To the south he could see the familiar waterhole and farther on, the entrance to the canyon, fringed with cedars and pines.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, “and a grand God to have it so!”

Then a shadow crossed his face, and he spoke again out loud as was his habit now.

“I guess it’s worth the lonely days and discouragement, just to be alone with a wonderful Father like mine!”

He’d just come from a three-day trip with another missionary whose station was two days by horseback from his own. A sweet woman, who’d recently come from the East to share that man’s fortunes, presided over the cheerful home. She’d prepared a delicious dinner for her husband and his guests, made the three-room shack comfortable and added the warm touches of a woman’s hand.

All these filled Brownleigh with a noble envy; not until this visit had he realized how lonely his life was. But he was busy from morning till night and more enthusiastic about his work now than nearly three years ago when the board sent him to minister to the Indians’ needs. He had many friends in the region, whether white man, trader, or Indian, and was always welcome in their homes.

He’d come now to visit an Indian hogan where the shadow of death was lingering over a little maiden beloved by her father. He was weary from spending long days in the saddle. But the young girl smiled when she saw him. And death’s dark valley seemed more like her own flower-filled canyon leading to a brighter day, when she heard the message of life he brought her.

But as he looked over the long trail and thought of the home where he dined the day before, the sadness stayed.

“It would be good to have somebody like that,” he said out loud again, “somebody to expect me and be happy I’ve come. But then—I suppose not many girls are willing to give up their homes and go out to rough it as she’s done. It’s a hard life for a woman—for that kind of woman! And I wouldn’t want any other kind!”

His eyes grew large with wistfulness. A cheerful man, John Brownleigh didn’t often stop to think about his life. His heart was in his work. He could turn his hand to anything, and there was always plenty to be done. Yet today, for the first time since plunging into the work and outgrowing his first homesickness, he was hungry for companionship. He’d seen a light in his fellow missionary’s eyes that revealed the comfort and joy he was missing, and it struck deep into his heart. So he stopped on the mesa, with the vast panorama of the desert before him, to have it out with himself.

The horse breathed slowly, dropping his head and closing his eyes, and the man sat thinking, trying to fill his soul with the beauty of the desert and crowd out the longings that had pressed upon him.

Then he raised his head and said quietly, “Lord, You know what this loneliness is. You were lonely, too. It’s the way You chose. I’ll walk with You, and it will be good!”

He sat for a moment with his face toward the sky, until his features were touched with a tender light, changing sadness into peace. Then with his old cheerfulness he turned to the matters at hand.

“Billy, it’s time we’re getting on,” he told his horse. “We’re due at the fort tonight if we can make it. We had too much vacation, and now we’re spoiled and lazy. But we have to get to work. How about it? Can we make it to that waterhole in half an hour? Let’s try, old fellow, and then we’ll have a good drink, a bite to eat, and maybe ten minutes for a nap before we take the short trail home. You have some of that corn chop left, so hustle up, old boy, and get there.”

With a snort Billy responded to his master’s words and carefully picked his way over boulders and rocks down to the valley below.

But within a half mile of the waterhole, the young man halted his horse and dismounted. Something gleaming in the sand beside a tall yucca had caught his eye and held his attention. It might only be a bit of broken glass from an empty flask flung carelessly aside, but he must see.

He stooped down as the sun glanced off a bit of bright gold on the handle of a riding whip. Picking it up, he turned it in his hand. How did the whip get there? he wondered. It had to belong to a woman and a wealthy one at that, as far removed from this scene as possible, for the people of that region didn’t carry such dainty whips.