Then the crowd of big and little Naabs burst from the house and came under the cottonwoods to offer noisy welcome to Mescal and Hare.
“Jack, you look done up,” said Dave Naab solicitously, when the first greetings had been spoken, and Mother Ruth had led Mescal indoors. “Silvermane, too—he's wet and winded. He's been running?”
“Yes, a little,” replied Hare, as he removed the saddle from the weary horse.
“Ah! What's this?” questioned August Naab, with his hand on Silvermane's flank. He touched a raw groove, and the stallion flinched. “Hare, a bullet made that!”
“Yes.”
“Then you didn't ride in by the Navajo crossing?”
“No. I came by Silver Cup.”
“Silver Cup? How on earth did you get down there?”
“We climbed out of the canyon up over Coconina, and so made the spring.”
Naab whistled in surprise and he flashed another keen glance over Hare and his horse. “Your story can wait. I know about what it is—after you reached Silver Cup. Come in, come in, Dave will look out for the stallion.”