dark storm-clouds.

Hare was the last of the riders to be driven off the mountain. The
brothers were waiting for him at Silver Cup, and they at once packed and
started for home.

August Naab listened to the details of the range-riding since his
absence, with silent surprise. Holderness and Snap had kept away from
Silver Cup after the supposed killing of Hare. Occasionally a group of
horsemen rode across the valley or up a trail within sight of Dave and
his followers, but there was never a meeting. Not a steer had been
driven off the range that summer and fall; and except for the menace
always hanging in the blue smoke over Seeping Springs the range-riding
had passed without unusual incident.

So for Hare the months had gone by swiftly; though when he looked back
afterward they seemed years. The winter at the oasis he filled as best
he could, with the children playing in the yard, with Silvermane under
the sunny lee of the great red wall, with any work that offered itself.
It was during the long evenings, when he could not be active, that time
oppressed him, and the memories of the past hurt him. A glimpse of the
red sunset through the cliff-gate toward the west would start the train
of thought; he both loved and hated the Painted Desert. Mescal was there
in the purple shadows. He dreamed of her in the glowing embers of the
log-fire. He saw her on Black Bolly with hair flying free to the wind.
And he could not shut out the picture of her sitting in the corner of the
room, silent, with bowed head, while the man to whom she was pledged hung
close over her. That memory had a sting. It was like a spark of fire
dropped on the wound in his breast where the desert-hawk had struck him.
It was like a light gleaming on the sombre line he was waiting to cross.