“Withers, take me to the village.”
“Shefford, you’re liable to get in bad out here,” said the trader, gravely.
“I couldn’t be any more ruined than I am now,” replied Shefford, passionately.
“But there’s risk in this—risk such as you never had,” persisted Withers.
“I’ll risk anything.”
“Reckon this is a funny deal for a sheep-trader to have on his hands,” continued Withers. “Shefford, I like you. I’ve a mind to see you through this. It’s a damn strange story.... I’ll tell you what—I will help you. I’ll give you a job packing supplies in to the village. I meant to turn that over to a Mormon cowboy—Joe Lake. The job shall be yours, and I’ll go with you first trip. Here’s my hand on it.... Now, Shefford, I’m more curious about you than I was before you told your story. What ruined you? As we’re to be partners, you can tell me now. I’ll keep your secret. Maybe I can do you good.”
Shefford wanted to confess, yet it was hard. Perhaps, had he not been so agitated, he would not have answered to impulse. But this trader was a man—a man of the desert—he would understand.
“I told you I was a clergyman,” said Shefford in low voice. “I didn’t want to be one, but they made me one. I did my best. I failed.... I had doubts of religion—of the Bible—of God, as my Church believed in them. As I grew older thought and study convinced me of the narrowness of religion as my congregation lived it. I preached what I believed. I alienated them. They put me out, took my calling from me, disgraced me, ruined me.”
“So that’s all!” exclaimed Withers, slowly. “You didn’t believe in the God of the Bible.... Well, I’ve been in the desert long enough to know there IS a God, but probably not the one your Church worships. ... Shefford, go to the Navajo for a faith!”
Shefford had forgotten the presence of Nas Ta Bega, and perhaps Withers had likewise. At this juncture the Indian rose to his full height, and he folded his arms to stand with the somber pride of a chieftain while his dark, inscrutable eyes were riveted upon Shefford. At that moment he seemed magnificent. How infinitely more he seemed than just a common Indian who had chanced to befriend a white man! The difference was obscure to Shefford. But he felt that it was there in the Navajo’s mind. Nas Ta Bega’s strange look was not to be interpreted. Presently he turned and passed from the room.
“By George!” cried Withers, suddenly, and he pounded his knee with his fist. “I’d forgotten.”
“What?” ejaculated Shefford.
“Why, that Indian understood every word we said. He knows English. He’s educated. Well, if this doesn’t beat me.... Let me tell you about Nas Ta Bega.”
Withers appeared to be recalling something half forgotten.
“Years ago, in fifty-seven, I think, Kit Carson with his soldiers chased the Navajo tribes and rounded them up to be put on reservations. But he failed to catch all the members of one tribe. They escaped up into wild canyon like the Sagi. The descendants of these fugitives live there now and are the finest Indians on earth—the finest because unspoiled by the white man. Well, as I got the story, years after Carson’s round-up one of his soldiers guided some interested travelers in here. When they left they took an Indian boy with them to educate. From what I know of Navajos I’m inclined to think the boy was taken against his parents’ wish. Anyway, he was taken. That boy was Nas Ta Bega. The story goes that he was educated somewhere. Years afterward, and perhaps not long before I came in here, he returned to his people. There have been missionaries and other interested fools who have given Indians a white man’s education. In all the instances I know of, these educated Indians returned to their tribes, repudiating the white man’s knowledge, habits, life, and religion. I have heard that Nas Ta Bega came back, laid down the white man’s clothes along with the education, and never again showed that he had known either.
“You have just seen how strangely he acted. It’s almost certain he heard our conversation. Well, it doesn’t matter. He won’t tell. He can hardly be made to use an English word. Besides, he’s a noble red man, if there ever was one. He has been a friend in need to me. If you stay long out here you’ll learn something from the Indians. Nas Ta Bega has befriended you, too, it seems. I thought he showed unusual interest in you.”
“Perhaps that was because I saved his sister—well, to be charitable, from the rather rude advances of a white man,” said Shefford, and he proceeded to tell of the incident that occurred at Red Lake.
“Willetts!” exclaimed Withers, with much the same expression that Presbrey had used. “I never met him. But I know about him. He’s—well, the Indians don’t like him much. Most of the missionaries are good men—good for the Indians, in a way, but sometimes one drifts out here who is bad. A bad missionary teaching religion to savages! Queer, isn’t it? The queerest part is the white people’s blindness—the blindness of those who send the missionaries. Well, I dare say Willetts isn’t very good. When Presbrey said that was Willetts’s way of teaching religion he meant just what he said. If Willetts drifts over here he’ll be risking much.... This you told me explains Nas Ta Bega’s friendliness toward you, and also his bringing his sister Glen Naspa to live with relatives up in the pass. She had been living near Red Lake.”
“Do you mean Nas Ta Bega wants to keep his sister far removed from Willetts?” inquired Shefford.
“I mean that,” replied Withers, “and I hope he’s not too late.”
Later Shefford went outdoors to walk and think. There was no moon, but the stars made light enough to cast his shadow on the ground. The dark, illimitable expanse of blue sky seemed to be glittering with numberless points of fire. The air was cold and still. A dreaming silence lay over the land. Shefford saw and felt all these things, and their effect was continuous and remained with him and helped calm him. He was conscious of a burden removed from his mind. Confession of his secret had been like tearing a thorn from his flesh, but, once done, it afforded him relief and a singular realization that out here it did not matter much. In a crowd of men all looking at him and judging him by their standards he had been made to suffer. Here, if he were judged at all, it would be by what he could do, how he sustained himself and helped others.
He walked far across the valley toward the low bluffs, but they did not seem to get any closer. And, finally, he stopped beside a stone and looked around at the strange horizon and up at the heavens. He did not feel utterly aloof from them, nor alone in a waste, nor a useless atom amid incomprehensible forces. Something like a loosened mantle fell from about him, dropping down at his feet; and all at once he was conscious of freedom. He did not understand in the least why abasement left him, but it was so. He had come a long way, in bitterness, in despair, believing himself to be what men had called him. The desert and the stars and the wind, the silence of the night, the loneliness of this vast country where there was room for a thousand cities—these somehow vaguely, yet surely, bade him lift his head. They withheld their secret, but they made a promise. The thing which he had been feeling every day and every night was a strange enveloping comfort. And it was at this moment that Shefford, divining whence his help was to come, embraced all that wild and speaking nature around and above him and surrendered himself utterly.
“I am young. I am free. I have my life to live,” he said. “I’ll be a man. I’ll take what comes. Let me learn here!”
When he had spoken out, settled once and for ever his attitude toward his future, he seemed to be born again, wonderfully alive to the influences around him, ready to trust what yet remained a mystery.
Then his thoughts reverted to Fay Larkin. Could this girl be known to the Mormons? It was possible. Fay Larkin was an unusual name. Deep into Shefford’s heart had sunk the story Venters had told. Shefford found that he had unconsciously created a like romance—he had been loving a wild