conscious
of freedom. He did not understand in the least why abasement left
him, but it was so. He had come a long way, in bitterness, in despair,
believing himself to be what men had called him. The desert and the
stars and the wind, the silence of the night, the loneliness of this
vast country where there was room for a thousand cities--these somehow
vaguely, yet surely, bade him lift his head. They withheld their secret,
but they made a promise. The thing which he had been feeling every day
and every night was a strange enveloping comfort. And it was at this
moment that Shefford, divining whence his help was to come, embraced
all that wild and speaking nature around and above him and surrendered
himself utterly.

"I am young. I am free. I have my life to live," he said. "I'll be a
man. I'll take what comes. Let me learn here!"

When he had spoken out, settled once and for ever his attitude toward
his future, he seemed to be born again, wonderfully alive to the
influences around him, ready to trust what yet remained a mystery.

Then his thoughts reverted to Fay Larkin. Could this girl be known to
the Mormons? It was possible. Fay Larkin was an unusual name. Deep into
Shefford's heart had sunk the story Venters had told. Shefford found
that he had unconsciously created a like romance--he had been loving a
wild and strange and lonely girl, like beautiful Bess Venters. It was
a shock to learn the truth, but, as it had been only a dream, it could
hardly be vital.

Shefford retraced his steps toward the post. Halfway back he espied a
tall, dark figure moving toward him, and presently the shape and the
step seemed familiar. Then he recognized Nas Ta Bega. Soon they were
face to face. Shefford felt that the Indian had been trailing him over
the sand, and that this was to be a significant meeting. Remembering
Withers's revelation about the Navajo, Shefford scarcely knew how to
approach him now. There was no difference to be made out in Nas Ta
Bega's dark face and inscrutable eyes, yet there was a difference to be
felt in his presence. But the Indian did not speak, and turned to walk
by Shefford's side. Shefford could not long be silent.

"Nas Ta Bega, were you looking for me?" he asked.

"You had no gun," replied the Indian.

But for his very low voice, his slow speaking of the words, Shefford
would have thought him a white man. For Shefford there was indeed an
instinct in this meeting, and he turned to face the Nava