How strangely productive of thought for Shefford to hear the Indian talk!  What fatality in this meeting and friendship!  Upon Nas Ta Bega had been forced education, training, religion, that had made him something more and something less than an Indian.  It was something assimilated from the white man which made the Indian unhappy and alien in his own home—­something meant to be good for him and his kind that had ruined him.  For Shefford felt the passion and the tragedy of this Navajo.

“Bi Nai, the Indian is dying!” Nas Ta Bega’s low voice was deep and wonderful with its intensity of feeling.  “The white man robbed the Indian of lands and homes, drove him into the deserts, made him a gaunt and sleepless spiller of blood. . . .  The blood is all spilled now, for the Indian is broken.  But the white man sells him rum and seduces his daughters. . . .  He will not leave the Indian in peace with his own God! . . .  Bi Nai, the Indian is dying!”

. . . . . . . . . . .

That night Shefford lay in his blankets out under the open sky and the stars.  The earth had never meant much to him, and now it was a bed.  He had preached of the heavens, but until now had never studied them.  An Indian slept beside him.  And not until the gray of morning had blotted out the starlight did Shefford close his eyes.

. . . . . . . . . . .

With break of the next day came full, varied, and stirring incidents to Shefford.  He was strong, though unskilled at most kinds of outdoor tasks.  Withers had work for ten men, if they could have been found.  Shefford dug and packed and lifted till he was so sore and tired that rest was a blessing.

He never succeeded in getting on a friendly footing with the Mormon Whisner, though he kept up his agreeable and kindly advances.  He listened to the trader’s wife as she told him about the Indians, and what he learned he did not forget.  And his wonder and respect increased in proportion to his knowledge.

One day there rode into Kayenta the Mormon for whom Withers had been waiting.  His name was Joe Lake.  He appeared young, and slipped off his superb bay with a grace and activity that were astounding in one of his huge bulk.  He had a still, smooth face, with the color of red bronze and the expression of a cherub; big, soft, dark eyes; and a winning smile.  He was surprisingly different from Whisner or any Mormon character that Shefford had naturally conceived.  His costume was that of the cowboy on active service; and he packed a gun at his hip.  The hand-shake he gave Shefford was an ordeal for that young man and left him with his whole right side momentarily benumbed.