“Blue canyon! She went to the missionary. Nas Ta Bega, I thought I saw her there. But I wasn't sure. I didn't want to make sure. I was afraid it might be true.”
“A brave who loved my sister trailed her there.”
“Nas Ta Bega, will you—will we go find her, take her home?”
“No. She will come home some day.”
What bitter sadness and wisdom in his words!
“But, my friend, that damned missionary—” began Shefford, passionately. The Indian had met him at a bad hour.
“Willetts is here. I saw him go in there,” interrupted Nas Ta Bega, and he pointed to the hall.
“Here! He gets around a good deal,” declared Shefford. “Nas Ta Bega, what are you going to do to him?”
The Indian held his peace and there was no telling from his inscrutable face what might be in his mind. He was dark, impassive. He seemed a wise and bitter Indian, beyond any savagery of his tribe, and the suffering Shefford divined was deep.
“He'd better keep out of my sight,” muttered Shefford, more to himself than to his companion.