“Cut him loose from the others,” said Hare. He scrutinized the line of rustlers. Several were masked in black. “Take off those masks!” “No! Those men go to their graves masked.” Again the strange twinge of pain crossed John Caldwell's face. “Ah, I see,” exclaimed Hare. Then quickly: “I couldn't recognize the other man anyhow; I don't know him. But Mescal can tell. He saved her and I'll save him. But how?” Every rustler, except the masked ones standing stern and silent, clamored that he was the one to be saved. “Hurry back home,” said Caldwell in Hare's ear. “Tell them to fetch Mescal. Find out and hurry back. Time presses. The Mormons are wavering. You've got only a few minutes.” Hare slipped out of the crowd, sped up the road, jumped the fence on the run, and burst in upon the Bishop and his family. “No danger--don't be alarmed--all's well,” he panted. “The rustlers are captured. I want Mescal. Quick! Where is she? Fetch her, somebody.” One of the women glided from the room. Hare caught the clicking of a latch, the closing of a door, hollow footfalls descending on stone, and dying away under the cottage. They rose again, ending in swiftly pattering footsteps. Like a whirlwind Mescal came through the hall, black hair flying, dark eyes beaming. “My darling!” Oblivious of the Mormons he swung her up and held her in his arms. “Mescal! Mescal!” When he raised his face from the tumbling mass of her black hair, the Bishop and his family had left the room. “Listen, Mescal. Be calm. I'm safe. The rustlers are prisoners. One of them released you from Holderness. Tell me which one?” “I don't know,” replied Mescal. “I've tried to think. I didn't see his face; I can't remember his voice.” “Think! Think! He'll be hanged if you don't recall something to identify him. He deserves a chance. Holderness's crowd are thieves, murderers. But two were not all bad. That showed the night you were at Silver Cup. I saved Nebraska--” “Were you at Silver Cup? Jack!” “Hush! don't interrupt me. We must save this man who saved you. Think! Mescal! Think!” “Oh! I can't. What--how shall I remember?” “Something about him. Think of his coat, his sleeve. You must remember something. Did you see his hands?” “Yes, I did--when he was loosing the cords,” said Mescal, eagerly. “Long, strong fingers. I felt them too. He has a sharp rough wart on one hand, I don't know which. He wears a leather wristband.” “That's enough!” Hare bounded out upon the garden walk and raced back to the crowded square. The uneasy circle stirred and opened for him to enter. He stumbled over a pile of lassoes which had not been there when he left. The stony Mormons waited; the rustlers coughed and shifted their feet. John Caldwell turned a gray face. Hare bent over the three dead rustlers lying with Holderness, and after a moment of anxious scrutiny he rose to confront the line of prisoners. “Hold out your hands.”