, a proper report of a heart broken father and a
repentant daughter; for when we look out on the world, do we see the
world at all; or do we see the shadows of our own inner souls cast out
on the passing things of life?

CHAPTER XX

A FAITH WORKABLE FOR MEN ON THE JOB

"The point is," said Wayland, "though, we have driven out this nest of
beauties, we have no guarantee another nest won't take their place; and
so we're not much farther ahead than before, with the chances I'll be
called down for exceeding my duties."

"And y'll keep on bein' where y' were before till y' get the Man Higher
Up," interrupted Matthews.

They had camped among the red firs where the Desert crossed the State
Line and merged from cut rocks to broken timber. It was seven weeks
since they had set out from the Upper Mesas of the Rim Rocks, four
weeks since they had left the saline pool. Man and beast, fagged to
the point of utter exhaustion, retraced steps slower than fresh hunters
on an untried trail. Also, going down, they had followed hard wherever
fugitives led. Coming back, they struck across to the Western Desert
road, and travelled from belt to belt of the irrigation farms, with
their orange-green cottonwood groves and bluish-green alfalfa fields
and little match box houses stuck out of sight among peach orchards.
The parched-earth, burnt-oil smell gave place to the minty odor of hay
in wind rows, with the cool water tang of the big irrigation ditch
flowing liquid gold in the yellow August light. One evening, Matthews
looked back to the looming heat waving and writhing above the orange
sands beneath a sky of lilac and topaz round a sunset flowing from a
dull red ball of fire. Far ahead, the edges of forested mountain cut
the heat haze with opal winged light above what might have been peaks
or clouds.

"'Tis beautiful, Wayland, y'r lone Desert world; but man alive, it's
sad! Y' call some the Painted Desert, don't ye? 'Tis like a painted
woman, Wayland, vera beautiful, vera fair to look on an' allurin', but
a' out o' perspective; an' Wayland, the painted woman is always a bit
lonely in the bottom o' her soul spite o' harsh laugh. So is the
Desert wi' its harsh silence. Those as like to be shrivelled up wi'
thirst, may have it! A'm a plain man!"

Then one morning, the opal swimming above the smoke haze of the North
shone,--was it the shape of a cross?

"Wayland, man, look!"

The old frontiersman had taken off his hat