Hare slipped to the bush, drew in a deep long breath that stilled his agitation, and peered over the cliff.  The crude shingles of the cabin first rose into sight; then beyond he saw the corral with a number of shaggy mustangs and a great gray horse.  Hare stared blankly.  As in a dream he saw the proud arch of a splendid neck, the graceful wave of a white-crested mane.

“Silvermane! . . .  My God!” he gasped, suddenly.  “They caught him—­after all!”

He fell backward upon the cliff and lay there with hands clinching his rifle, shudderingly conscious of a blow, trying to comprehend its meaning.

“Silvermane! . . . they caught him—­after all!” he kept repeating; then in a flash of agonized understanding he whispered:  “Mescal . . .  Mescal!”

He rolled upon his face, shutting out the blue sky; his body stretched stiff as a bent spring released from its compress, and his nails dented the stock of his rifle.  Then this rigidity softened to sobs that shook him from head to foot.  He sat up, haggard and wild-eyed.

Silvermane had been captured, probably by rustlers waiting at the western edge of the sand-strip.  Mescal had fallen into the hands of Snap Naab.  But Mescal was surely alive and Snap was there to be killed; his long career of unrestrained cruelty was in its last day—­something told Hare that this thing must and should be.  The stern deliberation of his intent to kill Holderness, the passion of his purpose to pay his debt to August Naab, were as nothing compared to the gathering might of this new resolve; suddenly he felt free and strong as an untamed lion broken free from his captors.

From the cover of the bush he peered again over the cliff.  The cabin with its closed door facing him was scarcely two hundred feet down from his hiding-place.  One of the rustlers sang as he bent over the camp-fire and raked the coals around the pots; others lounged on a bench waiting for breakfast; some rolled out of their blankets; they stretched and yawned, and pulling on their boots made for the spring.  The last man to rise was Snap Naab, and he had slept with his head on the threshold of the door.  Evidently Snap had made Mescal a prisoner in the cabin, and no one could go in or out without stepping upon him.  The rustler-foreman of Holderness’s company had slept with his belt containing two Colts, nor had he removed his boots.  Hare noted these details with grim humor.  Now the tall Holderness, face shining, gold-red beard agleam, rounded the cabin whistling.  Hare watched the rustlers sit down to breakfast, and here and there caught a loud-spoken word, and marked their leisurely care-free manner.  Snap Naab took up a pan of food and a cup of coffee, carried them into the cabin, and came out, shutting the door.