"But they are hostile."

"Not to him." She pointed at the stalwart figure standing against the
firelight.

"Ah! I remember. The man Cole spoke of friendly Navajos. They must be
close by. What does it mean?"

"I'm not sure. I think they are out there in the cedars, waiting."

"Waiting! For what?"

"Perhaps for a signal."

"Then they were expected?"

"I don't know; I only guess. We used to ride often to White Sage and
Lund; now we go seldom, and when we do there seem to be Navajos near the
camp at night, and riding the ridges by day. I believe Father Naab
knows."

"Your father's risking much for me. He's good. I wish I could show my
gratitude."

"I call him Father Naab, but he is not my father."

"A niece or granddaughter, then?"

"I'm no relation. Father Naab raised me in his family. My mother was a
Navajo, my father a Spaniard."