The deep-scheming Holderness, confident that his strong band meant
sure protection, sat and smoked and smiled beside the camp-fire. He had
not caught even a hint of Snap Naab's suggested warning. Yet somewhere
out on the oasis trail rode a man who, once turned from the saving of
life to the lust to kill, would be as immutable as death itself. Behind
him waited a troop of Navajos, swift as eagles, merciless as wolves,
desert warriors with the sunheated blood of generations in their veins.
As Hare waited and watched with all his inner being cold, he could almost
feel pity for Holderness. His doom was close. Twice, when the rustler
chief had sauntered nearer to the cabin door, as if to enter, Hare had
covered him with the rifle, waiting, waiting for the step upon the
threshold. But Holderness always checked himself in time, and Hare's
finger eased its pressure upon the trigger.
The night closed in black; the clouded sky gave forth no starlight; the
wind rose and moaned through the cedars. One by one the rustlers rolled
in their blankets and all dropped into slumber while the camp-fire slowly
burned down.
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