Depend on it, Hare," went on
Naab. "That trick was the cunning Indian of her. She'll ride Silvermane
into White Sage to-morrow night. Then she'll hide from Snap. The Bishop
will take care of her. She'll be safe for the present in White Sage.
Now we must bury these men. To-morrow--my son. Then--"
"What then?" Hare straightened up.
Unutterable pain darkened the flame in the Mormon's gaze. For an instant
his face worked spasmodically, only to stiffen into a stony mask. It was
the old conflict once more, the never-ending war between flesh and
spirit. And now the flesh had prevailed.
"The time has come!" said George Naab.
"Yes," replied his father, harshly.
A great calm settled over Hare; his blood ceased to race, his mind to
riot; in August Naab's momentous word he knew the old man had found
himself. At last he had learned the lesson of the desert--to strike
first and hard.
"Zeke, hitch up a team," said August Naab. "No--wait a moment. Here
comes Piute. Let's hear what he has to say."
Piute appeared on the zigzag cliff-trail, driving a burro at dangerous
speed.
"He's sighted Silvermane and the rustlers," suggested George, as the
shepherd approached.
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