The cracking of hard hoofs on stones caused him to turn toward camp, and as he emerged from the cedar grove he saw three Indian horsemen ride into the cleared space before the hogans. They were superbly mounted and well armed, and impressed him as being different from Navajos. Perhaps they were Piutes. They dismounted and led the mustangs down to the pool below the spring. Shefford saw another mustang, standing bridle down and carrying a pack behind the saddle. Some squaws with children hanging behind their skirts were standing at the door of Hosteen Doetin's hogan. Shefford glanced in to see Glen Naspa, pale, quiet, almost sullen. Willetts stood with his hands spread. The old Navajo's seamed face worked convulsively as he tried to lift his bent form to some semblance of dignity, and his voice rolled out, sonorously: “Me no savvy Jesus Christ! Me hungry! ... Me no eat Jesus Christ!”
Shefford drew back as if he had received a blow. That had been Hosteen Doetin's reply to the importunities of the missionary. The old Navajo could work no longer. His sons were gone. His squaw was worn out. He had no one save Glen Naspa to help him. She was young, strong. He was hungry. What was the white man's religion to him?
With long, swift stride Shefford entered the hogan. Willetts, seeing him, did not look so mild as Shefford had him pictured in memory, nor did he appear surprised. Shefford touched Hosteen Doetin's shoulder and said, “Tell me.”
The aged Navajo lifted a shaking hand.
“Me no savvy Jesus Christ! Me hungry!... Me no eat Jesus Christ!”
Shefford then made signs that indicated the missionary's intention to take the girl away. “Him come—big talk—Jesus—all Jesus.... Me no want Glen Naspa go,” replied the Indian.
Shefford turned to the missionary.
“Willetts, is he a relative of the girl?”
“There's some blood tie, I don't know what. But it's not close,” replied Willetts.
“Then don't you think you'd better wait till Nas Ta Bega returns? He's her brother.”