Shefford heard subdued voices. He dismounted and walked to an open door. In the dark interior he dimly made out a high counter, a stairway, a pile of bags of flour, blankets, and silver-ornamented objects. However, the people he had heard were not in that part of the house. Around another corner of the octagon-shaped wall he found another open door, and through it saw goat-skins and a mound of dirty sheep-wool, black and brown and white. It was light in this part of the building. When he crossed the threshold he was astounded to see a man struggling with a girl -- an Indian girl. She was straining back from him, panting, and uttering low guttural sounds. The man's face was corded and dark with passion. Shefford felt strange; such primitive emotions were new to him.
Before he could speak, though, the girl broke loose and turned to flee. She was an Indian and this place was the uncivilized desert, but Shefford knew terror when he saw it. Like a dog, the man rushed after her. It was instinct that made Shefford strike, and his blow laid the man flat. He lay stunned a moment, then raised himself to a sitting posture, his hand to his face. As he looked at Shefford, his gaze seemed to combine both astonishment and rage.
Shefford stood his ground, saying only, "I hope you're not Presbrey."
