"My name's Shefford. I'm knocking about on the desert. Rode from
beyond Tuba to-day."

"Glad to see you," said Presbrey. He offered his hand. He was a
stalwart man, clad in gray shirt, overalls, and boots. A shock of
tumbled light hair covered his massive head; he was tanned, but not
darkly, and there was red in his cheeks; under his shaggy eyebrows
were deep, keen eyes; his lips were hard and set, as if occasion for
smiles or words was rare; and his big, strong jaw seemed locked.

"Wish more travelers came knocking around Red Lake," he added.
"Reckon here's the jumping-off place."

"It's pretty--lonesome," said Shefford, hesitating as if at a loss
for words.

Then the Indian girl came up. Presbrey addressed her in her own
language, which Shefford did not understand. She seemed shy and
would not answer; she stood with downcast face and eyes. Presbrey
spoke again, at which she pointed down the valley, and then moved
on with her pony toward the water-hole.

Presbrey's keen eyes fixed on the receding black dot far down that
oval expanse.

"That fellow left--rather abruptly," said Shefford, constrainedly.
"Who was he?"

"His name's Willetts. He's a missionary. He rode in to-day with this