Onward came the band, Naab in the lead on his spotted roan. The mustangs were spent and lashed with foam. Naab reined in his charger and the keen-eyed Navajos closed in behind him. The old Mormon's eagle glance passed over the dark forms dangling from the cottonwoods to the files of waiting men.
“Where is he?”
“There!” answered John Caldwell, pointing to the body of Holderness.
“Who robbed me of my vengeance? Who killed the rustler?” Naab's stentorian voice rolled over the listening multitude. In it was a hunger of thwarted hate that held men mute. He bent a downward gaze at the dead Holderness as if to make sure of the ghastly reality. Then he seemed to rise in his saddle, and his broad chest to expand. “I know—I saw it all—blind I was not to believe my own eyes! Where is he? Where is Hare?”
Some one pointed Hare out. Naab swung from his saddle and scattered the men before him as if they had been sheep. His shaggy gray head and massive shoulders towered above the tallest there.
Hare felt again a cold sense of fear. He grew weak in all his being. He reeled when the gray shaggy giant laid a huge hand on his shoulder and with one pull dragged him close. Was this his kind Mormon benefactor, this man with the awful eyes?
“You killed Holderness?” roared Naab.
“Yes,” whispered Hare.
“You heard me say I'd go alone? You forestalled me? You took upon yourself my work?... Speak.”
“I—did.”