All this Shefford noticed as he entered the valley from round a corner of wall.  Upon nearer view he saw and heard a host of children, who, looking up to see the intruders, scattered like frightened quail.  Long gray grass covered the ground, and here and there wide, smooth paths had been worn.  A swift and murmuring brook ran through the middle of the valley, and its banks were bordered with flowers.

Withers led the way to one side near the wall, where a clump of cedar-trees and a dark, swift spring boiling out of the rocks and banks of amber moss with purple blossoms made a beautiful camp site.  Here the mustangs were unsaddled and turned loose without hobbles.  It was certainly unlikely that they would leave such a spot.  Some of the burros were unpacked, and the others Withers drove off into the village.

“Sure’s pretty nice,” said Joe, wiping his sweaty face.  “I’ll never want to leave.  It suits me to lie on this moss. . . .  Take a drink of that spring.”

Shefford complied with alacrity and found the water cool and sweet, and he seemed to feel it all through him.  Then he returned to the mossy bank.  He did not reply to Joe.  In fact, all his faculties were absorbed in watching and feeling, and he lay there long after Joe went off to the village.  The murmur of water, the hum of bees, the songs of strange birds, the sweet, warm air, the dreamy summer somnolence of the valley—­all these added drowsiness to Shefford’s weary lassitude, and he fell asleep.  When he awoke Nas Ta Bega was sitting near him and Joe was busy near a camp-fire.

“Hello, Nas Ta Bega!” said Shefford.  “Was there any one trailing us?”

The Navajo nodded.

Joe raised his head and with forceful brevity said, “Shadd.”

“Shadd!” echoed Shefford, remembering the dark, sinister face of his visitor that night in the Sagi.  “Joe, is it serious—­his trailing us?”

“Well, I don’t know how durn serious it is, but I’m scared to death,” replied Lake.  “He and his gang will hold us up somewhere on the way home.”

Shefford regarded Joe with both concern and doubt.  Joe’s words were at variance with his looks.

“Say, pard, can you shoot a rifle?” queried Joe.

“Yes.  I’m a fair shot at targets.”

The Mormon nodded his head as if pleased.  “That’s good.  These outlaws are all poor shots with a rifle.  So ’m I. But I can handle a six-shooter.  I reckon we’ll make Shadd sweat if he pushes us.”

Withers returned, driving the burros, all of which had been unpacked down to the saddles.  Two gray-bearded men accompanied him.  One of them appeared to be very old and venerable, and walked with a stick.  The other had a sad-lined face and kind, mild blue eyes.  Shefford observed that Lake seemed unusually respectful.  Withers introduced these Mormons merely as Smith and Henninger.  They were very cordial and pleasant in their greetings to Shefford.