“You said you were a wanderer. . . .  Do you want a job?  I’ll give you one.”

“No, thank you, Presbrey.”

“I saw your pack.  That’s no pack to travel with in this country.  Your horse won’t last, either.  Have you any money?”

“Yes, plenty of money.”

“Well, that’s good.  Not that a white man out here would ever take a dollar from you.  But you can buy from the Indians as you go.  Where are you making for, anyhow?”

Shefford hesitated, debating in mind whether to tell his purpose or not.  His host did not press the question.

“I see.  Just foot-loose and wandering around,” went on Presbrey.  “I can understand how the desert appeals to you.  Preachers lead easy, safe, crowded, bound lives.  They’re shut up in a church with a Bible and good people.  When once in a lifetime they get loose—­they break out.”

“Yes, I’ve broken out—­beyond all bounds,” replied Shefford, sadly.  He seemed retrospective for a moment, unaware of the trader’s keen and sympathetic glance, and then he caught himself.  “I want to see some wild life.  Do you know the country north of here?”

“Only what the Navajos tell me.  And they’re not much to talk.  There’s a trail goes north, but I’ve never traveled it.  It’s a new trail every time an Indian goes that way, for here the sand blows and covers old tracks.  But few Navajos ride in from the north.  My trade is mostly with Indians up and down the valley.”

“How about water and grass?”

“We’ve had rain and snow.  There’s sure to be, water.  Can’t say about grass, though the sheep and ponies from the north are always fat. . . .  But, say, Shefford, if you’ll excuse me for advising you—­don’t go north.”

“Why?” asked Shefford, and it was certain that he thrilled.

“It’s unknown country, terribly broken, as you can see from here, and there are bad Indians biding in the canyon.  I’ve never met a man who had been over the pass between here and Kayenta.  The trip’s been made, so there must be a trail.  But it’s a dangerous trip for any man, let alone a tenderfoot.  You’re not even packing a gun.”

“What’s this place Kayenta?” asked Shefford.

“It’s a spring.  Kayenta means Bottomless Spring.  There’s a little trading-post, the last and the wildest in northern Arizona.  Withers, the trader who keeps it, hauls his supplies in from Colorado and New Mexico.  He’s never come down this way.  I never saw him.  Know nothing of him except hearsay.  Reckon he’s a nervy and strong man to hold that post.  If you want to go there, better go by way of Keams Canyon, and then around the foot of Black Mesa.  It’ll be a long ride—­maybe two hundred miles.”

“How far straight north over the pass?”

“Can’t say.  Upward of seventy-five miles over rough trails, if there are trails at all. . . .  I’ve heard rumors of a fine tribe of Navajos living in there, rich in sheep and horses.  It may be true and it may not.  But I do know there are bad Indians, half-breeds and outcasts, hiding in there.  Some of them have visited me here.  Bad customers!  More than that, you’ll be going close to the Utah line, and the Mormons over there are unfriendly these days.”