“There’ll be trouble—­maybe bloodshed.  Mormon women are absolutely good, but they’re human, and want and need a little life.  And, strange to say, Mormon men are pig-headedly jealous. . . .  Why, if some of the cowboys I knew in Durango would ride over here there’d simply be hell.  But that’s a long way, and probably this village will be deserted before news of it ever reaches Colorado.  There’s more danger of Shadd and his gang coming in.  Shadd’s half Piute.  He must know of this place.  And he’s got some white outlaws in his gang. . . .  Come on.  Grub’s ready, and I’m too hungry to talk.”

Later, when shadows began to gather in the valley and the lofty peaks above were gold in the sunset glow, Withers left camp to look after the straying mustangs, and Shefford strolled to and fro under the cedars.  The lights and shades in the Sagi that first night had moved him to enthusiastic watchfulness, but here they were so weird and beautiful that he was enraptured.  He actually saw great shafts of gold and shadows of purple streaming from the peaks down into the valley.  It was day on the heights and twilight in the valley.  The swiftly changing colors were like rainbows.

While he strolled up and down several women came to the spring and filled their buckets.  They wore shawls or hoods and their garments were somber, but, nevertheless, they appeared to have youth and comeliness.  They saw him, looked at him curiously, and then, without speaking, went back on the well-trodden path.  Presently down the path appeared a woman—­a girl in lighter garb.  It was almost white.  She was shapely and walked with free, graceful step, reminding him of the Indian girl, Glen Naspa.  This one wore a hood shaped like a huge sunbonnet and it concealed her face.  She carried a bucket.  When she reached the spring and went down the few stone steps Shefford saw that she did not have on shoes.  As she braced herself to lift the bucket her bare foot clung to the mossy stone.  It was a strong, sinewy, beautiful foot, instinct with youth.  He was curious enough, he thought, but the awakening artist in him made him more so.  She dragged at the full bucket and had difficulty in lifting it out of the hole.  Shefford strode forward and took the bucket-handle from her.

“Won’t you let me help you?” he said, lifting the bucket.  “Indeed—­ it’s very heavy.”

“Oh—­thank you,” she said, without raising her head.  Her voice seemed singularly young and sweet.  He had not heard a voice like it.  She moved down the path and he walked beside her.  He felt embarrassed, yet more curious than ever; he wanted to say something, to turn and look at her, but he kept on for a dozen paces without making up his mind.

Finally he said:  “Do you really carry this heavy bucket?  Why, it makes my arm ache.”

“Twice every day—­morning and evening,” she replied.  “I’m very strong.”