“But they are hostile.”
“Not to him.” She pointed at the stalwart figure standing against the firelight.
“Ah! I remember. The man Cole spoke of friendly Navajos. They must be close by. What does it mean?”
“I'm not sure. I think they are out there in the cedars, waiting.”
“Waiting! For what?”
“Perhaps for a signal.”
“Then they were expected?”
“I don't know; I only guess. We used to ride often to White Sage and Lund; now we go seldom, and when we do there seem to be Navajos near the camp at night, and riding the ridges by day. I believe Father Naab knows.”
“Your father's risking much for me. He's good. I wish I could show my gratitude.”
“I call him Father Naab, but he is not my father.”