“I can't pass by this helpless man,” rolled out August Naab's sonorous voice.
Suddenly, with livid face and shaking hand, Cole pointed westward. “There! Dene and his band! See, under the red wall; see the dust, not ten miles away. See them?”
The desert, gray in the foreground, purple in the distance, sloped to the west. Eyes keen as those of hawks searched the waste, and followed the red mountain rampart, which, sheer in bold height and processional in its craggy sweep, shut out the north. Far away little puffs of dust rose above the white sage, and creeping specks moved at a snail's pace.
“See them? Ah! then look, August Naab, look in the heavens above for my prophecy,” cried Cole, fanatically. “The red sunset—the sign of the times—blood!”
A broad bar of dense black shut out the April sky, except in the extreme west, where a strip of pale blue formed background for several clouds of striking color and shape. They alone, in all that expanse, were dyed in the desert's sunset crimson. The largest projected from behind the dark cloud-bank in the shape of a huge fist, and the others, small and round, floated below. To Cole it seemed a giant hand, clutching, with inexorable strength, a bleeding heart. His terror spread to his companions as they stared.
Then, as light surrendered to shade, the sinister color faded; the tracing of the closed hand softened; flush and glow paled, leaving the sky purple, as if mirroring the desert floor. One golden shaft shot up, to be blotted out by sudden darkening change, and the sun had set.
“That may be God's will,” said August Naab. “So be it. Martin Cole, take your men and go.”
There was a word, half oath, half prayer, and then rattle of stirrups, the creak of saddles, and clink of spurs, followed by the driving rush of fiery horses. Cole and his men disappeared in a pall of yellow dust.
A wan smile lightened John Hare's face as he spoke weakly: “I fear your—generous act—can't save me... may bring you harm. I'd rather you left me—seeing you have women in your party.”
“Don't try to talk yet,” said August Naab. “You're faint. Here—drink.” He stooped to Hare, who was leaning against a sage-bush, and held a flask to his lips. Rising, he called to his men: “Make camp, sons. We've an hour before the outlaws come up, and if they don't go round the sand-dune we'll have longer.”