t I must tell you I was
the cause of Mr. Willetts leaving," replied Shefford.

"How so?" inquired the other.

Then Shefford related the incident following his arrival.

"Perhaps my action was hasty," he concluded, apologetically. "I didn't
think. Indeed, I'm surprised at myself."

Presbrey made no comment and his face was as hard to read as one of the
distant bluffs.

"But what did the man mean?" asked Shefford, conscious of a little
heat. "I'm a stranger out here. I'm ignorant of Indians--how they're
controlled. Still I'm no fool.... If Willetts didn't mean evil, at least
he was brutal."

"He was teaching her religion," replied Presbrey. His tone held faint
scorn and implied a joke, but his face did not change in the slightest.

Without understanding just why, Shefford felt his conviction justified
and his action approved. Then he was sensible of a slight shock of
wonder and disgust.

"I am--I was a minister of the Gospel," he said to Presbrey. "What you
hint seems impossible. I can't believe it."

"I didn't hint," replied Presbrey, bluntly, and it was evident that
he was a sincere, but close-mouthed, man. "Shefford, so you're a
preacher?... Did you come out here to try to convert the Indians?"

"No. I said I WAS a minister. I am no longer. I'm just a--a wanderer."

"I see. Well, the desert's no place for missionaries, but it's good for
wanderers.... Go water your horse and take him up to the corral. You'll
find some hay for him. I'll get grub ready."

Shefford went on with his horse to the pool. The water appeared thick,
green, murky, and there was a line of salty crust extending around the
margin of the pool. The thirsty horse splashed in and eagerly bent his
head. But he did not like the taste. Many times he refused to drink, yet
always lowered his nose again. Finally he drank, though not his fill.
Shefford saw the Indian girl drink from her hand. He scooped up a
handful and found it too sour to swallow. When he turned to retrace his
steps she mounted her pony and followed him.

A golden flare lit up the western sky, and silhouetted dark and lonely
against it stood the trading-post. Upon his return Shefford found the
wind rising, and it chilled him. When he reached the slope thin gray
sheets of sand were blowing low, rising, whipping, falling, sweeping
along with soft silken rustle. Sometimes the gray veils hid his boots.
It was a long, toilsome climb up that yielding, dragging ascent, and he
had alr