“Torn down by Mormons years ago. They destroyed it and moved away. I've heard Indians talk about a grand spring that was there once. It's gone, too. Its name was--let me see--” “Amber Spring,” interrupted Shefford. “By George, you're right!” rejoined the trader, again amazed. “Shefford, this beats me. I haven't heard that name for ten years. I can't help seeing what a tenderfoot--stranger--you are to the desert. Yet, here you are--speaking of what you should know nothing of.... And there's more behind this.” Shefford rose, unable to conceal his agitation. “Did you ever hear of a rider named Venters?” “Rider? You mean a cowboy? Venters. No, I never heard that name.” “Did you ever hear of a gunman named Lassiter?” queried Shefford, with increasing emotion. “No.” “Did you ever hear of a Mormon woman named--Jane Withersteen?” “No.” Shefford drew his breath sharply. He had followed a gleam--he had caught a fleeting glimpse of it. “Did you ever hear of a child--a girl--a woman--called Fay Larkin?” Withers rose slowly with a paling face. “If you're a spy it'll go hard with you--though I'm no Mormon,” he said, grimly. Shefford lifted a shaking hand. “I WAS a clergyman. Now I'm nothing--a wanderer--least of all a spy.” Withers leaned closer to see into the other man's eyes; he looked long and then appeared satisfied. “I've heard the name Fay Larkin,” he said, slowly. “I reckon that's all I'll say till you tell your story.” . . . . . . . . . . . Shefford stood with his back to the fire and he turned the palms of his hands to catch the warmth. He felt cold. Withers had affected him strangely. What was the meaning of the trader's somber gravity? Why was the very mention of Mormons attended by something austere and secret? “My name is John Shefford. I am twenty-four,” began Shefford. “My family--” Here a knock on the door interrupted Shefford. “Come in,” called Withers. The door opened and like a shadow Nas Ta Bega slipped in. He said something in Navajo to the trader. “How,” he said to Shefford, and extended his hand. He was stately, but there was no mistaking his friendliness. Then he sat down before the fire, doubled his legs under him after the Indian fashion, and with dark eyes on the blazing logs seemed to lose himself in meditation. “He likes the fire,” explained Withers. “Whenever he comes to Kayenta he always visits me like this.... Don't mind him. Go on with your story.”