The overalls, a faded brown, were patched and, of course, wrinkled and drawn.  The blue shirt was too small across the chest and Enoch found it impossible to button the collar.  The soft hat was in keeping with costume, but the Oxford ties caused him to shake his head.

“A dead give-away!  I’ll have to negotiate for something else when I find the Navajos.  All right, Pablo,” to the horse, “we’re off,” and the pony started northward at a gentle canter.

The desert was new to Enoch.  Neither his Grand Canyon experience nor his hunting trips in Canada and Maine had prepared him for the hardships and privations of desert travel.  Sitting at ease on the Indian pony, his hat well over his eyes, his pots and pans clanging gently behind him, he was entirely oblivious to the menace that lay behind the intriguing beauty of the burning horizon.  He was giving small heed, too, to the details of the landscape about him.  He was conscious of the heat and of color, color that glowed and quivered and was ever changing, and he told himself that when he was rested he would find the beauty in the desert that Diana’s pictures had said was there.  But for now, he was conscious only of pain and shame, the old, old shame that the Canyon had tried to teach him to forget.  He was determined that he would stay in the desert until this shame was gone forever.

It was a fall and not a summer sun, so the pony was able to keep a steady pace until noon.  Gradually the blur of green that Enoch had observed to the north had outlined itself more and more vividly, and at noon he rode into the shade of a little grove of stunted pinon and juniper.  He could find no water but there was a coarse dried grass growing among the trees that the horse cropped eagerly.  Enoch removed the saddle and pack from Pablo, and spread his half dried blankets on the ground.  Then he threw himself down to rest before preparing his midday meal.  In a moment slumber overwhelmed him.

He was wakened at dusk by the soft nuzzling of the pony against his shoulder.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed softly.  “What a sleep!” He jumped to his feet and began to gather wood for his fire.  He was stiff and his unaccustomed fingers made awkward work of cooking, but he managed, after an hour’s endeavor, to produce an unsavory meal, which he devoured hungrily.  He wiped out the frying pan with dried grass, repacked his outfit, and hung it on the horse.

“It’s up to you, Pablo, old boy, to get us to water, if you want any to-night,” he said, as he mounted, and headed Pablo north on the trail.

The pony was quite of Enoch’s opinion, and he started forward at an eager trot.  The trail was discernible enough in the starlight, but Enoch made no attempt to guide Pablo, who obviously knew the country better than his new owner.