As I followed the way leading to the creek I passed a group or two of

Indian girls--St. Ann's, under the Loretto Sisterhood, was fundamentally

a mission school for these--and a trio of young ladies, pretty and

coquettish, with daring, mischievous eyes, whose glances made me flush

hot to the back of my neck as I stumbled by them on my way to the

stream.

The last sun rays were glistening on the placid waters of the Flat Rock,

and all the world was softly green, touched with a golden glamour. I

paused by a group of bushes to let the spell of the hour have its way

with me. I have always loved the beautiful things of earth; as much now

as in my childhood days, when I felt ashamed to let my love be known; as

now I dare to tell it only on paper, and not to that dear, great circle

of men and women who know me best to-day.

The sound of footsteps and the murmur of soft voices fitted into the

sweetness of that evening hour as two girls, one of them an Indian, came

slowly down a well-worn path from the fields above the Flat Rock Valley.

They did not see me as they sat down on some broad stones beside the

stream.

I started forward to make myself known, but caught myself mid-step, for

here was a picture to make any man pause.

The Indian girl facing me was Little Blue Flower, the Kiowas' captive,

whom we had rescued at Pawnee Rock. Her heavy black hair was coiled low

on her neck, a headband of fine silverwork with pink coral pendants was

bound about her forehead and gleaming against her jetty hair. With her

well-poised head, her pure Indian features, her lustrous dark eyes, her

smooth brown skin, her cheeks like the heart of those black-red roses

that grow only in richest soil--surely there was no finer type of that

vanishing race in all the Indian pueblos of the Southwest. But the girl

beside her! Was it really so many years ago that I stood by the bushes

on the Flat Rock's edge and saw that which I see so clearly now? Then

these years have been gracious indeed to me. The sun's level beams fell

on the masses of golden waves that swept in soft little ripples back

from the white brow to a coil of gold on the white neck, held, like the

Indian girl's, with a headband of wrought silver, and goldveined

turquoise; it fell on the clear, smooth skin, the pink bloom of the

cheek, the red lips, the white teeth, the big dark eyes with their

fringe of long lashes beneath straight-penciled dark brows; on the

curves of the white throat and the round white arms. Only a master's

hand could make you see these two, beautiful in their sharp contrast of

deep brown and scarlet against the dainty white and gold.

"Oh, Little Blue Flower, it will not make me change."

I caught the words as I stepped toward the two, and the Indian's soft,

mournful answer:

"But you are Miss St. Vrain now. You go away in the morning--and I love

you always."

The heart in me stopped just when all its flood had reached my face.

"Miss St. Vrain," I repeated, aloud.

The two sprang up. That afternoon they had been dressed for a girls'

frolic in some Grecian fashion. I cannot tell a Watteau pleat from

window-curtain. I am only a man, and I do not name draperies well. But

these two standing before me were gowned exactly alike, and yet I know

that one was purely and artistically Greek, and one was purely and

gracefully Indian.

"I beg your pardon. I am Mr. Clarenden," I managed to say.

At the name Little Blue Flower's eyes looked as they did on that hot May

night out at Pawnee Rock when she heard Beverly Clarenden's boyish voice

ring out, defiantly:

"Uncle Esmond, let's take her, and take our chances."

But the great light that had leaped into the girl's eyes died slowly out

as she gazed at me.

"You are not Beverly Clarenden," she said, in a low voice.

"No, I'm Gail, the little one. Bev is up at Fort Leavenworth now," I

replied.

She turned away without a word and, gathering her draperies about her,

sped up the pathway toward the fields above the creek.

* * * * *

And we two were alone together--the dark-eyed girl of my boyhood vision,

deep-shrined in the boy-heart's holy of holies, and I who had waited for

her coming. It was the hour of golden sunset and long twilight afterglow

on the glistening Flat Rock waters and the green prairies beyond the

Neosho.

A sudden awakening came over me, and in one swift instant I understood

my boyhood dreams and hopes and visions.

"You will pardon me for coming so abruptly, Miss St. Vrain," I said.

"Mother Bridget told me I would find you here."

The girl listened to my stumbling words with eyes full of laughter.

"Don't call me Miss St. Vrain, please. Let me be Eloise, and I can call

you Gail. Even with your height and your broad shoulders you haven't

changed much. And in all these years I was always thinking of you

growing up just as you are. Let's sit down and get acquainted again."

She offered me her hand and we sat down together. I could not speak

then, for one sentence was ringing in my ears--"I was always thinking of

you." In those years when Beverly and I had put away all thoughts of

sweethearts--they could not be a part of the plainsman's life before

us--sweethearts such as older boys in school boasted about, "she was

always thinking of me." The thought brought a keen hurt as if I had done

her some great wrong, and it held me back from words.

She could not interpret my silence, and a look of timidity crept over

her young face.

"I didn't mean to be so--so bold with a stranger," she began.

