The wind-song in the crags,
the river-murmur from the canyon, filled Hare's ears with music. To be
alive, to feel the sun, to see the colors, to hear the sounds, was
beautiful; and to know that Mescal awaited him, was enough.
Work on the washed-out bank of the ditch had not gone far when Naab
raised his head as if listening.
"Did you hear anything?" he asked.
"No," replied Hare.
"The roar of the river is heavy here. Maybe I was mistaken. I thought I
heard shots." Then he went on spading clay into the break, but he stopped
every moment or so, uneasily, as if he could not get rid of some
disturbing thought. Suddenly he dropped the spade and his eyes flashed.
"Judith! Judith! Here!" he called. Wheeling with a sudden premonition of
evil Hare saw the girl running along the wall toward them. Her face was
white as death; she wrung her hands and her cries rose above the sound of
the river. Naab sprang toward her and Hare ran at his heels.
"Father!-- Father!" she panted. "Come--quick--the rustlers!--the
rustlers! Snap!--Dene--Oh--hurry! They've killed Dave--they've got
Mescal!"
Death itself shuddered through Hare's veins and then a raging flood of
fire.
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