The Rainbow Trail

by Zane Grey

  VIII. THE HOGAN OF NAS TA BEGA

  The home of Nas Ta Bega lay far up the cedared slope, with the craggyyellow cliffs and the black canyon and the pine-fringed top of NavajoMountain behind, and to the fore the vast, rolling descent of cedargroves and sage flats and sandy washes. No dim, dark range made boldoutline along the horizon; the stretch of gray and purple and greenextended to the blue line of sky.

  Down the length of one sage level Shefford saw a long lane where thebrush and the grass had been beaten flat. This, the Navajo said, was atrack where the young braves had raced their mustangs and had strivenfor supremacy before the eyes of maidens and the old people of thetribe.

  "Nas Ta Bega, did you ever race here?" asked Shefford.

  "I am a chief by birth. But I was stolen from my home, and now I cannotride well enough to race the braves of my tribe," the Indian replied,bitterly.

  In another place Joe Lake halted his horse and called Shefford'sattention to a big yellow rock lying along the trail. And then he spokein Navajo to the Indian.

  "I've heard of this stone--Isende Aha," said Joe, after Nas Ta Bega hadspoken. "Get down, and let's see." Shefford dismounted, but the Indiankept his seat in the saddle.

  Joe placed a big hand on the stone and tried to move it. According toShefford's eye measurement the stone was nearly oval, perhaps three feethigh, by a little over two in width. Joe threw off his sombrero, took adeep breath, and, bending over, clasped the stone in his arms. He was anexceedingly heavy and powerful man, and it was plain to Shefford thathe meant to lift the stone if that were possible. Joe's broad shouldersstrained, flattened; his arms bulged, his joints cracked, his neckcorded, and his face turned black. By gigantic effort he lifted thestone and moved it about six inches. Then as he released his hold hefell, and when he sat up his face was wet with sweat.

  "Try it," he said to Shefford, with his lazy smile. "See if you canheave it."

  Shefford was strong, and there had been a time when he took pride inhis strength. Something in Joe's supreme effort and in the gloom of theIndian's eyes made Shefford curious about this stone. He bent over andgrasped it as Joe had done. He braced himself and lifted with all hispower, until a red blur obscured his sight and shooting stars seemed toexplode in his head. But he could not even stir the stone.

  "Shefford, maybe you'll be able to heft it some day," observed Joe. Thenhe pointed to the stone and addressed Nas Ta Bega.

  The Indian shook his head and spoke for a moment.

  "This is the Isende Aha of the Navajos," explained Joe. "The youngbraves are always trying to carry this stone. As soon as one of them cancarry it he is a man. He who carries it farthest is the biggest man. Andjust so soon as any Indian can no longer lift it he is old. Nas TaBega says the stone has been carried two miles in his lifetime. His ownfather carried it the length of six steps."

  "Well! It's plain to me that I am not a man," said Shefford, "or else Iam old."

  Joe Lake drawled his lazy laugh and, mounting, rode up the trail. ButShefford lingered beside the Indian.

  "Bi Nai," said Nas Ta Bega, "I am a chief of my tribe, but I have neverbeen a man. I never lifted that stone. See what the pale-face educationhas done for the Indian!"

  The Navajo's bitterness made Shefford thoughtful. Could greater injurybe done to man than this--to rob him of his heritage of strength?

  Joe drove the bobbing pack-train of burros into the cedars where thesmoke of the hogans curled upward, and soon the whistling of mustangs,the barking of dogs, the bleating of sheep, told of his reception. Andpresently Shefford was in the midst of an animated scene. Great, woolly,fierce dogs, like wolves, ran out to meet the visitors. Sheep and goatswere everywhere, and little lambs scarcely able to walk, with othersfrisky and frolicsome. There were pure-white lambs, and some thatappeared to be painted, and some so beautiful with their fleecy whiteall except black faces or ears or tails or feet. They ran right underNack-yal's legs and bumped against Shefford, and kept bleating theirthin-piped welcome. Under the cedars surrounding the several hogans weremustangs that took Shefford's eye. He saw an iron-gray with white maneand tail sweeping to the ground; and a fiery black, wilder than anyother beast he had ever seen; and a pinto as wonderfully painted as thelittle lambs; and, most striking of all, a pure, cream-colored mustangwith grace and fine lines and beautiful mane and tail, and, strangeto see, eyes as blue as azure. This albino mustang came right up toShefford, an action in singular contrast with that of the others, andshowed a tame and friendly spirit toward him and Nack-yal. Indeed,Shefford had reason to feel ashamed of Nack-yal's temper or jealousy.

