“What's more, gentlemen, he GOT her,” added Shefford. “Glen Naspa has not been home for six months. I saw her at Blue canyon.... I would like to face this Willetts before you all.”
“Easy enough,” replied Withers, with a grim chuckle. “He's just outside.”
The trader went out; Joe Lake followed at his heels and the three Mormons were next; Shefford brought up the rear and lingered in the door while his eye swept the crowd of men and Indians. His feeling was in direct contrast to his movements. He felt the throbbing of fierce anger. But it seemed a face came between him and his passion—a sweet and tragic face that would have had power to check him in a vastly more critical moment than this. And in an instant he had himself in hand, and, strangely, suddenly felt the strength that had come to him.
Willetts stood in earnest colloquy with a short, squat Indian—the half-breed Shadd. They leaned against a hitching-rail. Other Indians were there, and outlaws. It was a mixed group, rough and hard-looking.
“Hey, Willetts!” called the trader, and his loud, ringing voice, not pleasant, stilled the movement and sound.
When Willetts turned, Shefford was half-way across the wide walk. The missionary not only saw him, but also Nas Ta Bega, who was striding forward. Joe Lake was ahead of the trader, the Mormons followed with decision, and they all confronted Willetts. He turned pale. Shadd had cautiously moved along the rail, nearer to his gang, and then they, with the others of the curious crowd, drew closer.
“Willetts, here's Shefford. Now say it to his face!” declared the trader. He was angry and evidently wanted the fact known, as well as the situation.
Willetts had paled, but he showed boldness. For an instant Shefford studied the smooth face, with its sloping lines, the dark, wine-colored eyes.
“Willetts, I understand you've maligned me to Bishop Kane and others,” began Shefford, curtly.
“I called you an atheist,” returned the missionary, harshly.