The Indian bowed with what seemed pride and stately dignity.
“My name John Shefford. Come far way back toward rising sun. Come stay here long.”
Nas Ta Bega's dark eyes were fixed steadily upon Shefford. He reflected that he could not remember having felt so penetrating a gaze. But neither the Indian's eyes nor face gave any clue to his thoughts.
“Navajo no savvy Jesus Christ,” said the Indian, and his voice rolled out low and deep.
Shefford felt both amaze and pain. The Indian had taken him for a missionary.
“No!... Me no missionary,” cried Shefford, and he flung up a passionately repudiating hand.
A singular flash shot from the Indian's dark eyes. It struck Shefford even at this stinging moment when the past came back.
“Trade—buy wool—blanket?” queried Nas Ta Bega.
“No,” replied Shefford. “Me want ride—walk far.” He waved his hand to indicate a wide sweep of territory. “Me sick.”
Nas Ta Bega laid a significant finger upon his lungs.