  The first Indians to put in an appearance were a flock of children, halfnaked, with tangled manes of raven-black hair and skin like gold bronze.They appeared bold and shy by turns. Then a little, sinewy man, oldand beaten and gray, came out of the principal hogan. He wore a blanketround his bent shoulders. His name was Hosteen Doetin, and it meantgentle man. His fine, old, wrinkled face lighted with a smile of kindlyinterest. His squaw followed him, and she was as venerable as he.Shefford caught a glimpse of the shy, dark Glen Naspa, Nas Ta Bega'ssister, but she did not come out. Other Indians appeared, coming fromadjacent hogans.

  Nas Ta Bega turned the mustangs loose among those Shefford had noticed,and presently there rose a snorting, whistling, kicking, plunging melee.A cloud of dust hid them, and then a thudding of swift hoofs told of arun through the cedars. Joe Lake began picking over stacks of goat-skinsand bags of wool that were piled against the hogan.

  "Reckon we'll have one grand job packing out this load," he growled."It's not so heavy, but awkward to pack."

  It developed, presently, from talk with the old Navajo, that this pilewas only a half of the load to be packed to Kayenta, and the other halfwas round the corner of the mountain in the camp of Piutes. HosteenDoetin said he would send to the camp and have the Piutes bring theirshare over. The suggestion suited Joe, who wanted to save his burros asmuch as possible. Accordingly, a messenger was despatched to the Piutecamp. And Shefford, with time on his hands and poignant memory tocombat, decided to recall his keen interest in the Navajo, and learn,if possible, what the Indian's life was like. What would a day of hisnatural life be?

  In the gray of dawn, when the hush of the desert night still lay deepover the land, the Navajo stirred in his blanket and began to chant tothe morning light. It began very soft and low, a strange, broken murmur,like the music of a brook, and as it swelled that weird and mournfultone was slowly lost in one of hope and joy. The Indian's soul wascoming out of night, blackness, the sleep that resembled death, into theday, the light that was life.

  Then he stood in the door of his hogan, his blanket around him, andfaced the east.

  Night was lifting out of the clefts and ravines; the rolling cedarridges and the sage flats were softly gray, with thin veils like smokemysteriously rising and vanishing; the colorless rocks were changing. Along, horizon-wide gleam of light, rosiest in the center, lay low downin the east and momentarily brightened. One by one the stars inthe deep-blue sky paled and went out and the blue dome changed andlightened. Night had vanished on invisible wings and silence broke tothe music of a mockingbird. The rose in the east deepened; a wisp ofcloud turned gold; dim distant mountains showed dark against the red;and low down in a notch a rim of fire appeared. Over the soft ridges andvalleys crept a wondrous transfiguration. It was as if every blade ofgrass, every leaf of sage, every twig of cedar, the flowers, the trees,the rocks came to life at sight of the sun. The red disk rose, and agolden fire burned over the glowing face of that lonely waste.

  The Navajo, dark, stately, inscrutable, faced the sun--his god. This washis Great Spirit. The desert was his mother, but the sun was his life.To the keeper of the winds and rains, to the master of light, to themaker of fire, to the giver of life the Navajo sent up his prayer:

  Of all the good things of the Earth let me always have plenty. Of all the beautiful things of the Earth let me always have plenty. Peacefully let my horses go and peacefully let my
sheep go. God of the Heavens, give me many sheep and horses. God of the Heavens, help me to talk straight. Goddess of the Earth, my Mother, let me walk straight. Now all is well, now all is well, now all is well, now all is well.

  Hope and faith were his.

  A chief would be born to save the vanishing tribe of Navajos. A bridewould rise from a wind--kiss of the lilies in the moonlight.

  He drank from the clear, cold spring bubbling from under mossy rocks.He went into the cedars, and the tracks in the trails told him of thevisitors of night. His mustangs whistled to him from the ridge-tops,standing clear with heads up and manes flying, and then trooped downthrough the sage. The shepherd-dogs, guardians of the flocks, barked hima welcome, and the sheep bleated and the lambs pattered round him.

