Craig dropped the reins over his saddle and fumbled in his pockets.

"The Indian word has a meaning, I presume?"

"Translated into English, it would be 'the lost pappoose.'"

The eyebrows of the Easterner lifted; but he made no comment.

"You have been with my uncle, with Mr. Landor, I mean, long?"

"Since I can remember--almost."

The search within the checkered blouse ended. The inquisitor produced a
pipe and lit it. It took three matches.

"My uncle never wrote me of that. He told me once of adopting a girl.
Bess he called her, was it not?"

"Yes."

Already the pipe had gone dead, and Craig struggled anew in getting it
alight, with the awkwardness of one unused to smoking out of doors.

"Do you like this country, this--desert?" he digressed suddenly.

"It is the only one I know."

"You mean know well, doubtless?"