With long, swift stride Shefford entered the hogan.  Willetts, seeing him, did not look so mild as Shefford had him pictured in memory, nor did he appear surprised.  Shefford touched Hosteen Doetin’s shoulder and said, “Tell me.”

The aged Navajo lifted a shaking hand.

“Me no savvy Jesus Christ!  Me hungry! . . .  Me no eat Jesus Christ!”

Shefford then made signs that indicated the missionary’s intention to take the girl away.  “Him come—­big talk—­Jesus—­all Jesus. . . .  Me no want Glen Naspa go,” replied the Indian.

Shefford turned to the missionary.

“Willetts, is he a relative of the girl?”

“There’s some blood tie, I don’t know what.  But it’s not close,” replied Willetts.

“Then don’t you think you’d better wait till Nas Ta Bega returns?  He’s her brother.”

“What for?” demanded Willetts.  “That Indian may be gone a week.  She’s willing to accompany the missionary.”

Shefford looked at the girl.

“Glen Naspa, do you want to go?”

She was shy, ashamed, and silent, but manifestly willing to accompany the missionary.  Shefford pondered a moment.  How he hoped Nas Ta Bega would come back!  It was thought of the Indian that made Shefford stubborn.  What his stand ought to be was hard to define, unless he answered to impulse; and here in the wilds he had become imbued with the idea that his impulses and instincts were no longer false.

“Willetts, what do you want with the girl?” queried Shefford, coolly, and at the question he seemed to find himself.  He peered deliberately and searchingly into the other’s face.  The missionary’s gaze shifted and a tinge of red crept up from under his collar.

“Absurd thing to ask a missionary!” he burst out, impatiently.

“Do you care for Glen Naspa?”

“I care as God’s disciple—­who cares to save the soul of heathen,” he replied, with the lofty tone of prayer.

“Has Glen Naspa no—­no other interest in you—­except to be taught religion?”

The missionary’s face flamed, and his violent tremor showed that under his exterior there was a different man.

“What right have you to question me?” he demanded.  “You’re an adventurer—­an outcast.  I’ve my duty here.  I’m a missionary with Church and state and government behind me.”

“Yes, I’m an outcast,” replied Shefford, bitterly.  “And you may be all you say.  But we’re alone now out here on the desert.  And this girl’s brother is absent.  You haven’t answered me yet. . . .  Is there anything between you and Glen Naspa except religion?”

“No, you insulting beggar?”

Shefford had forced the reply that he had expected and which damned the missionary beyond any consideration.

“Willetts, you are a liar!” said Shefford, steadily.

“And what are you?” cried Willetts, in shrill fury.  “I’ve heard all about you.  Heretic!  Atheist!  Driven from your Church!  Hated and scorned for your blasphemy!”