  In the hogan by the warm, red fire his women baked his bread and cookedhis meat. And he satisfied his hunger. Then he took choice meat to thehogan of a sick relative, and joined in the song and the dance and theprayer that drove away the evil spirit of illness. Down in the valley,in a sandy, sunny place, was his corn-field, and here he turned in thewater from the ditch, and worked awhile, and went his contented way.

  He loved his people, his women, and his children. To his son he said:"Be bold and brave. Grow like the pine. Work and ride and play thatyou may be strong. Talk straight. Love your brother. Give half to yourfriend. Honor your mother that you may honor your wife. Pray and listento your gods."

  Then with his gun and his mustang he climbed the slope of the mountain.He loved the solitude, but he was never alone. There were voices on thewind and steps on his trail. The lofty pine, the lichened rock, the tinybluebell, the seared crag--all whispered their secrets. For him theirspirits spoke. In the morning light Old Stone Face, the mountain, was ared god calling him to the chase. He was a brother of the eagle, at homeon the heights where the winds swept and the earth lay revealed below.

  In the golden afternoon, with the warm sun on his back and the bluecanyon at his feet, he knew the joy of doing nothing. He did not needrest, for he was never tired. The sage-sweet breath of the open wasthick in his nostrils, the silence that had so many whisperings wasall about him, the loneliness of the wild was his. His falcon eye sawmustang and sheep, the puff of dust down on the cedar level, the Indianriding on a distant ridge, the gray walls, and the blue clefts. Here washome, still free, still wild, still untainted. He saw with the eyes ofhis ancestors. He felt them around him. They had gone into the elementsfrom which their voices came on the wind. They were the watchers on histrails.

  At sunset he faced the west, and this was his prayer:

  Great Spirit, God of my Fathers, Keep my horses in the night. Keep my sheep in the night. Keep my family in the night. Let me wake to the day. Let me be worthy of the light. Now all is well, now all is well, Now all is well, now all is well.

  And he watched the sun go down and the gold sink from the peaks and thered die out of the west and the gray shadows creep out of the canyonto meet the twilight and the slow, silent, mysterious approach of nightwith its gift of stars.

  Night fell. The white stars blinked. The wind sighed in the cedars. Thesheep bleated. The shepherd-dogs bayed the mourning coyotes. And theIndian lay down in his blankets with his dark face tranquil in thestarlight. All was well in his lonely world. Phantoms hovered, illnesslingered, injury and pain and death were there, the shadow of astrange white hand flitted across the face of the moon--but now all waswell--the Navajo had prayed to the god of his Fathers. Now all was well!

  . . . . . . . . . . .

  And this, thought Shefford in revolt, was what the white man had killedin the Indian tribes, was reaching out now to kill in this wild remnantof the Navajos. The padre, the trapper, the trader, the prospector, andthe 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 couldnever be quenched at the cold, sweet spring of his forefathers, andthe 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-upwith 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.

  "Can't tell by what you said," went on Joe. "But I'll bet a peso to ahorse-hair that's the fellow who's been here. Old Hosteen Doetin justtold me. First visits he ever had from the priest with the long gown.That's what he called the missionary. These old fellows will neverforget what's come down from father to son about the Spanish padres.Well, anyway, Willetts has been here twice after Glen Naspa. The oldchap is impressed, but he doesn't want to let the girl go. I'm inclinedto think Glen Naspa would as lief go as stay. She may be a Navajo, butshe's a girl. She won't talk much."

  "Where's Nas Ta Bega?" asked Shefford.

  "He rode off somewhere yesterday. Perhaps to the Piute camp. TheseIndians are slow. They may take a week to pack that load over here. Butif Nas Ta Bega or some one doesn't come with a message to-day I'll rideover there myself."

  "Joe, what do you think about this missionary?" queried Shefford,bluntly.

  "Reckon there's not much to think, unless you see him or find outsomething. I heard of Willetts before Withers spoke of him. He'sfriendly with Mormons. I understand he's worked for Mormon interests,someway or other. That's on the quiet. Savvy? This matter of him comingafter Glen Naspa, reckon that's all right. The missionaries all go afterthe young people. What'd be the use to try to convert the old Indians?No, the missionary's work is to educate the Indian, and, of course, theyounger he is the better."

  "You approve of the missionary?"

  "Shefford, if you understood a Mormon you wouldn't ask that. Did youever read or hear of Jacob Hamblin?... Well, he was a Mormon missionaryamong the Navajos. The Navajos were as fierce as Apaches till Hamblinworked among them. He made them friendly to the white man."

