Three horsemen advanced to the foreground; others, a troop of eight or ten, remained in the shadow, a silent group.
Hare sank back against the stone. He knew the foremost of those horsemen though he had never seen him.
“Dene,” whispered Mescal, and confirmed his instinctive fear.
Hare was nervously alive to the handsome presence of the outlaw. Glimpses that he had caught of “bad” men returned vividly as he noted the clean-shaven face, the youthful, supple body, the cool, careless mien. Dene's eyes glittered as he pulled off his gauntlets and beat the sand out of them; and but for that quick fierce glance his leisurely friendly manner would have disarmed suspicion.
“Are you the Mormon Naab?” he queried.
“August Naab, I am.”
“Dry camp, eh? Hosses tired, I reckon. Shore it's a sandy trail. Where's the rest of you fellers?”
“Cole and his men were in a hurry to make White Sage to-night. They were travelling light; I've heavy wagons.”
“Naab, I reckon you shore wouldn't tell a lie?”
“I have never lied.”