He rode home next day, drooping in the saddle and fainting at the end of the trail, with the strong arm of August Naab upholding him.  His wound was dressed and he was put to bed, where he lay sleeping most of the time, brooding the rest.

In three weeks he was in the saddle again, riding out over the red strip of desert toward the range.  During his convalescence he had learned that he had come to the sombre line of choice.  Either he must deliberately back away, and show his unfitness to survive in the desert, or he must step across into its dark wilds.  The stern question haunted him.  Yet he knew a swift decision waited on the crucial moment.

He sought lonely rides more than ever, and, like Silvermane, he was always watching and listening.  His duties carried him half way to Seeping Springs, across the valley to the red wall, up the slope of Coconina far into the forest of stately pines.  What with Silvermane’s wonderful scent and sight, and his own constant watchfulness, there were never range-riders or wild horses nor even deer near him without his knowledge.

The days flew by; spring had long since given place to summer; the blaze of sun and blast of flying sand were succeeded by the cooling breezes from the mountain; October brought the flurries of snow and November the dark storm-clouds.

Hare was the last of the riders to be driven off the mountain.  The brothers were waiting for him at Silver Cup, and they at once packed and started for home.

August Naab listened to the details of the range-riding since his absence, with silent surprise.  Holderness and Snap had kept away from Silver Cup after the supposed killing of Hare.  Occasionally a group of horsemen rode across the valley or up a trail within sight of Dave and his followers, but there was never a meeting.  Not a steer had been driven off the range that summer and fall; and except for the menace always hanging in the blue smoke over Seeping Springs the range-riding had passed without unusual incident.

So for Hare the months had gone by swiftly; though when he looked back afterward they seemed years.  The winter at the oasis he filled as best he could, with the children playing in the yard, with Silvermane under the sunny lee of the great red wall, with any work that offered itself.  It was during the long evenings, when he could not be active, that time oppressed him, and the memories of the past hurt him.  A glimpse of the red sunset through the cliff-gate toward the west would start the train of thought; he both loved and hated the Painted Desert.  Mescal was there in the purple shadows.  He dreamed of her in the glowing embers of the log-fire.  He saw her on Black Bolly with hair flying free to the wind.  And he could not shut out the picture of her sitting in the corner of the room, silent, with bowed head, while the man to whom she was pledged hung close over her.  That memory had a sting.  It was like a spark of fire dropped on the wound in his breast where the desert-hawk had struck him.  It was like a light gleaming on the sombre line he was waiting to cross.