At sunset he faced the west, and this was his prayer: 

                Great Spirit, God of my Fathers,
                Keep my horses in the night. 
                Keep my sheep in the night. 
                Keep my family in the night. 
                Let me wake to the day. 
                Let me be worthy of the light. 
                Now all is well, now all is well,
                Now all is well, now all is well.

And he watched the sun go down and the gold sink from the peaks and the red die out of the west and the gray shadows creep out of the canyon to meet the twilight and the slow, silent, mysterious approach of night with its gift of stars.

Night fell.  The white stars blinked.  The wind sighed in the cedars.  The sheep bleated.  The shepherd-dogs bayed the mourning coyotes.  And the Indian lay down in his blankets with his dark face tranquil in the starlight.  All was well in his lonely world.  Phantoms hovered, illness lingered, injury and pain and death were there, the shadow of a strange white hand flitted across the face of the moon—­but now all was well—­the Navajo had prayed to the god of his Fathers.  Now all was well!

. . . . . . . . . . .

And this, thought Shefford in revolt, was what the white man had killed in the Indian tribes, was reaching out now to kill in this wild remnant of the Navajos.  The padre, the trapper, the trader, the prospector, and the missionary—­so the white man had come, some of him good, no doubt, but more of him evil; and the young brave learned a thirst that could never be quenched at the cold, sweet spring of his forefathers, and the young maiden burned with a fever in her blood, and lost the sweet, strange, wild fancies of her tribe.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Joe Lake came to Shefford and said, “Withers told me you had a mix-up with a missionary at Red Lake.”

“Yes, I regret to say,” replied Shefford.

“About Glen Naspa?”

“Yes, Nas Ta Bega’s sister.”

“Withers just mentioned it.  Who was the missionary?”

“Willetts, so Presbrey, the trader, said.”

“What’d he look like?”

Shefford recalled the smooth, brown face, the dark eyes, the weak chin, the mild expression, and the soft, lax figure of the missionary.

“Can’t tell by what you said,” went on Joe.  “But I’ll bet a peso to a horse-hair that’s the fellow who’s been here.  Old Hosteen Doetin just told me.  First visits he ever had from the priest with the long gown.  That’s what he called the missionary.  These old fellows will never forget what’s come down from father to son about the Spanish padres.  Well, anyway, Willetts has been here twice after Glen Naspa.  The old chap is impressed, but he doesn’t want to let the girl go.  I’m inclined to think Glen Naspa would as lief go as stay.  She may be a Navajo, but she’s a girl.  She won’t talk much.”