“It was that miner, Dis—Dis——”
“Dismukes,” added Adam.
“Yes. It was he who sent you here. Are you a miner, too?”
“No. I care little for gold.”
“Ah!... What are you, then?”
“Just a wanderer. Wansfell, the Wanderer, they call me.”
“They? Who are they?”
“Why, I suppose they are the other wanderers. Men who tramp over the desert—men who seek gold or forgetfulness or peace or solitude—men who are driven—or who hide. These are few, but, taken by the years, they seem many.”
“Men of the desert have passed by here, but none like you,” she replied, with gravity, and her eyes pierced him. “Why did you come?”
“Years ago my life was ruined,” said Adam, slowly. “I chose to fight the desert. And in all the years the thing that helped me most was not to pass by anyone in trouble. The desert sees strange visitors. Life is naked here, like those stark mountain-sides.... Dismukes is my friend—he saved me from death once. He is a man who knows this wasteland. He told me about your being here. He said no white woman could live in Death Valley.... I wondered—if I might—at least advise you, turn you back—and so I came.”