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.
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