Pa, has flocks of sheep and more mustangs than she knows about."

"Mustangs. So that's what you call the ponies?" replied Shefford.

"Yep. They're mustangs, and mostly wild as jack-rabbits."

Shefford strolled outside and made the acquaintance of Withers's
helper, a Mormon named Whisner. He was a stockily built man past
maturity, and his sun-blistered face and watery eyes told of the open
desert. He was engaged in weighing sacks of wool brought in by the
Indians. Near by stood a framework of poles from which an immense
bag was suspended. From the top of this bag protruded the head and
shoulders of an Indian who appeared to be stamping and packing wool
with his feet. He grinned at the curious Shefford. But Shefford was
more interested in the Mormon. So far as he knew, Whisner was the
first man of that creed he had ever met, and he could scarcely hide
his eagerness. Venters's stories had been of a long-past generation
of Mormons, fanatical, ruthless, and unchangeable. Shefford did not
expect to meet Mormons of this kind. But any man of that religion
would have interested him. Besides this, Whisner seemed to bring him
closer to that wild secret canyon he had come West to find. Shefford
was somewhat amazed and discomfited to have his polite and friendly
overtures repulsed. Whisner might have been an Indian. He was cold,
incommunicative, aloof; and there was something about him that made
the sensitive Shefford feel his presence was resented.

Presently Shefford strolled on to the corral, which was full of shaggy
mustangs. They snorted and kicked at him. He had a half-formed wish
that he would never be called upon to ride one of those wild brutes,
and then he found himself thinking that he would ride one of them, and