He was conscious of a burden removed from his mind.  Confession of his secret had been like tearing a thorn from his flesh, but, once done, it afforded him relief and a singular realization that out here it did not matter much.  In a crowd of men all looking at him and judging him by their standards he had been made to suffer.  Here, if he were judged at all, it would be by what he could do, how he sustained himself and helped others.

He walked far across the valley toward the low bluffs, but they did not seem to get any closer.  And, finally, he stopped beside a stone and looked around at the strange horizon and up at the heavens.  He did not feel utterly aloof from them, nor alone in a waste, nor a useless atom amid incomprehensible forces.  Something like a loosened mantle fell from about him, dropping down at his feet; and all at once he was conscious of freedom.  He did not understand in the least why abasement left him, but it was so.  He had come a long way, in bitterness, in despair, believing himself to be what men had called him.  The desert and the stars and the wind, the silence of the night, the loneliness of this vast country where there was room for a thousand cities—­these somehow vaguely, yet surely, bade him lift his head.  They withheld their secret, but they made a promise.  The thing which he had been feeling every day and every night was a strange enveloping comfort.  And it was at this moment that Shefford, divining whence his help was to come, embraced all that wild and speaking nature around and above him and surrendered himself utterly.

“I am young.  I am free.  I have my life to live,” he said.  “I’ll be a man.  I’ll take what comes.  Let me learn here!”

When he had spoken out, settled once and for ever his attitude toward his future, he seemed to be born again, wonderfully alive to the influences around him, ready to trust what yet remained a mystery.

Then his thoughts reverted to Fay Larkin.  Could this girl be known to the Mormons?  It was possible.  Fay Larkin was an unusual name.  Deep into Shefford’s heart had sunk the story Venters had told.  Shefford found that he had unconsciously created a like romance—­he had been loving a wild and strange and lonely girl, like beautiful Bess Venters.  It was a shock to learn the truth, but, as it had been only a dream, it could hardly be vital.

Shefford retraced his steps toward the post.  Halfway back he espied a tall, dark figure moving toward him, and presently the shape and the step seemed familiar.  Then he recognized Nas Ta Bega.  Soon they were face to face.  Shefford felt that the Indian had been trailing him over the sand, and that this was to be a significant meeting.  Remembering Withers’s revelation about the Navajo, Shefford scarcely knew how to approach him now.  There was no difference to be made out in Nas Ta Bega’s dark face and inscrutable eyes, yet there was a difference to be felt in his presence.  But the Indian did not speak, and turned to walk by Shefford’s side.  Shefford could not long be silent.