Not till he had descended the trail and had dropped his pack did he realize how weary and footsore he was.  Then he rested.  But his eyes roved to and fro, and his mind was active.  What a wild and lonesome spot!  The low murmur of shallow water came up to him from a deep, narrow cleft.  Shadows were already making the canyon seem full of blue haze.  He saw a bare slope of stone out of which cedar-trees were growing.  And as he looked about him he became aware of a singular and very perceptible change in the lights and shades.  The sun was setting; the crags were gold-tipped; the shadows crept upward; the sky seemed to darken swiftly; then the gold changed to red, slowly dulled, and the grays and purples stood out.  Shefford was entranced with the beautiful changing effects, and watched till the walls turned black and the sky grew steely and a faint star peeped out.  Then he set about the necessary camp tasks.

Dead cedars right at hand assured him a comfortable night with steady fire; and when he had satisfied his hunger he arranged an easy seat before the blazing logs, and gave his mind over to thought of his weird, lonely environment.

The murmur of running water mingled in harmonious accompaniment with the moan of the wind in the cedars—­wild, sweet sounds that were balm to his wounded spirit!  They seemed a part of the silence, rather than a break in it or a hindrance to the feeling of it.  But suddenly that silence did break to the rattle of a rock.  Shefford listened, thinking some wild animal was prowling around.  He felt no alarm.  Presently he heard the sound again, and again.  Then he recognized the crack of unshod hoofs upon rock.  A horse was coming down the trail.  Shefford rather resented the interruption, though he still had no alarm.  He believed he was perfectly safe.  As a matter of fact, he had never in his life been anything but safe and padded around with wool, hence, never having experienced peril, he did not know what fear was.

Presently he saw a horse and rider come into dark prominence on the ridge just above his camp.  They were silhouetted against the starry sky.  The horseman stopped and he and his steed made a magnificent black statue, somehow wild and strange, in Shefford’s sight.  Then he came on, vanished in the darkness under the ridge, presently to emerge into the circle of camp-fire light.

He rode to within twenty feet of Shefford and the fire.  The horse was dark, wild-looking, and seemed ready to run.  The rider appeared to be an Indian, and yet had something about him suggesting the cowboy.  At once Shefford remembered what Presbrey had said about half-breeds.  A little shock, inexplicable to Shefford, rippled over him.

He greeted his visitor, but received no answer.  Shefford saw a dark, squat figure bending forward in the saddle.  The man was tense.  All about him was dark except the glint of a rifle across the saddle.  The face under the sombrero was only a shadow.  Shefford kicked the fire-logs and a brighter blaze lightened the scene.  Then he saw this stranger a little more clearly, and made out an unusually large head, broad dark face, a sinister tight-shut mouth, and gleaming black eyes.