Several days slipped by with Slone scarcely realizing how they flew.  Unaccustomed labor tired him so that he went to bed early and slept like a log.  If it had not been for the ever-present worry and suspense and longing, in regard to Lucy, he would have been happier than ever he could remember.  Almost at once he had become attached to his little home, and the more he labored to make it productive and comfortable the stronger grew his attachment.  Practical toil was not conducive to daydreaming, so Slone felt a loss of something vague and sweet.  Many times he caught himself watching with eager eyes for a glimpse of Lucy Bostil down there among the cottonwoods.  Still, he never saw her, and, in fact, he saw so few villagers that the place began to have a loneliness which endeared it to him the more.  Then the view down the gray valley to the purple monuments was always thrillingly memorable to Slone.  It was out there Lucy had saved his horse and his life.  His keen desert gaze could make out even at that distance the great, dark monument, gold-crowned, in the shadow of which he had heard Lucy speak words that had transformed life for him.  He would ride out there some day.  The spell of those looming grand shafts of colored rock was still strong upon him.

One morning Slone had a visitor—­old Brackton.  Slone’s cordiality died on his lips before it was half uttered.  Brackton’s former friendliness was not in evidence.  Indeed, he looked at Slone with curiosity and disfavor.

“Howdy, Slone!  I jest wanted to see what you was doin’ up hyar,” he said.

Slone spread his hands and explained in few words.

“So you took over the place, hey?  We all figgered thet.  But Vorhees was mum.  Fact is, he was sure mysterious.”  Brackton sat down and eyed Slone with interest.  “Folks are talkin’ a lot about you,” he said, bluntly.

“Is that so?”

“You ’pear to be a pretty mysterious kind of a feller, Slone.  I kind of took a shine to you at first, an’ thet’s why I come up hyar to tell you it’d be wise fer you to vamoose.”

“What!” exclaimed Slone.

Brackton repeated substantially what he had said, then, pausing an instant, continued:  “I’ve no call to give you a hunch, but I’ll do it jest because I did like you fust off.”

The old man seemed fussy and nervous and patronizing and disparaging all at once.

“What’d you beat up thet poor Joel Creech fer?” demanded Brackton.

“He got what he deserved,” replied Slone, and the memory, coming on the head of this strange attitude of Brackton’s, roused Slone’s temper.

“Wal, Joel tells some queer things about you—­fer instance, how you took advantage of little Lucy Bostil, grabbin’ her an’ maulin’ her the way Joel seen you.”

“D—­n the loon!” muttered Slone, rising to pace the path.

“Wal, Joel’s a bit off, but he’s not loony all the time.  He’s seen you an’ he’s tellin’ it.  When Bostil hears it you’d better be acrost the canyon!”