. . . Mescal, come." The slender
girl obeyed, gliding noiselessly like a shadow. "Take his arm." Between
them they led Hare to a jumble of stones on the outer edge of the circle
of light.
"It wouldn't do to hide," continued Naab, lowering his voice to a swift
whisper, "that might be fatal. You're in sight from the camp-fire, but
indistinct. By-and-by the outlaws will get here, and if any of them
prowl around close, you and Mescal must pretend to be sweethearts.
Understand? They'll pass by Mormon love-making without a second look.
Now, lad, courage . . . Mescal, it may save his life."
Naab returned to the fire, his shadow looming in gigantic proportions on
the white canopy of a covered wagon. Fitful gusts of wind fretted the
blaze; it roared and crackled and sputtered, now illuminating the still
forms, then enveloping them in fantastic obscurity. Hare shivered,
perhaps from the cold air, perhaps from growing dread. Westward lay the
desert, an impenetrable black void; in front, the gloomy mountain wall
lifted jagged peaks close to the stars; to the right rose the ridge, the
rocks and stunted cedars of its summit standing in weird relief.
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