  "That doesn't prove he made converts of them," replied Shefford, stillbluntly.

  "No. For the matter of that, Hamblin let religion alone. He madepresents, then traded with them, then taught them useful knowledge.Mormon or not, Shefford, I'll admit this: a good man, strong withhis body, and learned in ways with his hands, with some knowledge ofmedicine, can better the condition of these Indians. But just as soonas he begins to preach his religion, then his influence wanes. That'snatural. These heathen have their ideals, their gods."

  "Which the white man should leave them!" replied Shefford, feelingly.

  "That's a matter of opinion. But don't let's argue.... Willetts is afterGlen Naspa. And if I know Indian girls he'll persuade her to go to hisschool."

  "Persuade her!" Then Shefford broke off and related the incident thathad occurred at Red Lake.

  "Reckon any means justifies the end," replied Joe, imperturbably. "Lethim talk love to her or rope her or beat her, so long as he makes aChristian of her."

  Shefford felt a hot flush and had difficulty in controlling himself.From this single point of view the Mormon was impossible to reason with.

  "That, too, is a matter of opinion. We won't discuss it," continuedShefford. "But--if old Hosteen Doetin objects to the girl leaving, andif Nas Ta Bega does the same, won't that end the matter?"

  "Reckon not. The end of the matter is Glen Naspa. If she wants to goshe'll go."

  Shefford thought best to drop the discussion. For the first time he hadoccasion to be repelled by something in this kind and genial Mormon,and he wanted to forget it. Just as he had never talked about men to thesealed wives in the hidden va
lley, so he could not talk of women to JoeLake.

  Nas Ta Bega did not return that day, but, next morning a messenger camecalling Lake to the Piute camp. Shefford spent the morning high on theslope, learning more with every hour in the silence and loneliness, thathe was stronger of soul than he had dared to hope, and that the addedpain which had come to him could be borne.

  Upon his return toward camp, in the cedar grove, he caught sight of GlenNaspa with a white man. They did not see him. When Shefford recognizedWilletts an embarrassment as well as an instinct made him halt and stepinto a bushy, low-branched cedar. It was not his intention to spy onthem. He merely wanted to avoid a meeting. But the missionary's handon the girl's arm, and her up-lifted head, her pretty face, strange,intent, troubled, struck Shefford with an unusual and irresistiblecuriosity. Willetts was talking earnestly; Glen Naspa was listeningintently. Shefford watched long enough to see that the girl loved themissionary, and that he reciprocated or was pretending. His mannerscarcely savored of pretense, Shefford concluded, as he slipped awayunder the trees.

  He did not go at once into camp. He felt troubled, and wished that hehad not encountered the two. His duty in the matter, of course, was totell Nas Ta Bega what he had seen. Upon reflection Shefford decided togive the missionary the benefit of a doubt; and if he really cared forthe Indian girl, and admitted or betrayed it, to think all the better ofhim for the fact. Glen Naspa was certainly pretty enough, and probablylovable enough, to please any lonely man in this desert. The pain andthe yearning in Shefford's heart made him lenient. He had to fighthimself--not to forget, for that was impossible--but to keep rationaland sane when a white flower-like face haunted him and a voice called.

  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 rideinto the cleared space before the hogans. They were superbly mounted andwell armed, and impressed him as being different from Navajos. Perhapsthey were Piutes. They dismounted and led the mustangs down to the poolbelow the spring. Shefford saw another mustang, standing bridle downand carrying a pack behind the saddle. Some squaws with children hangingbehind 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 faceworked convulsively as he tried to lift his bent form to some semblanceof dignity, and his voice rolled out, sonorously: "Me no savvy JesusChrist! Me hungry! ... Me no eat Jesus Christ!"

  Shefford drew back as if he had received a blow. That had been HosteenDoetin's reply to the importunities of the missionary. The old Navajocould work no longer. His sons were gone. His squaw was worn out. Hehad no one save Glen Naspa to help him. She was young, strong. He washungry. What was the white man's religion to him?

  With long, swift stride Shefford entered the hogan. Willetts, seeinghim, did not look so mild as Shefford had him pictured in memory, nordid he appear surprised. Shefford touched Hosteen Doetin's shoulder andsaid, "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 totake the girl away. "Him come--big talk--Jesus--all Jesus.... Me no wantGlen 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," repliedWilletts.

