August nodded gloomily.  “I haven’t the gift of revelation, but I’ve come to believe Martin Cole.  Holderness is building an outpost for his riders close to Seeping Springs.  He has no water.  If he tries to pipe my water—­” The pause was not a threat; it implied the Mormon’s doubt of himself.  “Then Dene is on the march this way.  He’s driven some of Marshall’s cattle from the range next to mine.  Dene got away with about a hundred head.  The barefaced robber sold them in Lund to a buying company from Salt Lake.”

“Is he openly an outlaw, a rustler?” inquired Hare.

“Everybody knows it, and he’s finding White Sage and vicinity warmer than it was.  Every time he comes in he and his band shoot up things pretty lively.  Now the Mormons are slow to wrath.  But they are awakening.  All the way from Salt Lake to the border outlaws have come in.  They’ll never get the power on this desert that they had in the places from which they’ve been driven.  Men of the Holderness type are more to be dreaded.  He’s a rancher, greedy, unscrupulous, but hard to corner in dishonesty.  Dene is only a bad man, a gun-fighter.  He and all his ilk will get run out of Utah.  Did you ever hear of Plummer, John Slade, Boone Helm, any of those bad men?”

“No.”

“Well, they were men to fear.  Plummer was a sheriff in Idaho, a man high in the estimation of his townspeople, but he was the leader of the most desperate band of criminals ever known in the West; and he instigated the murder of, or killed outright, more than one hundred men.  Slade was a bad man, fatal on the draw.  Helm was a killing machine.  These men all tried Utah, and had to get out.  So will Dene have to get out.  But I’m afraid there’ll be warm times before that happens.  When you get in the thick of it you’ll appreciate Silvermane.”

“I surely will.  But I can’t see that wild stallion with a saddle and a bridle, eating oats like any common horse, and being led to water.”

“Well, he’ll come to your whistle, presently, if I’m not greatly mistaken.  You must make him love you, Jack.  It can be done with any wild creature.  Be gentle, but firm.  Teach him to obey the slightest touch of rein, to stand when you throw your bridle on the ground, to come at your whistle.  Always remember this.  He’s a desert-bred horse; he can live on scant browse and little water.  Never break him of those best virtues in a horse.  Never feed him grain if you can find a little patch of browse; never give him a drink till he needs it.  That’s one-tenth as often as a tame horse.  Some day you’ll be caught in the desert, and with these qualities of endurance Silvermane will carry you out.”

Silvermane snorted defiance from the cedar corral next morning when the Naabs, and Indians, and Hare appeared.  A half-naked sinewy Navajo with a face as changeless as a bronze mask sat astride August’s blindfolded roan, Charger.  He rode bareback except for a blanket strapped upon the horse; he carried only a long, thick halter, with a loop and a knot.  When August opened the improvised gate, with its sharp bayonet-like branches of cedar, the Indian rode into the corral.  The watchers climbed to the knoll.  Silvermane snorted a blast of fear and anger.  August’s huge roan showed uneasiness; he stamped, and shook his head, as if to rid himself of the blinders.