y, if you don't want the house burned!'

"Dave drew and Holderness fired from behind the men. Dave fell, raised
up and shot Chance and Culver, then dropped his gun.

"With that the women in the house began to scream, and Mescal ran out
saying she'd go with Snap if they'd do no more harm.

"'All right,' said Snap, 'get a horse, hurry--hurry!'

"Then Dene dismounted and went toward the corral saying, 'I shore want
Silvermane.'

"Mescal reached the gate ahead of Dene. 'Let me get Silvermane. He's
wild; he doesn't know you; he'll kick you if you go near him.' She
dropped the bars and went up to the horse. He was rearing and snorting.
She coaxed him down and then stepped up on the fence to untie him. When
she had him loose she leaped off the fence to his back, screaming as
she hit him with the halter. Silvermane snorted and jumped, and in
three jumps he was going like a bullet. Dene tried to stop him, and was
knocked twenty feet. He was raising up when the stallion ran over him.
He never moved again. Once in the lane Silvermane got going--Lord! how
he did run! Mescal hung low over his neck like an Indian. He was gone
in a cloud of dust before Snap and the rustlers knew what had happened.
Snap came to first and, yelling and waving his gun, spurred down the
lane. The rest of the rustlers galloped after him."

August Naab placed a sympathetic hand on Hare's shaking shoulder.

"You see, lad, things are never so bad as they seem at first. Snap might
as well try to catch a bird as Silvermane."

XVIII. THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT

"MESCAL'S far out in front by this time. Depend on it, Hare," went on
Naab. "That trick was the cunning Indian of her. She'll ride Silvermane
into White Sage to-morrow night. Then she'll hide from Snap. The Bishop
will take care of her. She'll be safe for the present in White Sage. Now
we must bury these men. To-morrow--my son. Then--"

"What then?" Hare straightened up.

Unutterable pain darkened the flame in the Mormon's gaze. For an instant
his face worked spasmodically, only to stiffen into a stony mask. It
was the old conflict once more, the never-ending war between flesh and
spirit. And now the flesh had prevailed.

"The time has come!" said George Naab.

"Yes," replied his father, harshly.

A great calm settled over Hare; his blood ceased to race, his mind to
riot; in August Naab's momentous word he knew the old man had found
himself. At last he had learned the lesson of the