Hurry along and keep the gray team going lively.
They've had a week's rest."
Hare watched the glimmering lights of the village vanish one by one, like
Jack-o'-lanterns. The horses kept a steady, even trot on into the huge
windy hall of the desert night. Fleecy clouds veiled the stars, yet
transmitted a wan glow. A chill crept over Hare. As he crawled under
the blankets Naab had spread for him his hand came into contact with a
polished metal surface cold as ice. It was his rifle. Naab had placed
it under the blankets. Fingering the rifle Hare found the spring opening
on the right side of the breech, and, pressing it down, he felt the round
head of a cartridge. Naab had loaded the weapon, he had placed it where
Hare's hand must find it, yet he had not spoken of it. Hare did not stop
to reason with his first impulse. Without a word, with silent
insistence, disregarding his shattered health, August Naab had given him
a man's part to play. The full meaning lifted Hare out of his
self-abasement; once more he felt himself a man.
Hare soon yielded to the warmth of the blankets; a drowsiness that he
endeavored in vain to throw off smothered his thoughts; sleep glued his
eyelids tight.
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