“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.