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Updated: June 28, 2025
We both made a bound together, went off the trunk sidewise, and Pomp struggled up, tore off his shirt and drawers, and began to beat and shake them, and then peep inside, pausing every moment to have a rub; while I, without going to his extreme, was doing the best I could to rid myself of my pain. "Nas' lil fing!" cried Pomp, stamping on something in the grass.
Nas ta Bega kept on at a steady gait. The sun climbed. The wind rose and whipped dust from under the mustangs. There is seldom much talk on a ride of this nature. It is hard work and everybody for himself. Besides, it is enough just to see; and that country is conducive to silence.
He waved his hand to indicate a wide sweep of territory. "Me sick." Nas Ta Bega laid a significant finger upon his lungs. "No," replied Shefford. "Me strong. Sick here." And with motions of his hands he tried to show that his was a trouble of the heart. Shefford received instant impression of this Indian's intelligent comprehension, but he could not tell just what had given him the feeling.
Nas Ta Bega, then, was the one to whom Shefford looked for every decision or action of the immediate future. The Indian said he had seen a pool of water in a rocky hole, that the day was spent, that here was a little grass for the mustangs, and it would be well to camp right there.
When Shefford and Nas Ta Bega returned to the town hall the trial had been ended, the hall was closed, and only a few Indians and cowboys remained in the square, and they were about to depart. On the street, however, and the paths and in the doorways of stores were knots of people, talking earnestly. Shefford walked up and down, hoping to meet Withers or Joe Lake.
"Bi Nai," he said, with the beautiful sonorous roll in his voice, "Glen Naspa is in her grave and there are no paths to the place of her sleep. Glen Naspa is gone." "Gone! Where? Nas Ta Bega, remember I lost my own faith, and I have not yet learned yours." "The Navajo has one mother the earth. Her body has gone to the earth and it will become dust. But her spirit is in the air.
There was something in it besides music what, he could not tell sadness, depth, something like that in Nas Ta Bega's beauty springing from disuse. But this seemed absurd. Why should he imagine her voice one that had not been used as freely as any other woman's? She was a Mormon; very likely, almost surely, she was a sealed wife.
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.
He believed what he preached, but that would not stand logic. He taught blindness and mostly it appeared to be directed at the women. Was there no religion divorced from power, no religion as good for one man as another, no religion in the spirit of brotherly love? Shefford kept in mind an intention to ask Nas Ta Bega what he thought of the Mormons.
So while Nas Ta Bega attended to the mustangs Shefford set about such preparations for camp and supper as their light pack afforded. The question of beds was easily answered, for the mats of soft needles under pinyon and cedar would be comfortable places to sleep. When Shefford felt free again the sun was setting. Lassiter and Jane were walking under the trees. The Indian had returned to camp.
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