“Why not, I’d like to know?” inquired Hare, with a short laugh.

“Well, if you’re like the other Gentiles who have come into Utah you won’t have scruples about drawing on a man.  Father says the draw comes natural to you, and you’re as quick as he is.  Then he says you can beat any rifle shot he ever saw, and that long-barrelled gun you’ve got will shoot a mile.  So if it comes to shooting—­why, you can shoot.  If you want to run—­who’s going to catch you on that white-maned stallion?  We talked about you, George and I; we’re mighty glad you’re well and can ride with us.”

Long into the night Jack Hare thought over this talk.  It opened up a vista of the range-life into which he was soon to enter.  He tried to silence the voice within that cried out, eager and reckless, for the long rides on the windy open.  The years of his illness returned in fancy, the narrow room with the lamp and the book, and the tears over stories and dreams of adventure never to be for such as he.  And now how wonderful was life!  It was, after all, to be full for him.  It was already full.  Already he slept on the ground, open to the sky.  He looked up at a wild black cliff, mountain-high, with its windworn star of blue; he felt himself on the threshold of the desert, with that subtle mystery waiting; he knew himself to be close to strenuous action on the ranges, companion of these sombre Mormons, exposed to their peril, making their cause his cause, their life his life.  What of their friendship, their confidence?  Was he worthy?  Would he fail at the pinch?  What a man he must become to approach their simple estimate of him!  Because he had found health and strength, because he could shoot, because he had the fleetest horse on the desert, were these reasons for their friendship?  No, these were only reasons for their trust.  August Naab loved him.  Mescal loved him; Dave and George made of him a brother.  “They shall have my life,” he muttered.

The bleating of the sheep heralded another day.  With the brightening light began the drive over the sand.  Under the cliff the shade was cool and fresh; there was no wind; the sheep made good progress.  But the broken line of shade crept inward toward the flock, and passed it.  The sun beat down, and the wind arose.  A red haze of fine sand eddied about the toiling sheep and shepherds.  Piute trudged ahead leading the king-ram, old Socker, the leader of the flock; Mescal and Hare rode at the right, turning their faces from the sand-filled puffs of wind; August and Dave drove behind; Wolf, as always, took care of the stragglers.  An hour went by without signs of distress; and with half the five-mile trip at his back August Naab’s voice gathered cheer.  The sun beat hotter.  Another hour told a different story—­the sheep labored; they had to be forced by urge of whip, by knees of horses, by Wolf’s threatening bark.  They stopped altogether during the frequent hot sand-blasts, and could not be driven.  So time dragged.  The flock straggled out to a long irregular line; rams refused to budge till they were ready; sheep lay down to rest; lambs fell.  But there was an end to the belt of sand, and August Naab at last drove the lagging trailers out upon the stony bench.