he
rainbow."

"Well, this is the country for rainbows," laughed Withers. "In summer
from June to August when it storms we have rainbows that'll make you
think you're in another world. The Navajos have rainbow mountains,
rainbow canyons, rainbow bridges of stone, rainbow trails. It sure is
rainbow country."

That deep and mystic chord in Shefford thrilled. Here it was
again--something tangible at the bottom of his dream.

Withers did not wait for Shefford to say any more, and almost as if
he read his visitor's mind he began to talk about the wild country he
called home.

He had lived at Kayenta for several years--hard and profitless years by
reason of marauding outlaws. He could not have lived there at all but
for the protection of the Indians. His father-in-law had been friendly
with the Navajos and Piutes for many years, and his wife had been
brought up among them. She was held in peculiar reverence and affection
by both tribes in that part of the country. Probably she knew more of
the Indians' habits, religion, and life than any white person in the
West. Both tribes were friendly and peaceable, but there were bad
Indians, half-breeds, and outlaws that made the trading-post a venture
Withers had long considered precarious, and he wanted to move and
intended to some day. His nearest neighbors in New Mexico and Colorado
were a hundred miles distant and at some seasons the roads were
impassable. To the north, however, twenty miles or so, was situated a
Mormon village named Stonebridge. It lay across the Utah line. Withers
did some business with this village, but scarcely enough to warrant
the risks he had to run. During the last year he had lost several
pack-trains, one of which he had never heard of after it left
Stonebridge.

"Stonebridge!" exclaimed Shefford, and he trembled. He had heard that
name. In his memory it had a place beside the name of another village
Shefford longed to speak of to this trader.

"Yes--Stonebridge," replied Withers. "Ever heard the name?"

"I think so. Are there other villages in--in that part of the country?"

"A few, but not close. Glaze is now only a water-hole. Bluff and
Monticello are far north across the San Juan.... There used to be
another village--but that wouldn't interest you."

"Maybe it would," replied Shefford, quietly.

But his hint was not taken by the trader. Withers suddenly showed a
semblance of the aloofness Shefford had observed in Whisner.

"Withers, pardo