p did."

"Was he drunk?"

"No. They came over to kill Hare." Dave went on to recount the incident
in full. "And--and see here, dad--that's not all. Snap's gone to the
bad."

Dave Naab hid his face while he told of his brother's treachery; the
others turned away, and Hare closed his eyes.

For long moments there was silence broken only by the tramp of the old
man as he strode heavily to and fro. At last the footsteps ceased, and
Hare opened his eyes to see Naab's tall form erect, his arms uplifted,
his shaggy head rigid.

"Hare," began August, presently. "I'm responsible for this cowardly
attack on you. I brought you out here. This is the second one. Beware of
the third! I see--but tell me, do you remember that I said you must meet
Snap as man to man?"

"Yes."

"Don't you want to live?"

"Of course."

"You hold to no Mormon creed?"

"Why, no," Hare replied, wonderingly.

"What was the reason I taught you my trick with a gun?"

"I suppose it was to help me to defend myself."

"Then why do you let yourself be shot down in cold blood? Why did you
hang up your gun? Why didn't you draw on Snap? Was it because of his
father, his brothers, his family?"

"Partly, but not altogether," replied Hare, slowly. "I didn't know
before what I know now. My flesh sickened at the thought of killing a
man, even to save my own life; and to kill--your son--"

"No son of mine!" thundered Naab. "Remember that when next you meet.
I don't want your blood on my hands. Don't stand to be killed like a
sheep! If you have felt duty to me, I release you."

Zeke finished bandaging the wound. Making a bed of blankets he lifted
Hare into it, and covered him, cautioning him to lie still. Hare had a
sensation of extreme lassitude, a deep drowsiness which permeated even
to his bones. There were intervals of oblivion, then a time when the
stars blinked in his eyes; he heard the wind, Silvermane's bell, the
murmur of voices, yet all seemed remote from him, intangible as things
in a dream.

He rode home next day, drooping in the saddle and fainting at the end of
the trail, with the strong arm of August Naab upholding him. His wound
was dressed and he was put to bed, where he lay sleeping most of the
time, brooding the rest.

In three weeks he was in the saddle again, riding out over the red strip
of desert toward the range. During his convalescence he had learned that
he had come to the sombre line of choice. Either he must deliberately