“We were sitting beside the fire. I saw you walking under the cedars. You seemed thoughtful. That keen Indian watched you, and he said to me in Navajo, 'Bi Nai has lost his God. He has come far to find a wife. Nas Ta Bega is his brother.'... He meant he'll find both God and wife for you. I don't know about that, but I say take the Indian as he thinks he is--your brother. Long before I knew Nas Ta Bega well my wife used to tell me about him. He's a sage and a poet--the very spirit of this desert. He's worth cultivating for his own sake. But more--remember, if Fay Larkin is still shut in that valley the Navajo will find her for you.” “I shall take Nas Ta Bega as my brother--and be proud,” replied Shefford. “There's another thing. Do you intend to confide in Joe?” “I hadn't thought of that.” “Well, it might be a good plan. But wait until you know him better and he knows you. He's ready to fight for you now. He's taken your trouble to heart. You wouldn't think Joe is deeply religious. Yet he is. He may never breathe a word about religion to you.... Now, Shefford, go ahead. You've struck a trail. It's rough, but it'll make a man of you. It'll lead somewhere.” “I'm singularly fortunate--I--who had lost all friends. Withers, I am grateful. I'll prove it. I'll show--” Withers's upheld hand checked further speech, and Shefford realized that beneath the rough exterior of this desert trader there was fine feeling. These men of crude toil and wild surroundings were beginning to loom up large in Shefford's mind. The day began leisurely. The men were yet at breakfast when the women of the village began to come one by one to the spring. Joe Lake made friendly and joking remarks to each. And as each one passed on down the path he poised a biscuit in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, and with his head cocked sidewise like an owl he said, “Reckon I've got to get me a woman like her.” Shefford saw and heard, yet he was all the time half unconsciously watching with strange eagerness for a white figure to appear. At last he saw her--the same girl with the hood, the same swift step. A little shock or quiver passed over him, and at the moment all that was explicable about it was something associated with regret. Joe Lake whistled and stared. “I haven't met her,” he muttered. “That's the Sago Lily,” said Withers. “Reckon I'm going to carry that bucket,” went on Joe. “And queer yourself with all the other women who've been to the spring? Don't do it, Joe,” advised the trader. “But her bucket's bigger,” protested Joe, weakly. “That's true. But you ought to know Mormons. If she'd come first, all right. As she didn't--why, don't single her out.”