s it mean?"

"I'm not sure. I think they are out there in the cedars, waiting."

"Waiting! For what?"

"Perhaps for a signal."

"Then they were expected?"

"I don't know; I only guess. We used to ride often to White Sage and
Lund; now we go seldom, and when we do there seem to be Navajos near
the camp at night, and riding the ridges by day. I believe Father Naab
knows."

"Your father's risking much for me. He's good. I wish I could show my
gratitude."

"I call him Father Naab, but he is not my father."

"A niece or granddaughter, then?"

"I'm no relation. Father Naab raised me in his family. My mother was a
Navajo, my father a Spaniard."

"Why!" exclaimed Hare. "When you came out of the wagon I took you for
an Indian girl. But the moment you spoke--you talk so well--no one would
dream--"

"Mormons are well educated and teach the children they raise," she said,
as he paused in embarrassment.

He wanted to ask if she were a Mormon by religion, but the question
seemed curious and unnecessary. His interest was aroused; he realized
suddenly that he had found pleasure in her low voice; it was new and
strange, unlike any woman's voice he had ever heard; and he regarded
her closely. He had only time for a glance at her straight, clean-cut
profile, when she turned startled eyes on him, eyes black as the night.
And they were eyes that looked through and beyond him. She held up a
hand, slowly bent toward the wind, and whispered:

"Listen."

Hare heard nothing save the barking of coyotes and the breeze in the
sage. He saw, however, the men rise from round the camp-fire to face the
north, and the women climb into the wagon, and close the canvas flaps.
And he prepared himself, with what fortitude he could command for the
approach of the outlaws. He waited, straining to catch a sound. His
heart throbbed audibly, like a muffled drum, and for an endless moment
his ears seemed deadened to aught else. Then a stronger puff of wind
whipped in, banging the rhythmic beat of flying hoofs. Suspense ended.
Hare felt the easing of a weight upon him. Whatever was to be his fate,
it would be soon decided. The sound grew into a clattering roar. A black
mass hurled itself over the border of opaque circle, plunged into the
light, and halted.

August Naab deliberately threw a bundle of grease-wood upon the
camp-fire. A blaze leaped up, sending abroad a red flare. "Who comes?"
he called.

"Friends, Mormons, friends," was the answe