Joe’s rolling voice awoke him next morning and he rose with a singular zest.  When or where in his life had he awakened in such a beautiful place?  Almost he understood why Venters and Bess had been haunted by memories of Surprise Valley.  The morning was clear, cool, sweet; the peaks were dim and soft in rosy cloud; shafts of golden sunlight shot down into the purple shadows.  Mocking-birds were singing.  His body was sore and tired from the unaccustomed travel, but his heart was full, happy.  His spirit wanted to run, and he knew there was something out there waiting to meet it.  The Indian and the trader and the Mormon all meant more to him this morning.  He had grown a little overnight.  Nas Ta Bega’s deep “Bi Nai” rang in his ears, and the smiles of Withers and Joe were greetings.  He had friends; he had work; and there was rich, strange, and helpful life to live.  There was even a difference in the mustang Nack-yal.  He came readily; he did not look wild; he had a friendly eye; and Shefford liked him more.

“What is there to do?” asked Shefford, feeling equal to a hundred tasks.

“No work,” replied the trader, with a laugh, and he drew Shefford aside, “I’m in no hurry.  I like it here.  And Joe never wants to leave.  To-day you can meet the women.  Make yourself popular.  I’ve already made you that.  These women are most all young and lonesome.  Talk to them.  Make them like you.  Then some day you may be safe to ask questions.  Last night I wanted to ask old Mother Smith if she ever heard the name Fay Larkin.  But I thought better of it.  If there’s a girl here or at Stonebridge of that name we’ll learn it.  If there’s mystery we’d better go slow.  Mormons are hell on secret and mystery, and to pry into their affairs is to queer yourself.  My advice is—­just be as nice as you can be, and let things happen.”

Fay Larkin!  All in a night Shefford had forgotten her.  Why?  He pondered over the matter, and then the old thrill, the old desire, came back.

“Shefford, what do you think Nas Ta Bega said to me last night?” asked Withers in lower voice.

“Haven’t any idea,” replied Shefford, curiously.

“We were sitting beside the fire.  I saw you walking under the cedars.  You seemed thoughtful.  That keen Indian watched you, and he said to me in Navajo, ’Bi Nai has lost his God.  He has come far to find a wife.  Nas Ta Bega is his brother.’ . . .  He meant he’ll find both God and wife for you.  I don’t know about that, but I say take the Indian as he thinks he is—­your brother.  Long before I knew Nas Ta Bega well my wife used to tell me about him.  He’s a sage and a poet—­the very spirit of this desert.  He’s worth cultivating for his own sake.  But more—­remember, if Fay Larkin is still shut in that valley the Navajo will find her for you.”

“I shall take Nas Ta Bega as my brother—­and be proud,” replied Shefford.

“There’s another thing.  Do you intend to confide in Joe?”