“I'm sorry to say—no, I'm not sorry, either—but I must tell you I was the cause of Mr. Willetts leaving,” replied Shefford.
“How so?” inquired the other.
Then Shefford related the incident following his arrival.
“Perhaps my action was hasty,” he concluded, apologetically. “I didn't think. Indeed, I'm surprised at myself.”
Presbrey made no comment and his face was as hard to read as one of the distant bluffs.
“But what did the man mean?” asked Shefford, conscious of a little heat. “I'm a stranger out here. I'm ignorant of Indians—how they're controlled. Still I'm no fool. … If Willetts didn't mean evil, at least he was brutal.”
“He was teaching her religion,” replied Presbrey. His tone held faint scorn and implied a joke, but his face did not change in the slightest.
Without understanding just why, Shefford felt his conviction justified and his action approved. Then he was sensible of a slight shock of wonder and disgust.
“I am—I was a minister of the Gospel,” he said to Presbrey. “What you hint seems impossible. I can't believe it.”
“I didn't hint,” replied Presbrey, bluntly, and it was evident that he was a sincere, but close-mouthed, man. “Shefford, so you're a preacher? … Did you come out here to try to convert the Indians?”
“No. I said I WAS a minister. I am no longer. I'm just a—a wanderer.”
“I see. Well, the desert's no place for missionaries, but it's good for wanderers. … Go water your horse and take him up to the corral. You'll find some hay for him. I'll get grub ready.”
Shefford went on with his horse to the pool. The water appeared thick, green, murky, and there was a line of salty crust extending around the margin of the pool. The thirsty horse splashed in and eagerly bent his head. But he did not like the taste. Many times he refused to drink, yet always lowered his nose again. Finally he drank, though not his fill. Shefford saw the Indian girl drink from her hand. He scooped up a handful and found it too sour to swallow. When he turned to retrace his steps she mounted her pony and followed him.
A golden flare lit up the western sky, and silhouetted dark and lonely against it stood the trading-post. Upon his return Shefford found the wind rising, and it chilled him. When he reached the slope thin gray sheets of sand were blowing low, rising, whipping, falling, sweeping along with soft silken rustle. Sometimes the gray veils hid his boots. It was a long, toilsome climb up that yielding, dragging ascent, and he had already been lame and tired. By the time he had put his horse away twilight was everywhere except in the west. The Indian girl left her pony in the corral and came like a shadow toward the house.
Shefford had difficulty in finding the foot of the stairway. He climbed to enter a large loft, lighted by two lamps. Presbrey was there, kneading biscuit dough in a pan.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said.
The huge loft was the shape of a half-octagon. A door opened upon the valley side, and here, too, there were windows. How attractive the place was in comparison with the impressions gained from the outside! The furnishings consisted of Indian blankets on the floor, two beds, a desk and table, several chairs and a couch, a gun-rack full of rifles, innumerable silver-ornamented belts, bridles, and other Indian articles upon the walls, and in one corner a wood-burning stove with teakettle steaming, and a great cupboard with shelves packed full of canned foods.
Shefford leaned in the doorway and looked out. Beneath him on a roll of blankets sat the Indian girl, silent and motionless. He wondered what was in her mind, what she would do, how the trader would treat her. The slope now was a long slant of sheeted moving shadows of sand. Dusk had gathered in the valley. The bluffs loomed beyond. A pale star twinkled above. Shefford suddenly became aware of the intense nature of the stillness about him. Yet, as he listened to this silence, he heard an intermittent and immeasurably low moan, a fitful, mournful murmur. Assuredly it was only the wind. Nevertheless, it made his blood run cold. It was a different wind from that which had made music under the eaves of his Illinois home. This was a lonely, haunting wind, with desert hunger in it, and more which he could not name. Shefford listened to this spirit-brooding sound while he watched night envelop the valley. How black, how thick the mantle! Yet it brought no comforting sense of close-folded protection, of walls of soft sleep, of a home. Instead there was the feeling of space, of emptiness, of an infinite hall down which a mournful wind swept streams of murmuring sand.
“Well, grub's about ready,” said Presbrey.
“Got any water?” asked Shefford.
“Sure. There in the bucket. It's rain-water. I have a tank here.”
Shefford's sore and blistered face felt better after he had washed off the sand and alkali dust.
“Better not wash your face often while you're in the desert. Bad plan,” went on Presbrey, noting how gingerly his visitor had gone about his ablutions. “Well, come and eat.”
Shefford marked that if the trader did live a lonely life he fared well. There was more on the table than twice two men could have eaten. It was the first time in four days that Shefford had sat at a table, and he made up for lost opportunity.
His host's actions indicated pleasure, yet the strange, hard face never relaxed, never changed. When the meal was finished Presbrey declined assistance, had a generous thought of the Indian girl, who, he said, could have a place to eat and sleep down-stairs, and then with the skill and despatch of an accomplished housewife cleared the table, after which work he filled a pipe and evidently prepared to listen.
It took only one question for Shefford to find that the trader was starved for news of the outside world; and for an hour Shefford fed that appetite, even as he had been done by. But when he had talked himself out there seemed indication of Presbrey being more than a good listener.
“How'd you come in?” he asked, presently.
“By Flagstaff—across the Little Colorado—and through Moencopie.”
“Did you stop at Moen Ave?”
“No. What place is that?”
“A missionary lives there. Did you stop at Tuba?”
“Only long enough to drink and water my horse. That was a wonderful spring for the desert.”
“You said you were a wanderer. … Do you want a job? I'll give you one.”
“No, thank you, Presbrey.”
“I saw your pack. That's no pack to travel with in this country. Your horse won't last, either. Have you any money?”
“Yes, plenty of money.”
“Well, that's good. Not that a white man out here would ever take a dollar from you. But you can buy from the Indians as you go. Where are you making for, anyhow?”
Shefford hesitated, debating in mind whether to tell his purpose or not. His host did not press the question.
“I see. Just foot-loose and wandering around,” went on Presbrey. “I can understand how the desert appeals to you. Preachers lead easy, safe, crowded, bound lives. They're shut up in a church with a Bible and good people. When once in a lifetime they get loose—they break out.”
“Yes, I've broken out—beyond all bounds,” replied Shefford, sadly. He seemed retrospective for a moment, unaware of the trader's keen and sympathetic