“Reckon this is a funny deal for a sheep-trader to have on his hands,” continued Withers.  “Shefford, I like you.  I’ve a mind to see you through this.  It’s a damn strange story. . . .  I’ll tell you what—­I will help you.  I’ll give you a job packing supplies in to the village.  I meant to turn that over to a Mormon cowboy—­Joe Lake.  The job shall be yours, and I’ll go with you first trip.  Here’s my hand on it. . . .  Now, Shefford, I’m more curious about you than I was before you told your story.  What ruined you?  As we’re to be partners, you can tell me now.  I’ll keep your secret.  Maybe I can do you good.”

Shefford wanted to confess, yet it was hard.  Perhaps, had he not been so agitated, he would not have answered to impulse.  But this trader was a man—­a man of the desert—­he would understand.

“I told you I was a clergyman,” said Shefford in low voice.  “I didn’t want to be one, but they made me one.  I did my best.  I failed. . . .  I had doubts of religion—­of the Bible—­of God, as my Church believed in them.  As I grew older thought and study convinced me of the narrowness of religion as my congregation lived it.  I preached what I believed.  I alienated them.  They put me out, took my calling from me, disgraced me, ruined me.”

“So that’s all!” exclaimed Withers, slowly.  “You didn’t believe in the God of the Bible. . . .  Well, I’ve been in the desert long enough to know there is a God, but probably not the one your Church worships. . . .  Shefford, go to the Navajo for a faith!”

Shefford had forgotten the presence of Nas Ta Bega, and perhaps Withers had likewise.  At this juncture the Indian rose to his full height, and he folded his arms to stand with the somber pride of a chieftain while his dark, inscrutable eyes were riveted upon Shefford.  At that moment he seemed magnificent.  How infinitely more he seemed than just a common Indian who had chanced to befriend a white man!  The difference was obscure to Shefford.  But he felt that it was there in the Navajo’s mind.  Nas Ta Bega’s strange look was not to be interpreted.  Presently he turned and passed from the room.

“By George!” cried Withers, suddenly, and he pounded his knee with his fist.  “I’d forgotten.”

“What?” ejaculated Shefford.

“Why, that Indian understood every word we said.  He knows English.  He’s educated.  Well, if this doesn’t beat me. . . .  Let me tell you about Nas Ta Bega.”

Withers appeared to be recalling something half forgotten.

“Years ago, in fifty-seven, I think, Kit Carson with his soldiers chased the Navajo tribes and rounded them up to be put on reservations.  But he failed to catch all the members of one tribe.  They escaped up into wild canyon like the Sagi.  The descendants of these fugitives live there now and are the finest Indians on earth—­ the finest because unspoiled by the white man.  Well, as I got the story,