There were indications that Stonebridge might experience some of the excitement and perhaps violence common to towns like Monticello and Durango.  There was only one saloon in Stonebridge, and it was full of roystering cowboys and horse-wranglers.  Shefford saw the bunch of mustangs, in charge of the same Indian, that belonged to Shadd and his gang.  The men were inside, drinking.  Next door was a tavern called Hopewell House, a stone structure of some pretensions.  There were Indians lounging outside.  Shefford entered through a wide door and found himself in a large bare room, boarded like a loft, with no ceiling except the roof.  The place was full of men and noise.  Here he encountered Joe Lake talking to Bishop Kane and other Mormons.  Shefford got a friendly greeting from the bishop, and then was well received by the strangers, to whom Joe introduced him.

“Have you seen Withers?” asked Shefford.

“Reckon he’s around somewhere,” replied Joe.  “Better hang up here, for he’ll drop in sooner or later.”

“When are you going back to Kayenta?” went on Shefford.

“Hard to say.  We’ll have to call off our hunt.  Nas Ta Bega is here, too.”

“Yes, I’ve been with him.”

The older Mormons drew aside, and then Joe mentioned the fact that he was half starved.  Shefford went with him into another clapboard room, which was evidently a dining-room.  There were half a dozen men at the long table.  The seat at the end was a box, and scarcely large enough or safe enough for Joe and Shefford, but they risked it.

“Saw you in the hall,” said Joe.  “Hell—­wasn’t it?”

“Joe, I never knew how much I dared say to you, so I don’t talk much.  But, it was hell,” replied Shefford.

“You needn’t be so scared of me,” spoke up Joe, testily.

That was the first time Shefford had heard the Mormon speak that way.

“I’m not scared, Joe.  But I like you—­respect you.  I can’t say so much of—­of your people.”

“Did you stick out the whole mix?” asked Joe.

“No.  I had enough when—­when they got through with Mary.”  Shefford spoke low and dropped his head.  He heard the Mormon grind his teeth.  There was silence for a little space while neither man looked at the other.

“Reckon the judge was pretty decent,” presently said Joe.

“Yes, I thought so.  He might have—­” But Shefford did not finish that sentence.  “How’d the thing end?”

“It ended all right.”

“Was there no conviction—­no sentence?” Shefford felt a curious eagerness.

“Naw,” he snorted.  “That court might have saved its breath.”

“I suppose.  Well, Joe, between you and me, as old friends now, that trial established one fact, even if it couldn’t be proved. . . .  Those women are sealed wives.”

Joe had no reply for that.  He looked gloomy, and there was a stern line in his lips.  To-day he seemed more like a Mormon.