break off small branches, to
place them advantageously where the red coals kindled them into a blaze.

The Indian's next move was to place his saddle, which he evidently meant
to use for a pillow. Then he spread a goat-skin on the ground, lay
down upon it, with his back to the fire, and, pulling a long-haired
saddle-blanket over his shoulders, he relaxed and became motionless. His
sister, Glen Naspa, did likewise, except that she stayed farther away
from the fire, and she had a larger blanket, which covered her well. It
appeared to Shefford that they went to sleep at once.

Shefford felt as tired as he had ever been, but he did not think he
could soon drop into slumber, and in fact he did not want to.

There was something in the companionship of these Indians that he had
not experienced before. He still had a strange and weak feeling--the
aftermath of that fear which had sickened him with its horrible icy
grip. Nas Ta Bega's arrival had frightened away that dark and silent
prowler of the night; and Shefford was convinced the Indian had saved
his life. The measure of his gratitude was a source of wonder to him.
Had he cared so much for life? Yes--he had, when face to face with
death. That was something to know. It helped him. And he gathered from
his strange feeling that the romantic quest which had brought him
into the wilderness might turn out to be an antidote for the morbid
bitterness of heart.

With new sensations had come new thoughts. Right then it was very
pleasant to sit in the warmth and light of the roaring cedar fire. There
was a deep-seated ache of fatigue in his bones. What joy it was to rest!
He had felt the dry scorch of desert thirst and the pang of hunger.
How wonderful to learn the real meaning of water and food! He had just
finished the longest, hardest day's work of his life! Had that anything
to do with a something almost like peace which seemed to hover near in
the shadows, trying to come to him? He had befriended an Indian girl,
and now her brother had paid back the service. Both the giving and
receiving were somehow sweet to Shefford. They opened up hitherto vague
channels of thought. For years he had imagined he was serving people,
when he had never lifted a hand. A blow given in the defense of an
Indian girl had somehow operated to make a change in John Shefford's
existence. It had liberated a spirit in him. Moreover, it had worked its
influence outside his mind. The Indian girl and her bro