Piute prepared to drive his new flock up on the plateau. The women of the household were busy and excited; the children romped.
The afternoon waned into twilight, and Hare sought the quiet shadows under the wall near the river trail. He meant to stay there until August Naab had pronounced his son and Mescal man and wife. The dull roar of the rapids borne on a faint puff of westerly breeze was lulled into a soothing murmur. A radiant white star peeped over the black rim of the wall. The solitude and silence were speaking to Hare's heart, easing his pain, when a soft patter of moccasined feet brought him bolt upright.
A slender form rounded the corner wall. It was Mescal. The white dog Wolf hung close by her side. Swiftly she reached Hare.
“Mescal!” he exclaimed.
“Hush! Speak softly,” she whispered fearfully. Her hands were clinging to his.
“Jack, do you love me still?”
More than woman's sweetness was in the whisper; the portent of indefinable motive made Hare tremble like a shaking leaf.
“Good heavens! You are to be married in a few minutes—What do you mean? Where are you going? this buckskin suit—and Wolf with you—Mescal!”
“There's no time—only a word—hurry—do you love me still?” she panted, with great shining eyes close to his.
“Love you? With all my soul!”