He was satisfied, however, after examining the ground for some distance either way, that only one horse passed. He concluded this by certain things he saw or didn’t see.

As he was turning back to his cabin he stopped again, exclaiming, for at his feet, half hidden under a bit of sage, lay a small shell comb. He stooped and picked it up.

“I declare—I have quite a collection now,” he said aloud. “Are there any more? With all these clues I may find her after all.”

He searched the ground for several rods ahead, then went back and took a slightly different direction. He searched again and again, looking back each time to the direction where he found the whip, arguing that the horse must have taken a fairly straight line at a rapid pace.

He was rewarded at last by finding two shell hairpins and near them a single hoofprint that, sheltered by a heavy growth of sage, had escaped the wind’s effects. This he knelt and studied carefully, taking in size, shape, and direction. Then, finding no more hairpins or combs, he carefully put his loot in his pocket and hurried back to the cabin, his brow furrowed.

“Father, is this Your leading?” he asked, pausing at the door. Then he opened it and stepped inside. The restful atmosphere beckoned to him.

A wide fireplace stood at one end of the room with the wood ready for the strike of a match and the pleasant blaze that would dispel the loneliness of the place. An easy chair, his one luxury, with its leather cushions and reclining back; his slippers on the floor close by; the small table with its well-trimmed lamp, his college paper, and a magazine still unopened—all spoke of rest. The magazine kept him in touch with the world and had arrived just before he left on his recent trip.

Yet when he laid the whip on the magazine, the slanting ray of sun through the open door captured the glory of the topaz, and somehow the magazine lost its power to hold him. One by one he laid the womanly items down beside the whip—the velvet cap, the comb, and the hairpins—and then stepped back, startled, glancing about his bachelor cabin.

It was more pleasant inside than its weather-stained exterior would lead one to suppose. A Navajo blanket hung on one wall above the bed, and another covered the bed, adding color to the room and an air of luxury. Two rugs of Indian craftsmanship lay on the floor, one in front of the bed, the other before the fireplace, and hid the ugly floor’s discrepancies.

A rough set of shelves at the side of the fireplace held treasures from great minds, all his well-loved books he could bring with him: a few commentaries, an encyclopedia, a biography, a few classics, books on botany, biology, and astronomy, and a much-worn Bible. On the wall above was a large card catalog of Indian words, and on the other walls some of his own pencil drawings of plants and animals were displayed. At the opposite end of the room from the bed was a table covered with a white oilcloth, and the cupboard on the wall behind it held his dishes and provisions. A crude closet against the wall contained his clothes, trunk, and other supplies.

Everything was pleasant and neat. He liked to leave his cabin in order in case someone entered during his absence or came back with him. And he found it more pleasant to return to it that way.

He looked about it now and then let his eyes travel back to those feminine articles on the table beside him. It gave him a strange sensation. What if they belonged there? What if their owner lived there and was coming inside in a minute to meet him? How would it seem? What would she be like? He reached out and touched the velvet cap and then took it in his hand and smoothed its surface. A faint perfume from another world seemed to steal from its texture and linger on his hands. He drew a breath of wonder and laid it down.

Then with a start he came to himself. Suppose she did belong and was outside somewhere. Suppose something had happened to her—the horse ran away or threw her, or she might have strayed from camp and lost her way or been frightened?

These might be foolish fantasies of a weary brain, but the man knew he couldn’t rest until he’d at least tried to find out. He sank down in the big chair for a moment to think it out and closed his eyes, making swift plans.

Billy must rest first; a tired horse would accomplish little if the journey was far and haste was needed. He’d wait an hour and meanwhile make preparations. He must repack the saddlebags with feed for Billy, food for himself and a possible stranger, and a simple remedy or two in case of an accident. He always took these with him on long journeys. He considered taking his camping tent, but that would mean the wagon, too, and would slow them down.