In spite of the fact that the majority of these cowboys and their comrades were decent-minded and beginning to see the real relation of things, they were not disposed to be civil to Shefford. They were certainly not Mormons. And his position, apparently as a Gentile, among these Mormons was one open to criticism. They might have been jealous, too; at any rate, remarks were passed in his hearing, meant for his ears, that made it exceedingly trying for him not to resent. Moreover, Joe Lake's increasing impatience rendered the situation more difficult. Shefford welcomed the arrival of Nas Ta Bega. The Indian listened to the loud talk of several loungers round the camp-fire; and thereafter he was like Shefford's shadow, silent, somber, watchful. Nevertheless, it did not happen to be one of the friendly and sarcastic cowboys that precipitated the crisis. A horse-wrangler named Hurley, a man of bad repute, as much outlaw as anything, took up the bantering. “Say, Shefford, what in the hell's your job here, anyway?” he queried as he kicked a cedar branch into the camp-fire. The brightening blaze showed him swarthy, unshaven, a large-featured, ugly man. “I've been doing odd jobs for Withers,” replied Shefford. “Expect to drive pack-trains in here for a while.” “You must stand strong with these Mormons. Must be a Mormon yerself?” “No,” replied Shefford, briefly. “Wal, I'm stuck on your job. Do you need a packer? I can throw a diamond-hitch better 'n any feller in this country.” “I don't need help.” “Mebbe you'll take me over to see the ladies,” he went on, with a coarse laugh. Shefford did not show that he had heard. Hurley waited, leering as looked from the keen listeners to Shefford. “Want to have them all yerself, eh?” he jeered. Shefford struck him--sent him tumbling heavily, like a log. Hurley, cursing as he half rose, jerked his gun out. Nas Ta Bega, swift as light, kicked the gun out of his hand. And Joe Lake picked it up. Deliberately the Mormon cocked the weapon and stood over Hurley. “Get up!” he ordered, and Shefford heard the ruthless Mormon in him then. Hurley rose slowly. Then Joe prodded him in the middle with the cocked gun. Shefford startled, expected the gun to go off. So did the others, especially Hurley, who shrank in panic from the dark Mormon. “Rustle!” said Joe, and gave the man a harder prod. Assuredly the gun did not have a hair-trigger. “Joe, mebbe it's loaded!” protested one of the cowboys. Hurley shrank back, and turned to hurry away, with Joe close after him. They disappeared in the darkness. A constrained silence was maintained around the camp-fire for a while. Presently some of the men walked off and others began to converse. Everybody heard the sound of hoofs passing down the trail. The patter ceased, and in a few moments Lake returned. He still carried Hurley's gun.