They let him pull their long ears and rub their noses, but the mustangs standing around were unapproachable. They had wild eyes; they raised long ears and looked vicious. He let them alone.

Evidently this trading-post was a great deal busier than Red Lake. Shefford counted a dozen Indians lounging outside, and there were others riding away. Big wagons told how the bags of wool were transported out of the wilds and how supplies were brought in. A wide, hard-packed road led off to the east, and another, not so clearly defined, wound away to the north. And Indian trails streaked off in all directions.

Shefford discovered, however, when he had walked off a mile or so across the valley to lose sight of the post, that the feeling of wildness and loneliness returned to him. It was a wonderful country. It held something for him besides the possible rescue of an imprisoned girl from a wild canyon.

. . . . . . . . . . .

That night after supper, when Withers and Shefford sat alone before the blazing logs in the huge fireplace, the trader laid his hand on Shefford’s and said, with directness and force:

“I’ve lived my life in the desert. I’ve met many men and have been a friend to most. . . . You’re no prospector or trader or missionary?”

“No,” replied Shefford.

“You’ve had trouble?”

“Yes.”

“Have you come in here to hide? Don’t be afraid to tell me. I won’t give you away.”

“I didn’t come to hide.”

“Then no one is after you? You’ve done no wrong?”

“Perhaps I wronged myself, but no one else,” replied Shefford, steadily.

“I reckoned so. Well, tell me, or keep your secret–it’s all one to me.”

Shefford felt a desire to unburden himself. This man was strong, persuasive, kindly. He drew Shefford.

“You’re welcome in Kayenta,” went on Withers. “Stay as long as you like. I take no pay from a white man. If you want work I have it aplenty.”

“Thank you. That is good.