“No danger—don't be alarmed—all's well,” he panted. “The rustlers are captured. I want Mescal. Quick! Where is she? Fetch her, somebody.”
One of the women glided from the room. Hare caught the clicking of a latch, the closing of a door, hollow footfalls descending on stone, and dying away under the cottage. They rose again, ending in swiftly pattering footsteps. Like a whirlwind Mescal came through the hall, black hair flying, dark eyes beaming.
“My darling!” Oblivious of the Mormons he swung her up and held her in his arms. “Mescal! Mescal!”
When he raised his face from the tumbling mass of her black hair, the Bishop and his family had left the room.
“Listen, Mescal. Be calm. I'm safe. The rustlers are prisoners. One of them released you from Holderness. Tell me which one?”
“I don't know,” replied Mescal. “I've tried to think. I didn't see his face; I can't remember his voice.”
“Think! Think! He'll be hanged if you don't recall something to identify him. He deserves a chance. Holderness's crowd are thieves, murderers. But two were not all bad. That showed the night you were at Silver Cup. I saved Nebraska—”
“Were you at Silver Cup? Jack!”
“Hush! don't interrupt me. We must save this man who saved you. Think! Mescal! Think!”
“Oh! I can't. What—how shall I remember?”