emen 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?

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.

"Wille