He had lived at Kayenta for several years--hard and profitless years by reason of marauding outlaws. He could not have lived there at all but for the protection of the Indians. His father-in-law had been friendly with the Navajos and Piutes for many years, and his wife had been brought up among them. She was held in peculiar reverence and affection by both tribes in that part of the country. Probably she knew more of the Indians' habits, religion, and life than any white person in the West. Both tribes were friendly and peaceable, but there were bad Indians, half-breeds, and outlaws that made the trading-post a venture Withers had long considered precarious, and he wanted to move and intended to some day. His nearest neighbors in New Mexico and Colorado were a hundred miles distant and at some seasons the roads were impassable. To the north, however, twenty miles or so, was situated a Mormon village named Stonebridge. It lay across the Utah line. Withers did some business with this village, but scarcely enough to warrant the risks he had to run. During the last year he had lost several pack-trains, one of which he had never heard of after it left Stonebridge. “Stonebridge!” exclaimed Shefford, and he trembled. He had heard that name. In his memory it had a place beside the name of another village Shefford longed to speak of to this trader. “Yes--Stonebridge,” replied Withers. “Ever heard the name?” “I think so. Are there other villages in--in that part of the country?” “A few, but not close. Glaze is now only a water-hole. Bluff and Monticello are far north across the San Juan.... There used to be another village--but that wouldn't interest you.” “Maybe it would,” replied Shefford, quietly. But his hint was not taken by the trader. Withers suddenly showed a semblance of the aloofness Shefford had observed in Whisner. “Withers, pardon an impertinence--I am deeply serious.... Are you a Mormon?” “Indeed I'm not,” replied the trader, instantly. “Are you for the Mormons or against them?” “Neither. I get along with them. I know them. I believe they are a misunderstood people.” “That's for them.” “No. I'm only fair-minded.” Shefford paused, trying to curb his thrilling impulse, but it was too strong. “You said there used to be another village.... Was the name of it--Cottonwoods?” Withers gave a start and faced round to stare at Shefford in blank astonishment. “Say, did you give me a straight story about yourself?” he queried, sharply. “So far as I went,” replied Shefford. “You're no spy on the lookout for sealed wives?” “Absolutely not. I don't even know what you mean by sealed wives.” “Well, it's damn strange that you'd know the name Cottonwoods.... Yes, that's the name of the village I meant--the one that used to be. It's gone now, all except a few stone walls.” “What became of it?”