“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 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 her handsome.

“Thanks, but I’ll go,” he replied, and, taking the bridle again, he started down the slope.  At every step he sank into the deep, soft sand.  Down a little way he came upon a pile of tin cans; they were everywhere, buried, half buried, and lying loose; and these gave evidence of how the trader lived.  Presently Shefford discovered that the Indian girl was following him with her own pony.  Looking upward at her against the light, he thought her slender, lithe, picturesque.  At a distance he liked her.

He plodded on, at length glad to get out of the drifts of sand to the hard level floor of the valley.  This, too, was sand, but dried and baked hard, and red in color.  At some season of the year this immense flat must be covered with water.  How wide it was, and empty!  Shefford experienced again a feeling that had been novel to him—­and it was that he was loose, free, unanchored, ready to veer with the wind.  From the foot of the slope the water hole had appeared to be a few hundred rods out in the valley.  But the small size of the figures made Shefford doubt; and he had to travel many times a few hundred rods before those figures began to grow.  Then Shefford made out that they were approaching him.