It was the morning of Mescal's wedding-day.
August Naab, for once without a task, sat astride a peeled log of driftwood in the lane, and Hare stood beside him.
“Five thousand steers, lad! Why do you refuse them? They're worth ten dollars a head to-day in Salt Lake City. A good start for a young man.”
“No, I'm still in your debt.”
“Then share alike with my sons in work and profit?”
“Yes, I can accept that.”
“Good! Jack, I see happiness and prosperity for you. Do you remember that night on the White Sage trail? Ah! Well, the worst is over. We can look forward to better times. It's not likely the rustlers will ride into Utah again. But this desert will never be free from strife.”
“Tell me of Mescal,” said Hare.
“Ah! Yes, I'm coming to that.” Naab bent his head over the log and chipped off little pieces with his knife. “Jack, will you come into the Mormon Church?”
Long had Hare shrunk from this question which he felt must inevitably come, and now he met it as bravely as he could, knowing he would pain his friend.