This Fay Larkin I’ve heard of MIGHT be your Fay Larkin–I almost believe so. Shefford, I’ll help you find out.”

“Yes, yes–I must know,” replied Shefford. “Oh, I hope, I pray we can find her! But–I’d rather she was dead–if she’s not still hidden in the valley.”

“Naturally. You’ve dreamed yourself into rescuing this lost Fay Larkin. . . . But, Shefford, you’re old enough to know life doesn’t work out as you want it to. One way or another I fear you’re in for a bitter disappointment.”

“Withers, take me to the village.”

“Shefford, you’re liable to get in bad out here,” said the trader, gravely.

“I couldn’t be any more ruined than I am now,” replied Shefford, passionately.

“But there’s risk in this–risk such as you never had,” persisted Withers.

“I’ll risk anything.”

“Reckon this is a funny deal for a sheep-trader to have on his hands,” continued Withers. “Shefford, I like you. I’ve a mind to see you through this. It’s a damn strange story. . . . I’ll tell you what–I will help you. I’ll give you a job packing supplies in to the village. I meant to turn that over to a Mormon cowboy–Joe Lake. The job shall be yours, and I’ll go with you first trip. Here’s my hand on it. . . . Now, Shefford, I’m more curious about you than I was before you told your story. What ruined you? As we’re to be partners, you can tell me now. I’ll keep your secret. Maybe I can do you good.”

Shefford wanted to confess, yet it was hard. Perhaps, had he not been so agitated, he would not have answered to impulse. But this trader was a man–a man of the desert–he would understand.

“I told you I was a clergyman,” said Shefford in low voice. “I didn’t want to be one, but they made me one. I did my best. I failed.