"I traveled from Red Lake. Presbrey, the trader there, advised against
it, but I came anyway."

"Well." Withers's gray glance was kind, if it did express the
foolhardiness of Shefford's act. "Come into the house. . . . Never
mind the horse. My wife will sure be glad to see you."

Withers led Shefford by the first stone house, which evidently was
the trading-store, into the second. The room Shefford entered was
large, with logs smoldering in a huge open fireplace, blankets
covering every foot of floor space, and Indian baskets and silver
ornaments everywhere, and strange Indian designs painted upon the
whitewashed walls. Withers called his wife and made her acquainted
with Shefford. She was a slight, comely little woman, with keen,
earnest, dark eyes. She seemed to be serious and quiet, but she made
Shefford feel at home immediately. He refused, however, to accept the
room offered him, saying that he me meant to sleep out under the open
sky. Withers laughed at this and said he understood. Shefford,
remembering Presbrey's hunger for news of the outside world, told this
trader and his wife all he could think of; and he was listened to with
that close attention a traveler always gained in the remote places.

"Sure am glad you rode in," said Withers, for the fourth time. "Now
you make yourself at home. Stay here--come over to the store--do
what you like. I've got to work. To-night we'll talk."

Shefford went out with his host. The store was as interesting as
Presbrey's, though much smaller and more primitive. It was full of
everything, and smelled strongly of sheep and goats. There was a
narrow aisle between sacks of flour and blankets on one side and a