“It might be. But, Bi Nai, the half-breed has a strange step on your trail.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Shefford.
“Nas Ta Bega cannot tell what he does not know,” replied the Navajo. “Let that be. We shall know some day. Bi Nai, there is sorrow to tell that is not the Indian's.... Sorrow for my brother!”
Shefford lifted his eyes to the Indian's, and if he did not see sadness there he was much deceived.
“Bi Nai, long ago you told a story to the trader. Nas Ta Bega sat before the fire that night. You did not know he could understand your language. He listened. And he learned what brought you to the country of the Indian. That night he made you his brother.... All his lonely rides into the canyon have been to find the little golden-haired child, the lost girl—Fay Larkin.... Bi Nai, I have found the girl you wanted for your sweetheart.”
Shefford was bereft of speech. He could not see steadily, and the last solemn words of the Indian seemed far away.
“Bi Nai, I have found Fay Larkin,” repeated Nas Ta Bega.
“Fay Larkin!” gasped Shefford, shaking his head. “But—she's dead.”
“It would be less sorrow for Bi Nai if she were dead.”
Shefford clutched at the Indian. There was something terrible to be revealed. Like an aspen-leaf in the wind he shook all over. He divined the revelation—divined the coming blow—but that was as far as his mind got.