to make me a missionary among my
own people. But the white man's ways and his life and his God are not
the Indian's. They never can be."

How strangely productive of thought for Shefford to hear the Indian
talk! What fatality in this meeting and friendship! Upon Nas Ta Bega had
been forced education, training, religion, that had made him something
more and something less than an Indian. It was something assimilated
from the white man which made the Indian unhappy and alien in his own
home--something meant to be good for him and his kind that had ruined
him. For Shefford felt the passion and the tragedy of this Navajo.

"Bi Nai, the Indian is dying!" Nas Ta Bega's low voice was deep and
wonderful with its intensity of feeling. "The white man robbed the
Indian of lands and homes, drove him into the deserts, made him a gaunt
and sleepless spiller of blood.... The blood is all spilled now, for
the Indian is broken. But the white man sells him rum and seduces his
daughters.... He will not leave the Indian in peace with his own God!...
Bi Nai, the Indian is dying!"

. . . . . . . . . . .

That night Shefford lay in his blankets out under the open sky and the
stars. The earth had never meant much to him, and now it was a bed. He
had preached of the heavens, but until now had never studied them. An
Indian slept beside him. And not until the gray of morning had blotted
out the starlight did Shefford close his eyes.

. . . . . . . . . . .

With break of the next day came full, varied, and stirring incidents
to Shefford. He was strong, though unskilled at most kinds of outdoor
tasks. Withers had work for ten men, if they could have been found.
Shefford dug and packed and lifted till he was so sore and tired that
rest was a blessing.

He never succeeded in getting on a friendly footing with the Mormon
Whisner, though he kept up his agreeable and kindly advances. He
listened to the trader's wife as she told him about the Indians, and
what he learned he did not forget. And his wonder and respect increased
in proportion to his knowledge.

One day there rode into Kayenta the Mormon for whom Withers had been
waiting. His name was Joe Lake. He appeared young, and slipped off his
superb bay with a grace and activity that were astounding in one of his
huge bulk. He had a still, smooth face, with the color of red bronze and
the expression of a cherub; big, soft, dark eyes; and a winning smile.
He was surprisingly different from W