"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.

"No," replied Shefford. "Me strong. Sick here." And with motions of
his hands he tried to show that his was a trouble of the heart.

Shefford received instant impression of this Indian's intelligent
comprehension, but he could not tell just what had given him the
feeling. Nas Ta Bega rose then and walked away into the shadow.
Shefford heard him working around the dead cedar-tree, where he had
probably gone to get fire-wood. Then Shefford heard a splintering
crash, which was followed by a crunching, bumping sound. Presently he
was astounded to see the Indian enter the lighted circle dragging the
whole cedar-tree, trunk first. Shefford would have doubted the ability
of two men to drag that tree, and here came Nas Ta Bega, managing it
easily. He laid the trunk on the fire, and then proceeded to break
off small branches, to place them advantageously where the red coals
kindled them into a blaze.