  "Then don't you think you'd better wait till Nas Ta Bega returns? He'sher brother."

  "What for?" demanded Willetts. "That Indian may be gone a week. She'swilling to accompany the missionary."

  Shefford looked at the girl.

  "Glen Naspa, do you want to go?"

  She was shy, ashamed, and silent, but manifestly willing to accompanythe missionary. Shefford pondered a moment. How he hoped Nas Ta Begawould come back! It was thought of the Indian that made Sheffordstubborn. What his stand ought to be was hard to define, unless heanswered to impulse; and here in the wilds he had become imbued with theidea that his impulses and instincts were no longer false.

  "Willetts, what do you want with the girl?" queried Shefford, coolly,and at the question he seemed to find himself. He peered deliberatelyand searchingly into the other's face. The missionary's gaze shifted anda tinge of red crept up from under his collar.

  "Absurd thing to ask a missionary!" he burst out, impatiently.

  "Do you care for Glen Naspa?"

  "I care as God's disciple--who cares to save the soul of heathen," hereplied, with the lofty tone of prayer.

  "Has Glen Naspa no--no other interest in you--except to be taughtreligion?"

  The missionary's face flamed, and his violent tremor showed that underhis exterior there was a different man.

  "What right have you to question me?" he demanded. "You're anadventurer--an outcast. I've my duty here. I'm a missionary with Churchand state and government behind me."

  "Yes, I'm an outcast," replied Shefford, bitterly. "And you may be allyou say. But we're alone now out here on the desert. And this girl'sbrother is absent. You haven't answered me yet.... Is there anythingbetween you and Glen Naspa except religion?"

  "No, you insulting beggar?"

  Shefford had forced the reply that he had expected and which damned themissionary beyond any consideration.

  "Willetts, you are a liar!" said Shefford, steadily.

  "And what are you?" cried Willetts, in shrill fury. "I've heard allabout you. Heretic! Atheist! Driven from your Church! Hated and scornedfor your blasphemy!"

  Then he gave way to ungovernable rage, and cursed Shefford as areligious fanatic might have cursed the most debased sinners. Sheffordheard with the blood beating, strangling the pulse in his ears. Somehowthis missionary had learned his secret--most likely from the Mormonsin Stonebridge. And the terms of disgrace were coals of fire uponShefford's head. Strangely, however, he did not bow to them, as hadbeen his humble act in the past, when his calumniators had arraigned andflayed him. Passion burned in him now, for the first time in his life,made a tiger of him. And these raw emotions, new to him, were difficultto control.

  "You can't take the girl," he replied, when the other had ceased. "Notwithout her brother's consent."

  "I will take her!"

  Shefford threw him out of the hogan and strode after him. Willetts hadstumbled. When he straightened up he was white and shaken. He groped forthe bridle of his horse while keeping his eyes upon Shefford, and whenhe found it he whirled quickly, mounted, and rode off. Shefford saw himhalt a moment under the cedars to speak with the three strange Indians,and then he galloped away. It came to Shefford then that he had beenunconscious of the last strained moment of that encounter. He seemed allcold, tight, locked, and was amazed to find his hand on his gun. Verilythe wild environment had liberated strange instincts and impulses, whichhe had answered. That he had no regrets proved how he had changed.

  Shefford heard the old woman scolding. Peering into the hogan, he sawGlen Naspa flounce sullenly down, for all the world like any otherthwarted girl. Hosteen Doetin came out and pointed down the slope at thedeparting missionary.

  "Heap talk Jesus--all talk--all Jesus!" he exclaimed, contemptuously.Then he gave Shefford a hard rap on the chest. "Small talk--heap man!"

  The matter appeared to be adjusted for the present. But Shefford feltthat he had made a bitter enemy, and perhaps a powerful one.

  He prepared and ate his supper alone that evening, for Joe Lake and NasTa Bega did not put in an appearance. He observed that the three strangeIndians, whom he took for Piutes, kept to themselves, and, so far as heknew, had no intercourse with any one at the camp. This would not haveseemed unusual, considering the taciturn habit of Indians, had he notremembered seeing Willetts speak to the trio. What had he to do withthem? Shefford was considering the situation with vague doubts when, tohis relief, the three strangers rode off into the twilight. Then he wentt
o bed.

