Nas Ta Bega did not return that day, but, next morning a messenger came calling Lake to the Piute camp.  Shefford spent the morning high on the slope, learning more with every hour in the silence and loneliness, that he was stronger of soul than he had dared to hope, and that the added pain which had come to him could be borne.

Upon his return toward camp, in the cedar grove, he caught sight of Glen Naspa with a white man.  They did not see him.  When Shefford recognized Willetts an embarrassment as well as an instinct made him halt and step into a bushy, low-branched cedar.  It was not his intention to spy on them.  He merely wanted to avoid a meeting.  But the missionary’s hand on the girl’s arm, and her up-lifted head, her pretty face, strange, intent, troubled, struck Shefford with an unusual and irresistible curiosity.  Willetts was talking earnestly; Glen Naspa was listening intently.  Shefford watched long enough to see that the girl loved the missionary, and that he reciprocated or was pretending.  His manner scarcely savored of pretense, Shefford concluded, as he slipped away under the trees.

He did not go at once into camp.  He felt troubled, and wished that he had not encountered the two.  His duty in the matter, of course, was to tell Nas Ta Bega what he had seen.  Upon reflection Shefford decided to give the missionary the benefit of a doubt; and if he really cared for the Indian girl, and admitted or betrayed it, to think all the better of him for the fact.  Glen Naspa was certainly pretty enough, and probably lovable enough, to please any lonely man in this desert.  The pain and the yearning in Shefford’s heart made him lenient.  He had to fight himself—­not to forget, for that was impossible—­but to keep rational and sane when a white flower-like face haunted him and a voice called.

The cracking of hard hoofs on stones caused him to turn toward camp, and as he emerged from the cedar grove he saw three Indian horsemen ride into the cleared space before the hogans.  They were superbly mounted and well armed, and impressed him as being different from Navajos.  Perhaps they were Piutes.  They dismounted and led the mustangs down to the pool below the spring.  Shefford saw another mustang, standing bridle down and carrying a pack behind the saddle.  Some squaws with children hanging behind their skirts were standing at the door of Hosteen Doetin’s hogan.  Shefford glanced in to see Glen Naspa, pale, quiet, almost sullen.  Willetts stood with his hands spread.  The old Navajo’s seamed face worked convulsively as he tried to lift his bent form to some semblance of dignity, and his voice rolled out, sonorously:  “Me no savvy Jesus Christ!  Me hungry! . . .  Me no eat Jesus Christ!”

Shefford drew back as if he had received a blow.  That had been Hosteen Doetin’s reply to the importunities of the missionary.  The old Navajo could work no longer.  His sons were gone.  His squaw was worn out.  He had no one save Glen Naspa to help him.  She was young, strong.  He was hungry.  What was the white man’s religion to him?