“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 prowler of the night; and Shefford was convinced the Indian had saved his life.  The measure of his gratitude was a source of wonder to him.  Had he cared so much for life?  Yes—­he had, when face to face with death.  That was something to know.  It helped him.  And he gathered from his strange feeling that the romantic quest which had brought him into the wilderness might turn out to be an antidote for the morbid bitterness of heart.

With new sensations had come new thoughts.  Right then it was very pleasant to sit in the warmth and light of the roaring cedar fire.  There was a deep-seated ache of fatigue in his bones.  What joy it was to rest!  He had felt the dry scorch of desert thirst and the pang of hunger.  How wonderful to learn the real meaning of water and food!  He had just finished the longest, hardest day’s work of his life!  Had that anything to do with