“Heerd of a young feller thet was in Lund—pale chap—lunger, we'd call him back West?”
“I heard that he had been mistaken for a spy at Lund and had fled toward Bane.”
“Hadn't seen nothin' of him this side of Lund?”
“No.”
“Seen any Navvies?”
“Yes.”
The outlaw stared hard at him. Apparently he was about to speak of the Navajos, for his quick uplift of head at Naab's blunt affirmative suggested the impulse. But he checked himself and slowly drew on his gloves.
“Naab, I'm shore comin' to visit you some day. Never been over thet range. Heerd you hed fine water, fine cattle. An' say, I seen thet little Navajo girl you have, an' I wouldn't mind seein' her again.”
August Naab kicked the fire into brighter blaze. “Yes fine range,” he presently replied, his gaze fixed on Dene. “Fine water, fine cattle, fine browse. I've a fine graveyard, too; thirty graves, and not one a woman's. Fine place for graves, the canyon country. You don't have to dig. There's one grave the Indians never named; it's three thousand feet deep.”
“Thet must be in hell,” replied Dene, with a smile, ignoring the covert meaning. He leisurely surveyed Naab's four sons, the wagons and horses, till his eye fell upon Hare and Mescal. With that he swung in his saddle as if to dismount.