  He was awakened by violence. It was the gray hour before dawn. Darkforms knelt over him. A cloth pressed down hard over his mouth: Stronghands bound it while other strong hands held him. He could not cry out.He could not struggle. A heavy weight, evidently a man, held down hisfeet. Then he was rolled over, securely bound, and carried, to be thrownlike a sack over the back of a horse.

  All this happened so swiftly as to be bewildering. He was too astoundedto be frightened. As he hung head downward he saw the legs of a horseand a dim trail. A stirrup swung to and fro, hitting him in the face.He began to feel exceedingly uncomfortable, with a rush of blood to hishead, and cramps in his arms and legs. This kept on and grew worse forwhat seemed a long time. Then the horse was stopped and a rude handtumbled him to the ground. Again he was rolled over on his face. Strongfingers plucked at his clothes, and he believed he was being searched.His captors were as silent as if they had been dumb. He felt when theytook his pocketbook and his knife and all that he had. Then they cut,tore, and stripped off all his clothing. He was lifted, carried a fewsteps, and dropped upon what seemed a soft, low mound, and left lyingthere, still tied and naked. Shefford heard the rustle of sage and thedull thud of hoofs as his assailants went away.

  His first sensation was one of immeasurable relief. He had not beenmurdered. Robbery was nothing. And though roughly handled, he had notbeen hurt. He associated the assault with the three strange visitorsof the preceding day. Still, he had no proof of that. Not the slightestclue remained to help him ascertain who had attacked him.

  It might have been a short while or a long one, his mind was so filledwith growing conjectures, but a time came when he felt cold. As he layface down, only his back felt cold at first. He was grateful that hehad not been thrown upon the rocks. The ground under him appeared soft,spongy, and gave somewhat as he breathed. He had really sunk down alittle in this pile of soft earth. The day was not far off, as he couldtell by the brightening of the gray. He began to suffer with the cold,and then slowly he seemed to freeze and grow numb. In an effort to rollover upon his back he discovered that his position, or his being bound,or the numbness of his muscles was responsible for the fact that hecould not move. Here was a predicament. It began to look serious. Whatwould a few hours of the powerful sun do to his uncovered skin? Somebodywould trail and find him: still, he might not be found soon.

  He saw the sky lighten, turn rosy and then gold. The sun shone upon him,but some time elapsed before he felt its warmth. All of a sudden a pain,like a sting, shot through his shoulder. He could not see what causedit; probably a bee. Then he felt another upon his leg, and aboutsimultaneously with it a tiny, fiery stab in his side. A sickeningsensation pervaded his body, slowly moving, as if poison had enteredthe blood of his veins. Then a puncture, as from a hot wire, entered theskin of his breast. Unmistakably it was a bite. By dint of great efforthe twisted his head to see a big red ant on his breast. Then he hearda faint sound, so exceedingly faint that he could not tell what it waslike. But presently his strained ears detected a low, swift, rustling,creeping sound, like the slipping rattle of an infinite number oftiny bits of moving gravel. Then it was a sound like the seeping ofwind-blown sand. Several hot bites occurred at once. And then with hishead twisted he saw a red stream of ants pour out of the mound and spillover his quivering flesh.

  In an instant he realized his position. He had been droppedintentionally upon an ant-heap, which had sunk with his weight, wedginghim between the crusts. At the mercy of those terrible desert ants! Afrantic effort to roll out proved futile, as did another and another.His violent muscular contractions infuriated the ants, and in an instanthe was writhing in pain so horrible and so unendurable that he nearlyfainted. But he was too strong to faint suddenly. A bath of vitriol,a stripping of his skin and red embers of fire thrown upon raw flesh,could not have equaled this. There was fury in the bites and poison inthe fangs of these ants. Was this an Indian's brutal trick or was it themissionary's revenge? Shefford realized that it would kill him soon. Hesweat what seemed blood, although perhaps the blood came from the bites.A strange, hollow, buzzing roar filled his ears, and it must have beenthe pouring of the angry ants from their mound.

  Then followed a time that was hell--worse than fire, for fire wouldhave given merciful death--agony under which his physical being beganspasmodically to jerk and retch--and his eyeballs turned and his breastcaved in.

  A cry rang through the roar in his ears. "Bi Nai! Bi Nai!"

  His fading sight seemed to shade round the dark face of Nas Ta Bega.

  Then powerful hands dragged him from the mound, through the grassand sage, rolled him over and over, and brushed his burning skin withstrong, swift sweep.