"Naab and his Indians," shouted Hare. "Naab and his Indians! No fear!"
His call was timely, for the aroused Mormons, ignorant of Naab's pursuit,
fearful of hostile Navajos, were handling their guns ominously.
But there came a cry of recognition--"August Naab!"
Onward came the band, Naab in the lead on his spotted roan. The mustangs
were spent and lashed with foam. Naab reined in his charger and the
keen-eyed Navajos closed in behind him. The old Mormon's eagle glance
passed over the dark forms dangling from the cottonwoods to the files of
waiting men.
"Where is he?"
"There!" answered John Caldwell, pointing to the body of Holderness.
"Who robbed me of my vengeance? Who killed the rustler?" Naab's
stentorian voice rolled over the listening multitude. In it was a hunger
of thwarted hate that held men mute. He bent a downward gaze at the dead
Holderness as if to make sure of the ghastly reality. Then he seemed to
rise in his saddle, and his broad chest to expand. "I know--I saw it
all--blind I was not to believe my own eyes! Where is he? Where is
Hare?"
Some one pointed Hare out.
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