“Say, father, is that the spy you found on the trail?” Snap's pale eyes gleamed on Hare and the little flames seemed to darken and leap.
“This is John Hare, the young man I found. But he's not a spy.”
“You can't make any one believe that. He's down as a spy. Dene's spy! His name's gone over the ranges as a counter of unbranded stock. Dene has named him and Dene has marked him. Don't take him home, as you've taken so many sick and hunted men before. What's the good of it? You never made a Mormon of one of them yet. Don't take him—unless you want another grave for your cemetery. Ha! Ha!”
Hare recoiled with a shock. Snap Naab swayed to the door, and stepped down, all the time with his face over his shoulder, his baleful glance on Hare; then the blue haze swallowed him.
The several loungers went out; August engaged the storekeeper in conversation, introducing Hare and explaining their wants. They inspected the various needs of a range-rider, selecting, in the end, not the few suggested by Hare, but the many chosen by Naab. The last purchase was the rifle Naab had talked about. It was a beautiful weapon, finely polished and carved, entirely out of place among the plain coarse-sighted and coarse-stocked guns in the rack.
“Never had a chance to sell it,” said Abe. “Too long and heavy for the riders. I'll let it go cheap, half price, and the cartridges also, two thousand.”
“Taken,” replied Naab, quickly, with a satisfaction which showed he liked a bargain.
“August, you must be going to shoot some?” queried Abe. “Something bigger than rabbits and coyotes. Its about time—even if you are an Elder. We Mormons must—” he broke off, continuing in a low tone: “Here's Holderness now.”
Hare wheeled with the interest that had gathered with the reiteration of this man's name. A new-comer stooped to get in the door. He out-topped even Naab in height, and was a superb blond-bearded man, striding with the spring of a mountaineer.
“Good-day to you, Naab,” he said. “Is this the young fellow you picked up?”