“Yes—­Stonebridge,” replied Withers.  “Ever heard the name?”

“I think so.  Are there other villages in—­in that part of the country?”

“A few, but not close.  Glaze is now only a water-hole.  Bluff and Monticello are far north across the San Juan. . . .  There used to be another village—­but that wouldn’t interest you.”

“Maybe it would,” replied Shefford, quietly.

But his hint was not taken by the trader.  Withers suddenly showed a semblance of the aloofness Shefford had observed in Whisner.

“Withers, pardon an impertinence—­I am deeply serious. . . .  Are you a Mormon?”

“Indeed I’m not,” replied the trader, instantly.

“Are you for the Mormons or against them?”

“Neither.  I get along with them.  I know them.  I believe they are a misunderstood people.”

“That’s for them.”

“No.  I’m only fair-minded.”

Shefford paused, trying to curb his thrilling impulse, but it was too strong.

“You said there used to be another village. . . .  Was the name of it—­Cottonwoods?”

Withers gave a start and faced round to stare at Shefford in blank astonishment.

“Say, did you give me a straight story about yourself?” he queried, sharply.

“So far as I went,” replied Shefford.

“You’re no spy on the lookout for sealed wives?”

“Absolutely not.  I don’t even know what you mean by sealed wives.”

“Well, it’s damn strange that you’d know the name Cottonwoods. . . . 
Yes, that’s the name of the village I meant—­the one that used to be. 
It’s gone now, all except a few stone walls.”

“What became of it?”

“Torn down by Mormons years ago.  They destroyed it and moved away. 
I’ve heard Indians talk about a grand spring that was there once. 
It’s gone, too.  Its name was—­let me see—­”

“Amber Spring,” interrupted Shefford.

“By George, you’re right!” rejoined the trader, again amazed.  “Shefford, this beats me.  I haven’t heard that name for ten years.  I can’t help seeing what a tenderfoot—­stranger—­you are to the desert.  Yet, here you are—­speaking of what you should know nothing of. . . .  And there’s more behind this.”

Shefford rose, unable to conceal his agitation.

“Did you ever hear of a rider named Venters?”

“Rider?  You mean a cowboy?  Venters.  No, I never heard that name.”

“Did you ever hear of a gunman named Lassiter?” queried Shefford, with increasing emotion.

“No.”

“Did you ever hear of a Mormon woman named—­Jane Withersteen?”

“No.”

Shefford drew his breath sharply.  He had followed a gleam—­he had caught a fleeting glimpse of it.

“Did you ever hear of a child—­a girl—­a woman—­called Fay Larkin?”

Withers rose slowly with a paling face.

“If you’re a spy it’ll go hard with you—­though I’m no Mormon,” he said, grimly.