The peacocks
preened their gorgeous plumage and uttered their clarion calls. The
belligerent turkey-gobblers sidled about ruffling their feathers. The
blackbirds and swallows sang and twittered their happiness to find old
nests in the branches and under the eaves. Over all boomed the dull roar
of the Colorado in flood.
It was the morning of Mescal's wedding-day.
August Naab, for once without a task, sat astride a peeled log of
driftwood in the lane, and Hare stood beside him.
"Five thousand steers, lad! Why do you refuse them? They're worth ten
dollars a head to-day in Salt Lake City. A good start for a young man."
"No, I'm still in your debt."
"Then share alike with my sons in work and profit?"
"Yes, I can accept that."
"Good! Jack, I see happiness and prosperity for you. Do you remember
that night on the White Sage trail? Ah! Well, the worst is over. We
can look forward to better times. It's not likely the rustlers will ride
into Utah again. But this desert will never be free from strife."
"Tell me of Mescal," said Hare.
"Ah! Yes, I'm coming to that." Naab bent his head over the log and
chipped off little pieces with his knife.
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