The murmur of running water mingled in harmonious accompaniment with
the moan of the wind in the cedars--wild, sweet sounds that were balm
to his wounded spirit! They seemed a part of the silence, rather than
a break in it or a hindrance to the feeling of it. But suddenly that
silence did break to the rattle of a rock. Shefford listened, thinking
some wild animal was prowling around. He felt no alarm. Presently
he heard the sound again, and again. Then he recognized the crack of
unshod hoofs upon rock. A horse was coming down the trail. Shefford
rather resented the interruption, though he still had no alarm. He
believed he was perfectly safe. As a matter of fact, he had never in
his life been anything but safe and padded around with wool, hence,
never having experienced peril, he did not know what fear was.

Presently he saw a horse and rider come into dark prominence on the
ridge just above his camp. They were silhouetted against the starry
sky. The horseman stopped and he and his steed made a magnificent
black statue, somehow wild and strange, in Shefford's sight. Then he
came on, vanished in the darkness under the ridge, presently to emerge
into the circle of camp-fire light.

He rode to within twenty feet of Shefford and the fire. The horse was
dark, wild-looking, and seemed ready to run. The rider appeared to be
an Indian, and yet had something about him suggesting the cowboy. At
once Shefford remembered what Presbrey had said about half-breeds. A
little shock, inexplicable to Shefford, rippled over him.

He greeted his visitor, but received no answer. Shefford saw a dark,
squat figure bending forward in the saddle. The man was tense. All
about him was dark except the glint of a rifle across the saddle. The
face under the sombrero was only a shadow. Shefford kicked the fire-