The crude shingles of the cabin
first rose into sight; then beyond he saw the corral with a number of
shaggy mustangs and a great gray horse. Hare stared blankly. As in a
dream he saw the proud arch of a splendid neck, the graceful wave of a
white-crested mane.
"Silvermane! . . . My God!" he gasped, suddenly. "They caught him--after
all!"
He fell backward upon the cliff and lay there with hands clinching his
rifle, shudderingly conscious of a blow, trying to comprehend its
meaning.
"Silvermane! . . . they caught him--after all!" he kept repeating; then in
a flash of agonized understanding he whispered: "Mescal . . . Mescal!"
He rolled upon his face, shutting out the blue sky; his body stretched
stiff as a bent spring released from its compress, and his nails dented
the stock of his rifle. Then this rigidity softened to sobs that shook
him from head to foot. He sat up, haggard and wild-eyed.
Silvermane had been captured, probably by rustlers waiting at the western
edge of the sand-strip. Mescal had fallen into the hands of Snap Naab.
But Mescal was surely alive and Snap was there to be killed; his long
career of unrestrained cruelty was in its last day--something told Hare
that this thing must and should be.
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