sky, and for a long time he neither spoke nor stirred. At length he
turned to the camp-fire; he raked out red coals, and placed the iron pots
in position, by way of assistance to the women who were preparing the
evening meal.

A cool wind blew in from the desert, rustling the sage, sifting the sand,
fanning the dull coals to burning opals. Twilight failed and night fell;
one by one great stars shone out, cold and bright. From the zone of
blackness surrounding the camp burst the short bark, the hungry whine,
the long-drawn-out wail of desert wolves.

"Supper, sons," called Naab, as he replenished the fire with an armful of
grease-wood.

Naab's sons had his stature, though not his bulk. They were wiry, rangy
men, young, yet somehow old. The desert had multiplied their years.
Hare could not have told one face from another, the bronze skin and steel
eye and hard line of each were so alike. The women, one middle-aged, the
others young, were of comely, serious aspect.

"Mescal," called the Mormon.

A slender girl slipped from one of the covered wagons; she was dark,
supple, straight as an Indian.

August Naab dropped to his knees, and, as the members of his family bowed
their heads, he extended his hands over them and over the food laid on
the ground.

"Lord, we kneel in humble thanksgiving. Bless this food to our use.