“No. Not yet. I'm glad you found her. I never knew her to be so happy, not even when she was a child. But somehow there's a better feeling between her and my womenfolk. The old antagonism is gone. Well, well, life is so. I pray that things may turn out well for you and her. But I fear--I seem to see--Hare, I'm a poor man once more. I can't do for you what I'd like. Still we'll see, we'll hope.” Hare was perfectly happy. The old Mormon's hint did not disturb him; even the thought of Snap Naab did not return to trouble his contentment. The full present was sufficient for Hare, and his joy bubbled over, bringing smiles to August's grave face. Never had a summer afternoon in the oasis been so fair. The green fields, the red walls, the blue sky, all seemed drenched in deeper, richer hues. The wind-song in the crags, the river-murmur from the canyon, filled Hare's ears with music. To be alive, to feel the sun, to see the colors, to hear the sounds, was beautiful; and to know that Mescal awaited him, was enough. Work on the washed-out bank of the ditch had not gone far when Naab raised his head as if listening. “Did you hear anything?” he asked. “No,” replied Hare. “The roar of the river is heavy here. Maybe I was mistaken. I thought I heard shots.” Then he went on spading clay into the break, but he stopped every moment or so, uneasily, as if he could not get rid of some disturbing thought. Suddenly he dropped the spade and his eyes flashed. “Judith! Judith! Here!” he called. Wheeling with a sudden premonition of evil Hare saw the girl running along the wall toward them. Her face was white as death; she wrung her hands and her cries rose above the sound of the river. Naab sprang toward her and Hare ran at his heels. “Father!-- Father!” she panted. “Come--quick--the rustlers!--the rustlers! Snap!--Dene--Oh--hurry! They've killed Dave--they've got Mescal!” Death itself shuddered through Hare's veins and then a raging flood of fire. He bounded forward to be flung back by Naab's arm. “Fool! Would you throw away your life? Go slowly. We'll slip through the fields, under the trees.” Sick and cold Hare hurried by Naab's side round the wall and into the alfalfa. There were moments when he was weak and trembling; others when he could have leaped like a tiger to rend and kill. They left the fields and went on more cautiously into the grove. The screaming and wailing of women added certainty to their doubt and dread. “I see only the women--the children--no--there's a man--Zeke,” said Hare, bending low to gaze under the branches. “Go slow,” muttered Naab. “The rustlers rode off--after Mescal--she's gone!” panted Judith. Hare, spurred by the possibilities in the half-crazed girl's speech, cast caution to the winds and dashed forward into the glade. Naab's heavy steps thudded behind him.