He squatted with the Indians in the shade of the ledge while they waited for the water to boil in a bent galvanized bucket blackened with the smoke of many camp fires, and set himself seriously to the business of winning their confidence. They were out of tobacco, and Gary had plenty, which helped the business along amazingly. He caught himself wishing they wore the traditional garb of the redman, which would have been picturesque and satisfying. But these Piutes were merely unkempt and not at all interesting, except that their speech was clipped to absolutely essential words. They were stodgy and apathetic, except toward the tobacco. He found that they could dicker harder than a white man. They wanted ten dollars for driving in his horses, and even then they made it plain to Gary that the price did not include getting them into the corral. For ten dollars they would bring the horses right there to the mouth of the cañon. “Not go in,” the old man stipulated. “Bring ’m here, this place. Not corral. No. No more. You take my horse, drive ’m to corral. I wait here.” Gary knew a little about Indians, and at the moment he did not ask for a reason. The corral was not a quarter of a mile farther on; as a matter of fact it was just beyond the cabin at the edge of the grove of piñons. Faith came out from a clutter of rocks and hopped into Gary’s arms, purring and rubbing herself against him. The Piutes eyed the cat askance. “B’long ’m Steve Carson, them cat,” the young Indian stated abruptly. “You ain’t scare them cat bad luck?” Gary laughed. “No--I’m not afraid of the cat. Faith and I get along pretty well. Belongs to a Steve Carson, you say? I thought this was Waddell’s cat. It was left here when Waddell sold out.” They deliberated upon this, as was their way. “Waddell sell this place?” The old Indian turned his head and looked into the cañon. “Hunh. You buy ’m?” “No. A friend of mine bought it. I came here to see if it’s any good.” Gary began to feel as if he were making some headway at last. They smoked stolidly. “No good.” The old man carefully rubbed the ash from his cigarette. “Bad spirits. You call ’m bad luck.” He looked at Gary searchingly. “You hear ’m holler?” Gary grinned. “Somebody hollers about half the time. Who is it?” The two looked at each other queerly. It was the younger one who spoke. “Them’s ghos’. When Steve go, comes holler. Nobody holler when Steve’s all right. Five year them ghos’ holler. Same time Steve go. Nobody ketchum Steve. Nobody stop holler.” “Well, that’s a heck of a note!” Gary smoothed the cat’s back mechanically and tried to laugh. “So the Voice is Steve Carson’s ghost, you think? And what happened to Steve?”