mournful murmur. Assuredly it was only the wind. Nevertheless, it
made his blood run cold. It was a different wind from that which had
made music under the eaves of his Illinois home. This was a lonely,
haunting wind, with desert hunger in it, and more which he could not
name. Shefford listened to this spirit-brooding sound while he watched
night envelop the valley. How black, how thick the mantle! Yet it
brought no comforting sense of close-folded protection, of walls of
soft sleep, of a home. Instead there was the feeling of space, of
emptiness, of an infinite hall down which a mournful wind swept
streams of murmuring sand.

"Well, grub's about ready," said Presbrey.

"Got any water?" asked Shefford.

"Sure. There in the bucket. It's rain-water. I have a tank here."

Shefford's sore and blistered face felt better after he had washed off
the sand and alkali dust.

"Better not wash your face often while you're in the desert. Bad
plan," went on Presbrey, noting how gingerly his visitor had gone
about his ablutions. "Well, come and eat."

Shefford marked that if the trader did live a lonely life he fared
well. There was more on the table than twice two men could have eaten.
It was the first time in four days that Shefford had sat at a table,
and he made up for lost opportunity.

His host's actions indicated pleasure, yet the strange, hard face