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Updated: May 23, 2025
Shefford sensed in him a measureless grief, an impenetrable gloom, a tragic acceptance of the meaning of Glen Naspa's ruin and death the vanishing of his race from the earth. Death had written the law of such bitter truth round Glen Naspa's lips, and the same truth was here in the grandeur and gloom of the Navajo.
"If he crosses my trail I think I couldn't help but kill him," muttered Shefford in a passion that wrung the threat from him. The Indian put his arm round the white man's shoulders. "Bi Nai, long ago I made you my brother. And now you make me your brother. Is it not so? Glen Naspa's spirit calls for wisdom, not revenge. Willetts must be a bad man. But we'll let him live. Life will punish him.
The desert had certainly not made him flint. He had not toiled or suffered or fought. "But I can hurt you," thundered Shefford, with startling suddenness. "Here! Look at this Indian! Do you know him? Glen Naspa's brother. Look at him. Let us see you face him while I accuse you.... You made love to Glen Naspa took her from her home!" "Harping infidel!" replied Willetts, hoarsely.
At her side, half hidden under the fold of blanket, lay a tiny bundle. Its human shape startled Shefford. Then he did not need to be told the tragedy. When he looked again at Glen Naspa's face he seemed to understand all that had made her older, to feel the pain that had lined and set her lips. She was dead, and she was the last of Nas Ta Bega's family.
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