The circle opened and closed upon him. He saw bound rustlers under armed guard. Four still forms were on the ground. Holderness lay outstretched, a dark-red blot staining his gray shirt. Flinty-faced Mormons, ruthless now as they had once been mild, surrounded the rustlers. John Caldwell stood foremost, with ashen lips breaking bitterly into speech:
“Mormons, this is Dene's spy, the man who killed Holderness!”
The listeners burst into the short stern shout of men proclaiming a leader in war.
“What's the game?” demanded Hare.
“A fair trial for the rustlers, then a rope,” replied John Caldwell. The low ominous murmur swelled through the crowd again.
“There are two men here who have befriended me. I won't see them hanged.”
“Pick them out!” A strange ripple of emotion made a fleeting break in John Caldwell's hard face.
Hare eyed the prisoners.
“Nebraska, step out here,” said he.
“I reckon you're mistaken,” replied the rustler, his blue eyes intently on Hare. “I never seen you before. An' I ain't the kind of a feller to cheat the man you mean.”