“I’d forgotten already, till this difference came in you.  And pretty soon—­when I can say something more to you—­I’ll forget all except Surprise Valley—­and my evenings in the starlight with you.”

“Say it then—­quick!”

She was leaning against him, holding his hands in her strong clasp, soulful, tender, almost passionate.

“You couldn’t help it. . . .  I’m to blame. . . .  I remember what I said.”

“What?” he queried in amaze.

“‘You can kill him!’ . . .  I said that.  I made you kill him.”

“Kill—­whom?” cried Shefford.

“Waggoner.  I’m to blame. . . .  That must be what’s made you different.  And, oh, I’ve wanted you to know it’s all my fault. . . .  But I wouldn’t be sorry if you weren’t. . . .  I’m glad he’s dead.”

“You—­think—­I—­” Shefford’s gasping whisper failed in the shock of the revelation that Fay believed he had killed Waggoner.  Then with the inference came the staggering truth—­her guiltlessness; and a paralyzing joy held him stricken.

A powerful hand fell upon Shefford’s shoulder, startling him.  Nas Ta Bega stood there, looking down upon him and Fay.  Never had the Indian seemed so dark, inscrutable of face.  But in his magnificent bearing, in the spirit that Shefford sensed in him, there were nobility and power and a strange pride.

The Indian kept one hand on Shefford’s shoulder, and with the other he struck himself on the breast.  The action was that of an Indian, impressive and stern, significant of an Indian’s prowess.

“My God!” breathed Shefford, very low.

“Oh, what does he mean?” cried Fay.

Shefford held her with shaking hands, trying to speak, to fight a way out of these stultifying emotions.

“Nas Ta Bega—­you heard.  She thinks—­I killed Waggoner!”

All about the Navajo then was dark and solemn disproof of her belief.  He did not need to speak.  His repetition of that savage, almost boastful blow on his breast added only to the dignity, and not to the denial, of a warrior.

“Fay, he means he killed the Mormon,” said Shefford.  “He must have, for I did not!”

“Ah!” murmured Fay, and she leaned to him with passionate, quivering gladness.  It was the woman—­the human—­the soul born in her that came uppermost then; now, when there was no direct call to the wild and elemental in her nature, she showed a heart above revenge, the instinct of a saving right, of truth as Shefford knew them.  He took her into his arms and never had he loved her so well.

“Nas Ta Bega, you killed the Mormon,” declared Shefford, with a voice that had gained strength.  No silent Indian suggestion of a deed would suffice in that moment.  Shefford needed to hear the Navajo speak—­to have Fay hear him speak.  “Nas Ta Bega, I know I understand.  But tell her.  Speak so she will know.  Tell it as a white man would!”