he 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