He stumbled over a pile of lassoes which had not been there when
he left. The stony Mormons waited; the rustlers coughed and shifted
their feet. John Caldwell turned a gray face. Hare bent over the three
dead rustlers lying with Holderness, and after a moment of anxious
scrutiny he rose to confront the line of prisoners.
"Hold out your hands."
One by one they complied. The sixth rustler in the line, a tall fellow,
completely masked, refused to do as he was bidden. Twice Hare spoke.
The rustler twisted his bound hands under his coat.
"Let's see them," said Hare, quickly. He grasped the fellow's arm and
received a violent push that almost knocked him over. Grappling with the
rustler, he pulled up the bound hands, in spite of fierce resistance, and
there were the long fingers, the sharp wart, the laced wristband.
"Here's my man!" he said.
"No," hoarsely mumbled the rustler. The perspiration ran down his corded
neck; his breast heaved convulsively.
"You fool!" cried Hare, dumfounded and resentful. "I recognized you.
Would you rather hang than live? What's your secret?"
He snatched off the black mask.
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