"I hope you're not Presbrey," said Shefford, slowly. He felt awkward,
not sure of himself.

The man appeared about to burst into speech, but repressed it. There
was blood on his mouth and his hand. Hastily he scrambled to his feet.
Shefford saw this man's amaze and rage change to shame. He was tall
and rather stout; he had a smooth tanned face, soft of outline, with a
weak chin; his eyes were dark. The look of him and his corduroys and
his soft shoes gave Shefford an impression that he was not a man who
worked hard. By contrast with the few other worn and rugged desert
men Shefford had met this stranger stood out strikingly. He stooped
to pick up a soft felt hat and, jamming it on his head, he hurried out.
Shefford followed him and watched him from the door. He went directly
to the corral, mounted the pony, and rode out, to turn down the slope
toward the south. When he reached the level of the basin, where
evidently the sand was hard, he put the pony to a lope and gradually
drew away.

"Well!" ejaculated Shefford. He did not know what to make of this
adventure. Presently he became aware that the Indian girl was sitting
on a roll of blankets near the wall. With curious interest Shefford
studied her appearance. She had long, raven-black hair, tangled and
disheveled, and she wore a soiled white band of cord above her brow.
The color of her face struck him; it was dark, but not red nor bronzed;
it almost had a tinge of gold. Her profile was clear-cut, bold, almost
stern. Long black eyelashes hid her eyes. She wore a tight-fitting
waist garment of material resembling velveteen. It was ripped along
her side, exposing a skin still more richly gold than that of her face.
A string of silver ornaments and turquoise-and-white beads encircled