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.

"I shore want a look around."

"Get down, get down," returned the Mormon. The deep voice, unwelcoming,
vibrant with an odd ring, would have struck a less suspicious man than
Dene. The outlaw wrung his leg back over the pommel, sagged in the
saddle, and appeared to be pondering the question. Plainly he was
uncertain of his ground. But his indecision was brief.

"Two-Spot, you look 'em over," he ordered.

The third horseman dismounted and went toward the wagons.

Hare, watching this scene, became conscious that his fear had intensified
with the recognition of Two-Spot as Chance, the outlaw whom he would not
soon forget. In his excitement he moved against Mescal and felt her
trembling violently.