Shefford. "But--if old Hosteen Doetin objects to the girl leaving, and
if Nas Ta Bega does the same, won't that end the matter?"

"Reckon not. The end of the matter is Glen Naspa. If she wants to go
she'll go."

Shefford thought best to drop the discussion. For the first time he had
occasion to be repelled by something in this kind and genial Mormon,
and he wanted to forget it. Just as he had never talked about men to the
sealed wives in the hidden valley, so he could not talk of women to Joe
Lake.

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 hors