he were handling an empty grain-sack.

Hare suddenly darted after him. "August! August!--look! look!" he
cried. He pointed a shaking finger down the square. The old Bishop came
tottering over the grass, leaning on his cane, shading his eyes with his
hand. "August. See, the Bishop's coming. Paul's father! Do you hear?"

Hare's appeal pierced Naab's frenzied brain. The Mormon Elder saw
his old Bishop pause and stare at the dark shapes suspended from the
cottonwoods and hold up his hands in horror.

Naab loosed his hold. His frame seemed wrenched as though by the passing
of an evil spirit, and the reaction left his face transfigured.

"Paul, it's your father, the Bishop," he said, brokenly. "Be a man. He
must never know." Naab spread wide his arms to the crowd. "Men, listen,"
he said. "Of all of us Mormons I have lost most, suffered most. Then
hear me. Bishop Caldwell must never know of his son's guilt. He would
sink under it. Keep the secret. Paul will be a man again. I know. I see.
For, Mormons, August Naab has the gift of revelation!"

XXI. MESCAL

SUMMER gleams of golden sunshine swam under the glistening red walls
of the oasis. Shadows from white clouds, like sails on a deep-blue sea,
darkened the broad fields of alfalfa. Circling columns of smoke were
wafted far above the cottonwoods and floated in the still air. The
desert-red color of Navajo blankets brightened the grove.

Half-naked bronze Indians lolled in the shade, lounged on the cabin
porches and stood about the sunny glade in idle groups. They wore the
dress of peace. A single black-tipped white eagle feather waved above
the band binding each black head. They watched the merry children tumble
round the playground. Silvermane browsed where he listed under the shady
trees, and many a sinewy red hand caressed his flowing mane. Black Bolly
neighed her jealous displeasure from the corral, and the other mustangs
trampled and kicked and whistled defiance across the bars. The peacocks
preened their gorgeous plumage and uttered their clarion calls. The
belligerent turkey-gobblers sidled about ruffling their feathers. The
blackbirds and swallows sang and twittered their happiness to find old
nests in the branches and under the eaves. Over all boomed the dull roar
of the Colorado in flood.

It was the morning of Mescal's wedding-day.

August Naab, for once without a task, sat astride a peeled log of
driftwood in the lane, and Hare stood beside him.