eady been lame and tired. By the time he had put his horse away
twilight was everywhere except in the west. The Indian girl left her
pony in the corral and came like a shadow toward the house.

Shefford had difficulty in finding the foot of the stairway. He climbed
to enter a large loft, lighted by two lamps. Presbrey was there,
kneading biscuit dough in a pan.

"Make yourself comfortable," he said.

The huge loft was the shape of a half-octagon. A door opened upon the
valley side, and here, too, there were windows. How attractive the place
was in comparison with the impressions gained from the outside! The
furnishings consisted of Indian blankets on the floor, two beds, a
desk and table, several chairs and a couch, a gun-rack full of rifles,
innumerable silver-ornamented belts, bridles, and other Indian articles
upon the walls, and in one corner a wood-burning stove with teakettle
steaming, and a great cupboard with shelves packed full of canned foods.

Shefford leaned in the doorway and looked out. Beneath him on a roll of
blankets sat the Indian girl, silent and motionless. He wondered what
was in her mind, what she would do, how the trader would treat her. The
slope now was a long slant of sheeted moving shadows of sand. Dusk had
gathered in the valley. The bluffs loomed beyond. A pale star twinkled
above. Shefford suddenly became aware of the intense nature of the
stillness about him. Yet, as he listened to this silence, he heard
an intermittent and immeasurably low moan, a fitful, mournful murmur.
Assuredly it was only the wind. Nevertheless, it made his blood run
cold. It was a different wind from that which had made music under
the eaves of his Illinois home. This was a lonely, haunting wind, with
desert hunger in it, and more which he could not name. Shefford listened
to this spirit-brooding sound while he watched night envelop the valley.
How black, how thick the mantle! Yet it brought no comforting sense
of close-folded protection, of walls of soft sleep, of a home. Instead
there was the feeling of space, of emptiness, of an infinite hall down
which a mournful wind swept streams of murmuring sand.

"Well, grub's about ready," said Presbrey.

"Got any water?" asked Shefford.

"Sure. There in the bucket. It's rain-water. I have a tank here."

Shefford's sore and blistered face felt better after he had washed off
the sand and alkali dust.

"Better not wash your face often while you're in the desert. Bad