She uttered a little cry of pain.  “Save them?”

“Yes, save them.  Get them out of the valley, take them out of the country, far away where they and you—­”

“But I can’t go,” she wailed.  “I’m afraid.  I’m bound.  It can’t be broken.  If I dared—­if I tried to go they would catch me.  They would hang Uncle Jim and leave Mother Jane alone there to starve.”

“Fay, Lassiter and Jane both will starve—­at least they will die there if we do not save them.  You have been terribly wronged.  You’re a slave.  You’re not a wife.”

“They—­said I’ll be burned in hell if I don’t marry him. . . .  Mother Jane never taught me about God.  I don’t know.  But he—­he said God was there.  I dare not break it.”

“Fay, you have been deceived by old men.  Let them have their creed.  But you mustn’t accept it.”

“John, what is God to you?”

“Dear child, I—­I am not sure of that myself,” he replied, huskily.  “When all this trouble is behind us, surely I can help you to understand and you can help me.  The fact that you are alive—­that Lassiter and Jane are alive—­that I shall save you all—­that lifts me up.  I tell you—­Fay Larkin will be my salvation.”

“Your words trouble me.  Oh, I shall be torn one way and another. . . .  But, John, I daren’t run away.  I will not tell you where to find Lassiter and Mother Jane.”

“I shall find them—­I have the Indian.  He found you for me.  Nas Ta Bega will find Surprise Valley.”

“Nas Ta Bega! . . .  Oh, I remember.  There was an Indian with the Mormons who found us.  But he was a Piute.”

“Nas Ta Bega never told me how he learned about you.  That he learned was enough.  And, Fay, he will find Surprise Valley.  He will save Uncle Jim and Mother Jane.”

Fay’s hands clasped Shefford’s in strong, trembling pressure; the tears streamed down her white cheeks; a tragic and eloquent joy convulsed her face.

“Oh, my friend, save them!  But I can’t go. . . .  Let them keep me!  Let him kill me!”

“Him!  Fay—­he shall not harm you,” replied Shefford in passionate earnestness.

She caught the hand he had struck out with.

“You talk—­you look like Uncle Jim when he spoke of the Mormons,” she said.  “Then I used to be afraid of him.  He was so different.  John, you must not do anything about me.  Let me be.  It’s too late.  He—­and his men—­they would hang you.  And I couldn’t bear that.  I’ve enough to bear without losing my friend.  Say you won’t watch and wait—­for—­ for him.”

Shefford had to promise her.  Like an Indian she gave expression to primitive feeling, for it certainly never occurred to her that, whatever Shefford might do, he was not the kind of man to wait in hiding for an enemy.  Fay had faltered through her last speech and was now weak and nervous and frightened.  Shefford took her back to the cabin.