A Navajo whom Hare remembered stared with axe idle by the woodpile, then Judith Naab dropped a bundle of sticks and with a cry of gladness ran from the house. Before Silvermane had come to a full stop Mescal was off. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him, then she left Judith to dart to the corral where a little black mustang had begun to whistle and stamp and try to climb over the bars. August Naab, bareheaded, with shaggy locks shaking at every step, strode off the porch and his great hands lifted Hare from the saddle. “Every day I've watched the river for you,” he said. His eyes were warm and his grasp like a vise. “Mescal--child!” he continued, as she came running to him. “Safe and well. He's brought you back. Thank the Lord!” He took her to his breast and bent his gray head over her. Then the crowd of big and little Naabs burst from the house and came under the cottonwoods to offer noisy welcome to Mescal and Hare. “Jack, you look done up,” said Dave Naab solicitously, when the first greetings had been spoken, and Mother Ruth had led Mescal indoors. “Silvermane, too--he's wet and winded. He's been running?” “Yes, a little,” replied Hare, as he removed the saddle from the weary horse. “Ah! What's this?” questioned August Naab, with his hand on Silvermane's flank. He touched a raw groove, and the stallion flinched. “Hare, a bullet made that!” “Yes.” “Then you didn't ride in by the Navajo crossing?” “No. I came by Silver Cup.” “Silver Cup? How on earth did you get down there?” “We climbed out of the canyon up over Coconina, and so made the spring.” Naab whistled in surprise and he flashed another keen glance over Hare and his horse. “Your story can wait. I know about what it is--after you reached Silver Cup. Come in, come in, Dave will look out for the stallion.” But Hare would allow no one else to attend to Silvermane. He rubbed the tired gray, gave him a drink at the trough, led him to the corral, and took leave of him with a caress like Mescal's. Then he went to his room and bathed himself and changed his clothes, afterward presenting himself at the supper-table to eat like one famished. Mescal and he ate alone, as they had been too late for the regular hour. The women-folk waited upon them as if they could not do enough. There were pleasant words and smiles; but in spite of them something sombre attended the meal. There was a shadow in each face, each step was slow, each voice subdued. Naab and his sons were waiting for Hare when he entered the sitting room, and after his entrance the door was closed. They were all quiet and stern, especially the father. “Tell us all,” said Naab, simply. While Hare was telling his adventures not a word or a move interrupted him till he spoke of Silvermane's running Dene down. “That's the second time!” rolled out Naab. “The stallion will kill him yet!” Hare finished his story.