The words stung John Hare's fainting spirit into life.  He opened his
eyes.  The desert still stretched before him, the appalling thing that
had overpowered him with its deceiving purple distance.  Near by stood a
sombre group of men. 

"Leave him here," said one, addressing a gray-bearded giant.  "He's the
fellow sent into southern Utah to spy out the cattle thieves.  He's all
but dead.  Dene's outlaws are after him.  Don't cross Dene." 

The stately answer might have come from a Scottish Covenanter or a
follower of Cromwell. 

"Martin Cole, I will not go a hair's-breadth out of my way for Dene or
any other man.  You forget your religion.  I see my duty to God." 

"Yes, August Naab, I know," replied the little man, bitterly.  "You would
cast the Scriptures in my teeth, and liken this man to one who went down
from Jerusalem to Jericho and fell among thieves.  But I've suffered
enough at the hands of Dene."