw, however, the men rise from round the camp-fire to face the north, and the women climb into the wagon, and close the canvas flaps.  And he prepared himself, with what fortitude he could command for the approach of the outlaws.  He waited, straining to catch a sound.  His heart throbbed audibly, like a muffled drum, and for an endless moment his ears seemed deadened to aught else.  Then a stronger puff of wind whipped in, banging the rhythmic beat of flying hoofs.  Suspense ended.  Hare felt the easing of a weight upon him.  Whatever was to be his fate, it would be soon decided.  The sound grew into a clattering roar.  A black mass hurled itself over the border of opaque circle, plunged into the light, and halted.

August Naab deliberately threw a bundle of grease-wood upon the camp-fire.  A blaze leaped up, sending abroad a red flare.  “Who comes?” he called.

“Friends, Mormons, friends,” was the answer.

“Get down—­friends—­and come to the fire.”

Three horsemen advanced to the foreground; others, a troop of eight or ten, remained in the shadow, a silent group.

Hare sank back against the stone.  He knew the foremost of those horsemen though he had never seen him.

“Dene,” whispered Mescal, and confirmed his instinctive fear.

Hare was nervously alive to the handsome presence of the outlaw.  Glimpses that he had caught of “bad” men returned vividly as he noted the clean-shaven face, the youthful, supple body, the cool, careless mien.  Dene’s eyes glittered as he pulled off his gauntlets and beat the sand out of them; and but for that quick fierce glance his leisurely friendly manner would have disarmed suspicion.