Hare threw all his weight and strength upon the Mormon's iron arm. "Naab!
Naab! For God's sake, hear! He saved Mescal. This man, thief, traitor,
false Mormon--whatever he is--he saved Mescal."
August Naab's eyes were bloodshot. One shake of his great body flung
Hare off. He dragged Paul Caldwell across the grass toward the
cottonwood as easily as if he were handling an empty grain-sack.
Hare suddenly darted after him. "August! August!--look! look!" he
cried. He pointed a shaking finger down the square. The old Bishop came
tottering over the grass, leaning on his cane, shading his eyes with his
hand. "August. See, the Bishop's coming. Paul's father! Do you hear?"
Hare's appeal pierced Naab's frenzied brain. The Mormon Elder saw his
old Bishop pause and stare at the dark shapes suspended from the
cottonwoods and hold up his hands in horror.
Naab loosed his hold. His frame seemed wrenched as though by the passing
of an evil spirit, and the reaction left his face transfigured.
"Paul, it's your father, the Bishop," he said, brokenly. "Be a man. He
must never know." Naab spread wide his arms to the crowd.
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