I renounced my religion. I paid my soul to everlasting
hell for the life of my foe. But he's dead! Killed by a wild boy! I sold
myself to the devil for nothing!"
August Naab raved out his unnatural rage amid awed silence. His revolt
was the flood of years undammed at the last. The ferocity of the desert
spirit spoke silently in the hanging rustlers, in the ruthlessness of the
vigilantes who had destroyed them, but it spoke truest in the sonorous
roll of the old Mormon's wrath.
"August, young Hare saved two of the rustlers," spoke up an old friend,
hoping to divert the angry flood. "Paul Caldwell there, he was one of
them. The other's gone."
Naab loomed over him. "What!" he roared. His friend edged away,
repeating his words and jerking his thumb backward toward the Bishop's
son.
"Judas Iscariot!" thundered Naab. "False to thyself, thy kin, and thy
God! Thrice traitor! . . . Why didn't you get yourself killed? . . . Why
are you left? Ah-h! for me--a rustler for me to kill--with my own
hands!--A rope there--a rope!"
"I wanted them to hang me," hoarsely cried Caldwell, writhing in Naab's
grasp.
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