“Are you the Mormon Naab?” he queried.

“August Naab, I am.”

“Dry camp, eh?  Hosses tired, I reckon.  Shore it’s a sandy trail.  Where’s the rest of you fellers?”

“Cole and his men were in a hurry to make White Sage to-night.  They were travelling light; I’ve heavy wagons.”

“Naab, I reckon you shore wouldn’t tell a lie?”

“I have never lied.”

“Heerd of a young feller thet was in Lund—­pale chap—­lunger, we’d call him back West?”

“I heard that he had been mistaken for a spy at Lund and had fled toward Bane.”

“Hadn’t seen nothin’ of him this side of Lund?”

“No.”

“Seen any Navvies?”

“Yes.”

The outlaw stared hard at him.  Apparently he was about to speak of the Navajos, for his quick uplift of head at Naab’s blunt affirmative suggested the impulse.  But he checked himself and slowly drew on his gloves.

“Naab, I’m shore comin’ to visit you some day.  Never been over thet range.  Heerd you hed fine water, fine cattle.  An’ say, I seen thet little Navajo girl you have, an’ I wouldn’t mind seein’ her again.”

August Naab kicked the fire into brighter blaze.  “Yes fine range,” he presently replied, his gaze fixed on Dene.  “Fine water, fine cattle, fine browse.  I’ve a fine graveyard, too; thirty graves, and not one a woman’s.  Fine place for graves, the canyon country.  You don’t have to dig.  There’s one grave the Indians never named; it’s three thousand feet deep.”

“Thet must be in hell,” replied Dene, with a smile, ignoring the covert meaning.  He leisurely surveyed Naab’s four sons, the wagons and horses, till his eye fell upon Hare and Mescal.  With that he swung in his saddle as if to dismount.

“I shore want a look around.”

“Get down, get down,” returned the Mormon.  The deep voice, unwelcoming, vibrant with an odd ring, would have struck a less suspicious man than Dene.  The outlaw wrung his leg back over the pommel, sagged in the saddle, and appeared to be pondering the question.  Plainly he was uncertain of his ground.  But his indecision was brief.

“Two-Spot, you look ’em over,” he ordered.

The third horseman dismounted and went toward the wagons.

Hare, watching this scene, became conscious that his fear had intensified with the recognition of Two-Spot as Chance, the outlaw whom he would not soon forget.  In his excitement he moved against Mescal and felt her trembling violently.

“Are you afraid?” he whispered.

“Yes, of Dene.”

The outlaw rummaged in one of the wagons, pulled aside the canvas flaps of the other, laughed harshly, and then with clinking spurs tramped through the camp, kicking the beds, overturning a pile of saddles, and making disorder generally, till he spied the couple sitting on the stone in the shadow.

As the outlaw lurched that way, Hare, with a start of recollection, took Mescal in his arms and leaned his head against hers.  He felt one of her hands lightly brush his shoulder and rest there, trembling.