And this, thought Shefford in revolt, was what the white man had killed in the Indian tribes, was reaching out now to kill in this wild remnant of the Navajos. The padre, the trapper, the trader, the prospector, and the missionary—so the white man had come, some of him good, no doubt, but more of him evil; and the young brave learned a thirst that could never be quenched at the cold, sweet spring of his forefathers, and the young maiden burned with a fever in her blood, and lost the sweet, strange, wild fancies of her tribe.
. . . . . . . . . . .
Joe Lake came to Shefford and said, “Withers told me you had a mix-up with a missionary at Red Lake.”
“Yes, I regret to say,” replied Shefford.
“About Glen Naspa?”
“Yes, Nas Ta Bega's sister.”
“Withers just mentioned it. Who was the missionary?”
“Willetts, so Presbrey, the trader, said.”
“What'd he look like?”
Shefford recalled the smooth, brown face, the dark eyes, the weak chin, the mild expression, and the soft, lax figure of the missionary.