Naab swung from his saddle and scattered the
men before him as if they had been sheep. His shaggy gray head and
massive shoulders towered above the tallest there.
Hare felt again a cold sense of fear. He grew weak in all his being. He
reeled when the gray shaggy giant laid a huge hand on his shoulder and
with one pull dragged him close. Was this his kind Mormon benefactor,
this man with the awful eyes?
"You killed Holderness?" roared Naab.
"Yes," whispered Hare.
"You heard me say I'd go alone? You forestalled me? You took upon
yourself my work? . . . Speak."
"I--did."
"By what right?"
"My debt--duty--your family--Dave!"
"Boy! Boy! You've robbed me." Naab waved his arm from the gaping crowd to
the swinging rustlers. "You've led these white-livered Mormons to do my
work. How can I avenge my sons--seven sons?"
His was the rage of the old desert-lion. He loosed Hare and strode in
magnificent wrath over Holderness and raised his brawny fists.
"Eighteen years I prayed for wicked men," he rolled out. "One by one I
buried my sons. I gave my springs and my cattle. Then I yielded to the
lust for blood.
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