Naab's sons had his stature, though not his bulk. They were wiry, rangy
men, young, yet somehow old. The desert had multiplied their years.
Hare could not have told one face from another, the bronze skin and steel
eye and hard line of each were so alike. The women, one middle-aged, the
others young, were of comely, serious aspect.
"Mescal," called the Mormon.
A slender girl slipped from one of the covered wagons; she was dark,
supple, straight as an Indian.
August Naab dropped to his knees, and, as the members of his family bowed
their heads, he extended his hands over them and over the food laid on
the ground.
"Lord, we kneel in humble thanksgiving. Bless this food to our use.
Strengthen us, guide us, keep us as Thou hast in the past. Bless this
stranger within our gates. Help us to help him. Teach us Thy ways, O
Lord--Amen."
Hare found himself flushing and thrilling, found himself unable to
control a painful binding in his throat. In forty-eight hours he had
learned to hate the Mormons unutterably; here, in the presence of this
austere man, he felt that hatred wrenched from his heart, and in its
place stirred something warm and living.
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