Let's
have supper. Now, Mescal, you sit here on the bench and behave yourself.
I don't want you shooting up my camp."
Snap turned sullenly aside while Holderness seated Mescal near the door
and fetched her food and drink. The rustlers squatted round the
camp-fire, and conversation ceased in the business of the meal.
To Hare the scene had brought a storm of emotions. Joy at the sight of
Mescal, blessed relief to see her unscathed, pride in her fighting
spirit--these came side by side with gratitude to the kind Nebraska
rustler, strange deepening insight into Holderness's game,
unextinguishable white-hot hatred of Snap Naab. And binding all was the
ever-mounting will to rescue Mescal, which was held in check by an
inexorable judgment; he must continue to wait. And he did wait with
blind faith in the something to be, keeping ever in mind the last resort-
-the rifle he clutched with eager hands. Meanwhile the darkness
descended, the fire sent forth a brighter blaze, and the rustlers
finished their supper. Mescal arose and stepped across the threshold of
the cabin door.
"Hold on!" ordered Snap, as he approached with swift strides.
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