Glen Naspa mounted her pony, and it was a graceful action that pleased Shefford.  He climbed a little stiffly into his own saddle.  Then Nas Ta Bega got up and pointed northward.

“Kayenta?” he inquired.

Shefford nodded and then they were off, with Glen Naspa in the lead.  They did not climb the trail which they had descended, but took one leading to the right along the base of the slope.  Shefford saw down into the red wash that bisected the canyon floor.  It was a sheer wall of red clay or loam, a hundred feet high, and at the bottom ran a swift, shallow stream of reddish water.  Then for a time a high growth of greasewood hid the surroundings from Shefford’s sight.  Presently the trail led out into the open, and Shefford saw that he was at the neck of a wonderful valley that gradually widened with great jagged red peaks on the left and the black mesa, now a mountain, running away to the right.  He turned to find that the opening of the Sagi could no longer be seen, and he was conscious of a strong desire to return and explore that canyon.

Soon Glen Naspa put her pony to a long, easy, swinging canter and her followers did likewise.  As they got outward into the valley Shefford lost the sense of being overshadowed and crowded by the nearness of the huge walls and crags.  The trail appeared level underfoot, but at a distance it was seen to climb.  Shefford found where it disappeared over the foot of a slope that formed a graceful rising line up to the cedared flank of the mesa.  The valley floor, widening away to the north, remained level and green.  Beyond rose the jagged range of red peaks, all strangely cut and slanting.  These distant deceiving features of the country held Shefford’s gaze until the Indian drew his attention to things near at hand.  Then Shefford saw flocks of sheep dotting the gray-green valley, and bands of beautiful long-maned, long-tailed ponies.

For several miles the scene did not change except that Shefford imagined he came to see where the upland plain ended or at least broke its level.  He was right, for presently the Indian pointed, and Shefford went on to halt upon the edge of a steep slope leading down into a valley vast in its barren gray reaches.

“Kayenta,” said Nas Ta Bega.

Shefford at first saw nothing except the monotonous gray valley reaching far to the strange, grotesque monuments of yellow cliff.  Then close under the foot of the slope he espied two squat stone houses with red roofs, and a corral with a pool of water shining in the sun.

The trail leading down was steep and sandy, but it was not long.  Shefford’s sweeping eyes appeared to take in everything at once—­the crude stone structures with their earthen roofs, the piles of dirty wool, the Indians lolling around, the tents, and wagons, and horses, little lazy burros and dogs, and scattered everywhere saddles, blankets, guns, and packs.