"Grey, Zane - The Rainbow Trail" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grey Zane)

Presbrey made no comment and his face was as hard to read as one of
the distant bluffs.

"But what did the man mean?" asked Shefford, conscious of a little
heat. "I'm a stranger out here. I'm ignorant of Indians--how they're
controlled. Still I'm no fool. . . . If Willetts didn't mean evil, at
least he was brutal."

"He was teaching her religion," replied Presbrey. His tone held faint
scorn and implied a joke, but his face did not change in the slightest.

Without understanding just why, Shefford felt his conviction justified
and his action approved. Then he was sensible of a slight shock of
wonder and disgust.

"I am--I was a minister of the Gospel," he said to Presbrey. "What you
hint seems impossible. I can't believe it."

"I didn't hint," replied Presbrey, bluntly, and it was evident that
he was a sincere, but close-mouthed, man. "Shefford, so you're a
preacher? . . . Did you come out here to try to convert the Indians?"

"No. I said I WAS a minister. I am no longer. I'm just a--a
wanderer."

"I see. Well, the desert's no place for missionaries, but it's good
for wanderers. . . . Go water your horse and take him up to the corral.
You'll find some hay for him. I'll get grub ready."

Shefford went on with his horse to the pool. The water appeared thick,
green, murky, and there was a line of salty crust extending around the
margin of the pool. The thirsty horse splashed in and eagerly bent his
head. But he did not like the taste. Many times he refused to drink,
yet always lowered his nose again. Finally he drank, though not his
fill. Shefford saw the Indian girl drink from her hand. He scooped up
a handful and found it too sour to swallow. When he turned to retrace
his steps she mounted her pony and followed him.

A golden flare lit up the western sky, and silhouetted dark and lonely
against it stood the trading-post. Upon his return Shefford found the
wind rising, and it chilled him. When he reached the slope thin gray
sheets of sand were blowing low, rising, whipping, falling, sweeping
along with soft silken rustle. Sometimes the gray veils hid his boots.
It was a long, toilsome climb up that yielding, dragging ascent, and
he had already been lame and tired. By the time he had put his horse
away twilight was everywhere except in the west. The Indian girl left
her pony in the corral and came like a shadow toward the house.

Shefford had difficulty in finding the foot of the stairway. He