"Withers, take me to the village."

"Shefford, you're liable to get in bad out here," said the trader,
gravely.

"I couldn't be any more ruined than I am now," replied Shefford,
passionately.

"But there's risk in this--risk such as you never had," persisted
Withers.

"I'll risk anything."

"Reckon this is a funny deal for a sheep-trader to have on his hands,"
continued Withers. "Shefford, I like you. I've a mind to see you
through this. It's a damn strange story. . . . I'll tell you what--I
will help you. I'll give you a job packing supplies in to the village.
I meant to turn that over to a Mormon cowboy--Joe Lake. The job shall
be yours, and I'll go with you first trip. Here's my hand on it. . . .
Now, Shefford, I'm more curious about you than I was before you told
your story. What ruined you? As we're to be partners, you can tell
me now. I'll keep your secret. Maybe I can do you good."

Shefford wanted to confess, yet it was hard. Perhaps, had he not been
so agitated, he would not have answered to impulse. But this trader
was a man--a man of the desert--he would understand.

"I told you I was a clergyman," said Shefford in low voice. "I didn't
want to be one, but they made me one. I did my best. I failed. . . .
I had doubts of religion--of the Bible--of God, as my Church believed