“Brother! Oh! I feared this,” groaned John Caldwell.
The rustlers broke out into curses and harsh laughter.
“—- —- you Mormons! See him! Paul Caldwell! Son of a Bishop! Thought he was shepherdin' sheep?”
“D—n you, Hare!” shouted the guilty Mormon, in passionate fury and shame. “Why didn't you hang me? Why didn't you bury me unknown?”
“Caldwell! I can't believe it,” cried Hare, slowly coming to himself. “But you don't hang. Here, come out of the crowd. Make way, men!”
The silent crowd of Mormons with lowered and averted eyes made passage for Hare and Caldwell. Then cold, stern voices in sharp questions and orders went on with the grim trial. Leading the bowed and stricken Mormon, Hare drew off to the side of the town-hall and turned his back upon the crowd. The constant trampling of many feet, the harsh medley of many voices swelled into one dreadful sound. It passed away, and a long hush followed. But this in turn was suddenly broken by an outcry:
“The Navajos! The Navajos!”
Hare thrilled at that cry and his glance turned to the eastern end of the village road where a column of mounted Indians, four abreast, was riding toward the square.
“Naab and his Indians,” shouted Hare. “Naab and his Indians! No fear!” His call was timely, for the aroused Mormons, ignorant of Naab's pursuit, fearful of hostile Navajos, were handling their guns ominously.
But there came a cry of recognition—“August Naab!”