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Updated: June 15, 2025
They were very cordial and pleasant in their greetings to Shefford. Presently another, somewhat younger, man joined the group, a stalwart, jovial fellow with ruddy face. There was certainly no mistaking his kindly welcome as he shook Shefford's hand. His name was Beal. The three stood round the camp-fire for a while, evidently glad of the presence of fellow-men and to hear news from the outside.
Instead there was the feeling of space, of emptiness, of an infinite hall down which a mournful wind swept streams of murmuring sand. "Well, grub's about ready," said Presbrey. "Got any water?" asked Shefford. "Sure. There in the bucket. It's rain-water. I have a tank here." Shefford's sore and blistered face felt better after he had washed off the sand and alkali dust.
"Joe what will they do with Mary?" she queried, tensely. The Mormon studied her with dark, speculative eyes. "Hang her!" he rejoined in brutal harshness. "O Mother of Saints!" she cried, and her hands went up. "You're sorry for Mary, then?" asked Joe, bluntly. "My heart is breaking for her." "Well, so's Shefford's," said the Mormon, huskily. "And mine's kind of damn shaky."
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.
He got too close to the gray mare and, warned by a yell from Withers, he jumped back just in time to avoid her vicious heels. Then Shefford turned his attention to Nack-yal and chased him all over the flat in a futile effort to catch him. Nas Ta Bega came to Shefford's assistance and put a rope over Nack-yal's head.
In passing he laid a heavy hand on Shefford's shoulder. "Well, you got out. I've only a queer notion how. But SOME ONE besides an Indian and a Mormon guided you out!... Be good to the girl.... Good-by, pard!" Shefford grasped the big hand and in the emotion of the moment did not catch the significance of Joe's last words.
Quick thuds of hoofs in sand drew Shefford's attention to a corral made of peeled poles, and here he saw another pony. Shefford heard subdued voices. He dismounted and walked to an open door. In the dark interior he dimly descried a high counter, a stairway, a pile of bags of flour, blankets, and silver-ornamented objects, but the persons he had heard were not in that part of the house.
I flashed a candle in his face. I saw it. I know him now. He was there at Stonebridge with us, and I never knew him. But I know him now. His name is " "For God's sake don't tell me who he is!" implored Shefford. Ignorance was Shefford's safeguard against himself.
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.
They folded the tarpaulin three times, and with stout pieces of split plank and horseshoe nails from Shefford's saddle-bags and pieces of rope they rigged up a screen around bow and front corners. Nas Ta Bega put the saddles in the boat. The mustangs were far up Nonnezoshe Boco and would work their way back to green and luxuriant canyons.
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