a strange, slow-coming cold agitation possessed Shefford. Something gripped his throat.
Suddenly Shefford was stricken at a menacing movement on the part of the horseman. He had drawn a gun. Shefford saw it shine darkly in the firelight. The Indian meant to murder him. Shefford saw the grim, dark face in a kind of horrible amaze. He felt the meaning of that drawn weapon as he had never felt anything before in his life. And he collapsed back into his seat with an icy, sickening terror. In a second he was dripping wet with cold sweat. Lightning-swift thoughts flashed through his mind. It had been one of his platitudes that he was not afraid of death. Yet here he was a shaking, helpless coward. What had he learned about either life or death? Would this dark savage plunge him into the unknown? It was then that Shefford realized his hollow philosophy and the bitter-sweetness of life. He had a brain and a soul, and between them he might have worked out his salvation. But what were they to this ruthless night-wanderer, this raw and horrible wildness of the desert?
Incapable of voluntary movement, with tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth, Shefford watched the horseman and the half-poised gun. It was not yet leveled. Then it dawned upon Shefford that the stranger’s head was turned a little, his ear to the wind. He was listening. His horse was listening. Suddenly he straightened up, wheeled his horse, and trotted away into the darkness. But he did not climb the ridge down which he had come.
Shefford heard the click of hoofs upon the stony trail. Other horses and riders were descending into the canyon. They had been the cause of his deliverance, and in the relaxation of feeling he almost fainted. Then he sat there, slowly recovering, slowly ceasing to tremble, divining that this situation was somehow to change his attitude toward life.
Three horses, two with riders, moved in dark shapes across the skyline above the ridge, disappeared as had Shefford’s first visitor, and then rode into the light. Shefford saw two Indians—a man and a woman; then with surprise recognized the latter to be the Indian girl he had met at Red Lake. He was still more surprised to recognize in the third horse the one he had lost at the last camp. Shefford rose, a little shaky on his legs, to thank these Indians for a double service. The man slipped from his saddle and his moccasined feet thudded lightly. He was tall, lithe, erect, a singularly graceful figure, and as he advanced Shefford saw a dark face and sharp, dark eyes. The Indian was bareheaded, with his hair bound in a band. He resembled the girl, but appeared to have a finer face.
“How do?” he said, in a voice low and distinct. He extended his hand, and Shefford felt a grip of steel. He returned the greeting. Then the Indian gave Shefford the bridle of the horse, and made signs that appeared to indicate the horse had broken his hobbles and strayed. Shefford thanked him. Thereupon the Indian unsaddled and led the horses away, evidently to water them. The girl remained behind. Shefford addressed her, but she was shy and did not respond. He then set about cooking a meal for his visitors, and was busily engaged at this when the Indian returned without the horses. Presently Shefford resumed his seat by the fire and watched the two eat what he had prepared. They certainly were hungry and soon had the pans and cups empty. Then the girl drew back a little into the shadow, while the man sat with his legs crossed and his feet tucked under him.
His dark face was smooth, yet it seemed to have lines under the surface. Shefford was impressed. He had never seen an Indian who interested him as this one. Looked at superficially, he appeared young, wild, silent, locked in his primeval apathy, just a healthy savage; but looked at more attentively, he appeared matured, even old, a strange, sad, brooding figure, with a burden on his shoulders. Shefford found himself growing curious.
“What place?” asked Shefford, waving his hand toward the dark opening between the black cliffs.
“Sagi,” replied the Indian.
That did not mean anything to Shefford, and he asked if the Sagi was the pass, but the Indian shook his head.
“Wife?” asked Shefford, pointing to the girl.
The Indian shook his head again. “Bi-la,” he said.
“What you mean?” asked Shefford. “What bi-la?”
“Sister,” replied the Indian. He spoke the word reluctantly, as if the white man’s language did not please him, but the clearness and correct pronunciation surprised Shefford.
“What name—what call her?” he went on.
“Glen Naspa.”
“What your name?” inquired Shefford, indicating the Indian.
“Nas Ta Bega,” answered the Indian.
“Navajo?”
The Indian bowed with what seemed pride and stately dignity.
“My name John Shefford. Come far way back toward rising sun. Come stay here long.”
Nas Ta Bega’s dark eyes were fixed steadily upon Shefford. He reflected that he could not remember having felt so penetrating a gaze. But neither the Indian’s eyes nor face gave any clue to his thoughts.
“Navajo no savvy Jesus Christ,” said the Indian, and his voice rolled out low and deep.
Shefford felt both amaze and pain. The Indian had taken him for a missionary.
“No!... Me no missionary,” cried Shefford, and he flung up a passionately repudiating hand.
A singular flash shot from the Indian’s dark eyes. It struck Shefford even at this stinging moment when the past came back.
“Trade—buy wool—blanket?” queried Nas Ta Bega.
“No,” replied Shefford. “Me want ride—walk far.” He waved his hand to indicate a wide sweep of territory. “Me sick.”
Nas Ta Bega laid a significant finger upon his lungs.
“No,” replied Shefford. “Me strong. Sick here.” And with motions of his hands he tried to show that his was a trouble of the heart.
Shefford received instant impression of this Indian’s intelligent comprehension, but he could not tell just what had given him the feeling. Nas Ta Bega rose then and walked away into the shadow. Shefford heard him working around the dead cedar-tree, where he had probably gone to get fire-wood. Then Shefford heard a splintering crash, which was followed by a crunching, bumping sound. Presently he was astounded to see the Indian enter the lighted circle dragging the whole cedar-tree, trunk first. Shefford would have doubted the ability of two men to drag that tree, and here came Nas Ta Bega, managing it easily. He laid the trunk on the fire, and then proceeded to break off small branches, to place them advantageously where the red coals kindled them into a blaze.
The Indian’s next move was to place his saddle, which he evidently meant to use for a pillow. Then he spread a goat-skin on the ground, lay down upon it, with his back to the fire, and, pulling a long-haired saddle-blanket over his shoulders, he relaxed and became motionless. His sister, Glen Naspa, did likewise, except that she stayed farther away from the fire, and she had a larger blanket, which covered her well. It appeared to Shefford that they went to sleep at once.
Shefford felt as tired as he had ever been, but he did not think he could soon drop into slumber, and in fact he did not want to.
There was something in the companionship of these Indians that he had not experienced before. He still had a strange and weak feeling—the aftermath of that fear which had sickened him with its horrible icy grip. Nas Ta Bega’s arrival had frightened away that dark and silent
