He was up and off before sunrise, and he came out on the western slope of Coconina just as the shadowy valley awakened from its misty sleep into daylight.  Soon the Pink Cliffs leaned out, glimmering and vast, to change from gloomy gray to rosy glow, and then to brighten and to redden in the morning sun.

The snow thinned and failed, but the iron-cut horsetracks showed plainly in the trail.  At the foot of the mountain the tracks left the White Sage trail and led off to the north toward the cliffs.  Hare searched the red sagespotted waste for Holderness’s ranch.  He located it, a black patch on the rising edge of the valley under the wall, and turned Silvermane into the tracks that pointed straight toward it.

The sun cleared Coconina and shone warm on his back; the Pink Cliffs lifted higher and higher before him.  From the ridge-tops he saw the black patch grow into cabins and corrals.  As he neared the ranch he came into rolling pasture-land where the bleached grass shone white and the cattle were ranging in the thousands.  This range had once belonged to Martin Cole, and Hare thought of the bitter Mormon as he noted the snug cabins for the riders, the rambling, picturesque ranch-house, the large corrals, and the long flume that ran down from the cliff.  There was a corral full of shaggy horses, and another full of steers, and two lines of cattle, one going into a pond-corral, and one coming out.  The air was gray with dust.  A bunch of yearlings were licking at huge lumps of brown rock-salt.  A wagonful of cowhides stood before the ranch-house.

Hare reined in at the door and helloed.

A red-faced ranger with sandy hair and twinkling eyes appeared.

“Hello, stranger, get down an’ come in,” he said.

“Is Holderness here?” asked Hare.

“No.  He’s been to Lund with a bunch of steers.  I reckon he’ll be in White Sage by now.  I’m Snood, the foreman.  Is it a job ridin’ you want?”

“No.”

“Say! thet hoss—­” he exclaimed.  His gaze of friendly curiosity had moved from Hare to Silvermane.  “You can corral me if it ain’t thet Sevier range stallion!”

“Yes,” said Hare.

Snood’s whoop brought three riders to the door, and when he pointed to the horse, they stepped out with good-natured grins and admiring eyes.

“I never seen him but onc’t,” said one.

“Lordy, what a hoss!” Snood walked round Silvermane.  “If I owned this ranch I’d trade it for that stallion.  I know Silvermane.  He an’ I hed some chases over in Nevada.  An’, stranger, who might you be?”

“I’m one of August Naab’s riders.”

“Dene’s spy!” Snood looked Hare over carefully, with much interest, and without any show of ill-will.  “I’ve heerd of you.  An’ what might one of Naab’s riders want of Holderness?”

“I rode in to Seeping Springs yesterday,” said Hare, eying the foreman.  “There was a new pond, fenced in.  Our cattle couldn’t drink.  There were a lot of trimmed logs.  Somebody was going to build a cabin.  I burned the corrals and logs—­and I trailed fresh tracks from Seeping Springs to this ranch.”