The ring of Holderness's
laugh preceded the snap of the gate-latch.
Hare stood calm and cold behind his green covert watching the three men
stroll up the garden path. Holderness took a cigarette from his lips as
he neared the porch and blew out circles of white smoke. Bishop Caldwell
tottered from the cottage rapping the porch-floor with his cane.
"Good-morning, Bishop," greeted Holderness, blandly, baring his head.
"To you, sir," quavered the old man, with his wavering blue eyes fixed on
the spurred and belted rustler. Holderness stepped out in front of his
companions, a superb man, courteous, smiling, entirely at his ease.
"I rode in to--"
Hare leaped from his hiding-place.
"Holderness!"
The rustler pivoted on whirling heels.
"Dene's spy!" he exclaimed, aghast. Swift changes swept his mobile
features. Fear flickered in his eyes as he faced his foe; then came
wonder, a glint of amusement, dark anger, and the terrible instinct of
death impending.
"Naab's trick!" hissed Hare, with his hand held high. The suggestion in
his words, the meaning in his look, held the three rustlers transfixed.
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