her neck, and it moved gently up and down with the heaving of her full
bosom. Her skirt was some gaudy print goods, torn and stained and
dusty. She had little feet, incased in brown moccasins, fitting like
gloves and buttoning over the ankles with silver coins.

"Who was that man? Did he hurt you?" inquired Shefford, turning to
gaze down the valley where a moving black object showed on the bare
sand.

"No savvy," replied the Indian girl.

"Where's the trader Presbrey?" asked Shefford.

She pointed straight down into the red valley.

"Toh," she said.

In the center of the basin lay a small pool of water shining brightly
in the sunset glow. Small objects moved around it, so small that
Shefford thought he saw several dogs led by a child. But it was the
distance that deceived him. There was a man down there watering his
horses. That reminded Shefford of the duty owing to his own tired and
thirsty beast. Whereupon he untied his pack, took off the saddle, and
was about ready to start down when the Indian girl grasped the bridle
from his hand.

"Me go," she said.

He saw her eyes then, and they made her look different. They were as
black as her hair. He was puzzled to decide whether or not he thought