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Updated: May 28, 2025
He spoke the word reluctantly, as if the white man's language did not please him, but the clearness and correct pronunciation surprised Shefford. "What name what call her?" he went on. "Glen Naspa." "What your name?" inquired Shefford, indicating the Indian. "Nas Ta Bega," answered the Indian. "Navajo?" The Indian bowed with what seemed pride and stately dignity. "My name John Shefford.
Nas Ta Bega rose then and walked away into the shadow. Shefford heard him working around the dead cedar-tree, where he had probably gone to get fire-wood. Then Shefford heard a splintering crash, which was followed by a crunching, bumping sound. Presently he was astounded to see the Indian enter the lighted circle dragging the whole cedar-tree, trunk first.
It was astonishing how much action they had, how much ground they could cover with their forefeet hobbled together. They were exceedingly skilful; they lifted both forefeet at once, and then plunged. And they all went in different directions. Nas Ta Bega darted in here and there to head off escape. Shefford pulled on his boots and went out to help.
Down the length of one sage level Shefford saw a long lane where the brush and the grass had been beaten flat. This, the Navajo said, was a track where the young braves had raced their mustangs and had striven for supremacy before the eyes of maidens and the old people of the tribe. "Nas Ta Bega, did you ever race here?" asked Shefford. "I am a chief by birth.
Again the canyon opened to view. All the walls were pale and steely and the stone bridge loomed dark. Nas Ta Bega said camp would be made at the bridge, which was now close. Just before they reached it the Navajo halted with one of his singular actions. Then he stood motionless. Shefford realized that Nas Ta Bega was saying his prayer to this great stone god.
Shefford eagerly asked for the horses, and Nas Ta Bega silently pointed down the niche, which was evidently an opening into one of the shallow canyon. Then he led the way, walking swiftly. It was Shefford, and not Fay, who had difficulty in keeping close to him. This speed caused Shefford to become more alive to the business, instead of the feeling, of the flight.
That's at the head of Marble Canyon. We'll get out on the south side of the river, thus avoiding any Mormons at the ferry. Nas Ta Bega knows the country. It's open desert on the other side of these plateaus. He can get horses from Navajos. Then you'll strike south for Willow Springs." "Willow Springs? That's Presbrey's trading-post," said Shefford. "Never met him.
Shefford, you stand ready to bail out with the shovel, for we'll sure ship water. Nas Ta Bega, you help here with the oar." The roar became a heavy, continuous rumble; the current quickened; little streaks and ridges seemed to race along the boat; strange gurglings rose from under the bow. Shefford stood on tiptoe to see the break in the river below.
It could not be Withers, for the trader was in Durango at that time. Shefford thought of Willetts and Shadd. "Who's coming?" he asked low of the Indian. Nas Ta Bega pointed down the trail without speaking. Shefford peered through the white dim haze of starlight and presently he made out moving figures. Horses, with riders a string of them one two three four five and he counted up to eleven.
Gone despite the fact that Nas Ta Bega had reported every trail free of watchers! There was no sign of any spies, cowboys, outlaws, or Indians in the vicinity of the valley. A passionate gratitude to the Mormon overcame Shefford; and the unreasonableness of it, the nature of it, perturbed him greatly.
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