“Wish more travelers came knocking around Red Lake,” he added. “Reckon here's the jumping-off place.”
“It's pretty—lonesome,” said Shefford, hesitating as if at a loss for words.
Then the Indian girl came up. Presbrey addressed her in her own language, which Shefford did not understand. She seemed shy and would not answer; she stood with downcast face and eyes. Presbrey spoke again, at which she pointed down the valley, and then moved on with her pony toward the water-hole.
Presbrey's keen eyes fixed on the receding black dot far down that oval expanse.
“That fellow left—rather abruptly,” said Shefford, constrainedly. “Who was he?”
“His name's Willetts. He's a missionary. He rode in to-day with this Navajo girl. He was taking her to Blue canyon, where he lives and teaches the Indians. I've met him only a few times. You see, not many white men ride in here. He's the first white man I've seen in six months, and you're the second. Both the same day!... Red Lake's getting popular! It's queer, though, his leaving. He expected to stay all night. There's no other place to stay. Blue canyon is fifty miles away.”
“I'm sorry to say—no, I'm not sorry, either—but I must tell you I was the cause of Mr. Willetts leaving,” replied Shefford.
“How so?” inquired the other.
Then Shefford related the incident following his arrival.
“Perhaps my action was hasty,” he concluded, apologetically. “I didn't think. Indeed, I'm surprised at myself.”