," he said, hurriedly, huskily. "I
haven't had a chance. I love you. I--I ask you--will you be my wife?"

"Of course," she said, simply, but the white, moon-blanched face colored
with a dark and leaping blush.

"We'll be married as soon as we get out of the desert," he went on. "And
we'll forget--all--all that's happened. You're so young. You'll forget."

"I'd forgotten already, till this difference came in you. And pretty
soon--when I can say something more to you--I'll forget all except
Surprise Valley--and my evenings in the starlight with you."

"Say it then--quick!"

She was leaning against him, holding his hands in her strong clasp,
soulful, tender, almost passionate.

"You couldn't help it.... I'm to blame.... I remember what I said."

"What?" he queried in amaze.

"'YOU CAN KILL HIM!'... I said that. I made you kill him."

"Kill--whom?" cried Shefford.

"Waggoner. I'm to blame.... That must be what's made you different.
And, oh, I've wanted you to know it's all my fault.... But I wouldn't be
sorry if you weren't.... I'm glad he's dead."

"YOU--THINK--I--" Shefford's gasping whisper failed in the shock of
the revelation that Fay believed he had killed Waggoner. Then with the
inference came the staggering truth--her guiltlessness; and a paralyzing
joy held him stricken.

A powerful hand fell upon Shefford's shoulder, startling him. Nas Ta
Bega stood there, looking down upon him and Fay. Never had the Indian
seemed so dark, inscrutable of face. But in his magnificent bearing, in
the spirit that Shefford sensed in him, there were nobility and power
and a strange pride.

The Indian kept one hand on Shefford's shoulder, and with the other
he struck himself on the breast. The action was that of an Indian,
impressive and stern, significant of an Indian's prowess.

"My God!" breathed Shefford, very low.

"Oh, what does he mean?" cried Fay.

Shefford held her with shaking hands, trying to speak, to fight a way
out of these stultifying emotions.

"Nas Ta Bega--you heard. She thinks--I killed Waggoner!"

All about the Navajo then was dark and solemn disproof of her belief.
He did not need to speak. His repetition of that savage, almost boastful
blow on his breast added only to the dignity, and not to the denial, of
a warrior.

"Fay, he means he killed the Mormon," said Shefford. "He must have, for
_I_ did not!"

"Ah!" murmured Fay, and she leaned to him with passionate, quivering
gladness. It was t