The Little Colorado River, the vast promontory of Kishlipi, the giant steppes up to the Badlands, the weird and sinister rock formations stretching on to an awful blue gulf that was the Grand Cañon, the wondrous flat tablelands called mesas by the driver, the descent into glaring sandy Moencopi Wash, and up again, higher than ever, and on and on over leagues of desert, with black ranges beckoning—these successive stages of the ride claimed Cherry’s attention as had no other scenery in her experience.

She was not ready for the trading post. They had reached it too soon for her. It looked like one of the blocks of red rock they had passed so frequently. But near at hand it began to look more like a habitation. All about was sand, yellow and red and gray, and on the curved knife-edged ridge crests it was blowing like silver smoke. There were patches of green below the trading post, and beneath them a wide hollow, where columns of dust or sand whirled across the barren waste. Beyond, rose white-whorled cliffs, wonderful to see, and above them, far away, the black fringed top of an endless mesa.

“What do you think of it, Cherry?” Winters asked curiously.

“Now I understand why Stephen Heftral seemed such a square peg in a round hole, as my friends called him,” replied Cherry enigmatically.

“Humph! They don’t know him very well,” declared her father.

They were met at the door of the post by the trader, John Linn. He was carrying some Navajo rugs. His sombrero was tipped over one ear. He had a weather-beaten face, and was a middle-aged man of medium height, grizzled and desert-worn, with eyes that showed kindliness and good humor.

“Wal, heah you are,” he welcomed them, throwing down the rugs. “Reckon we wasn’t expectin’ you so soon. Get down an’ come in.”

Cherry entered the door, into what appeared to be a colorful and spacious living room. Here she encountered a large woman with sleeves rolled up, showing brown and capable arms. She beamed upon Cherry and bade her make herself “to home.” Then she joined the others outside, leaving Cherry alone.

She looked around with interest. The broad window seat, with windows opening to the desert view, appealed strongly to Cherry. Removing coat and hat, she sat down to rest and take stock of things.

The long room contained many Indian rugs, some of which adorned the walls. On a table lay scattered silver-ornamented belts, hatbands, and bridles. Over the wide fireplace mantel hung Indian plaques, and on top of the bookcase were articles of Indian design, beaded, and some primitive pottery. A burned-out fire smoldered on the hearth.

At this point Mrs. Linn came in, accompanied by the trader, and Winters, and a tall young man in khaki. Cherry had seen him somewhere. Indeed, it was Stephen Heftral. Brown-faced, roughly garbed, he fitted the desert environment decidedly to Cherry’s taste.

“Miss Winters, I reckon you don’t need no introduction to Stephen here,” announced Mrs. Linn, with a keen glance running over Cherry’s short French frock, sheer stockings, and high-heeled shoes.

“Stephen? Oh, you mean Mister Heftral.”

The young man bowed rather stiffly and stepped toward her.

“I hope you remember me, Miss Winters,” he said.

“I do, Mister Heftral,” Cherry replied graciously, offering her hand.

“It’s good to see you out here in my West. I really never believed you’d come, though your father vowed he’d fetch you.”

“Well, Dad succeeded, though I can’t understand it,” rejoined Cherry, laughing.

“Mister Winters, did you-all have a nice trip out?” asked Mrs. Linn.

“I did. My daughter’s rather doubtful yet, I fear.”

“Now, isn’t that too bad, Miss Winters,” sympathized the genial woman. “I saw right off how pale you are. You’ll get your health back in this desert.”

“My health!” exclaimed Cherry almost indignantly. “Why, I’m absurdly healthy.