"You aren't bold, and we aren't strangers. I was just too stupid to

think anybody else could get out of childhood except old Bev Clarenden

and myself," I managed to say at last. "I even forgot Mat Nivers, who is

a young lady now, and Aunty Boone, who hasn't changed a kink of her

woolly hair. But we couldn't be strangers. Not after that trip across

the plains and living at old Fort Bent as we did."

I paused, and the memory of that last night at the fort made me steal a

glance at Eloise to see if she, too, remembered.

She was fair to see just then, with the pink clouds mirrored on the

placid waters reflected in the pink of her cheeks.

"Do you remember what I called you the first time I saw you?" She

looked up with shining eyes.

"You called me a big brown bob-cat, and you said I looked like I'd slept

in the Hondo 'royo all my life. I know I looked it, too. I'll forgive

you if you will excuse my blunder to-day. What became of that boy,

Marcos? Have you ever seen him since you left Santa Fé?" I asked.

The fair face clouded, and a look of longing crept into the big, dark

eyes lifted pleadingly a moment to mine. I wanted to take her in my arms

right then and look about for something to kill for her sake. Yet I

would not, for the gold of all the Mexicos, have touched the hem of her

Grecian robe.

"Yes, I have seen Marcos many times. His father went to old Mexico after

the war, but the Rameros do not stay long anywhere. Marcos made life

miserable for me sometimes." She paused suddenly.

"The Rameros. Then he was the son of the man who was my uncle's enemy.

Maybe you did as much for him, too, sometimes. You had the spirit to do

it, anyhow," I said, lightly, to hide my real feeling.

"I was a little cat. I'm a lot better now. Let's not go too much into

that time. Tell me where you have been and where you are going." Eloise

changed the subject easily.

"I've been in Cincinnati, attending a boys' school for three years. I

start for Santa Fé in two weeks. My uncle's store is doing a big over

land business, and he keeps the ox-teams just fanning one another,

coming and going across the prairies. I'm crazy to go and see the open

plains again. Cincinnati is a city on stilts, and our little

Independence-Westport Landing-Kansas City place, as the Cincinnati of

the great American desert, is also pretty bumpy, the last place on earth

to put a town--only we can see almost to Santa Fé, New Mexico, from the

hilltops. Won't it be great to view that mud-walled town again? Bev is

going, too--to kill a few Indians for our winter's meat, he says, in his

wicked, blood-thirsty way." So I ran on, glad to be alive in the

delicious beauty of that spring evening as we together went back over

the days of our young years.

"Gail, may we take another passenger to-morrow?" Eloise asked, suddenly.

"Why, as many as the stage will hold! There's to be a nun and a priest

and yourself. I'm chaperon. I could take the priest on my lap if he

isn't too bulky," I answered.

"I want to take Po-a-be. I can't tell you why now."

The lashes dropped over the brown eyes, and I wondered how she could

think that I could refuse her anything.

"Oh, we'll take her on faith and the stage-coach. She can come right to

Castle Clarenden and stay till she gets ready to hurdle off to her own

'wickie up'. She has grown into a beautiful Indian woman, though I

couldn't call her a squaw."

"She isn't a squaw. I'm glad to hear you say that. I think it will make

her very happy to stay at your home for a while. She will miss me a

little when we leave here, maybe," Eloise said, looking at me with a

grateful smile that sent a tingle to my fingertips.

"Won't you stay, too?" I asked, suddenly realizing that this beautiful

girl might slip away as easily as she had come into my life here.

Eloise laughed at my earnestness.

"I couldn't stay long," she said, lightly.

"And why not?" I burst in, eagerly. "What have you in Santa Fé?"

"A little money and a lot of memories," she replied, seriously.

"Oh, I can bring the money up to Kansas for you in an ox-train easily

enough, and you could blow up the old mud-box of a town and not hurt a

hair on the head of a single memory. You know you can take them anywhere

you go. I do mine."

"I'm going to St. Louis, anyhow," Eloise returned, "and you have no

sacred memories--boys don't care for things like girls do."

"They don't? They don't? And I have forgotten the little girl who was

afraid one moonlit night out in the court at Fort Bent and asked me that

I shouldn't ever let Marcos pull her hair. Yes, boys forget."

I laid my hand on her arm and bent forward to look into her face. For

just one flash those big dark eyes looked straight at me, with something

in their depths that I shall never forget.

Then she moved lightly from me.

"Oh, all children remember, I suppose. I do, anyhow--a thousand things

I'd like to forget. It is lovely by the river. Suppose we go down there

for a little while. I must not stay out here too long."

I took her arm and we strolled down the quiet path in the twilight

sweetness to where the broad Neosho, brim full from the spring rains,

swept on between picturesque banks. The afterglow of sunset was flaming

gorgeously above the western prairies, and the mists along the Neosho

were lavender and mother-of-pearl. And before all this had deepened to

purple darkness the full moon would swing up the sky, swathing the earth

with a softened radiance. All the beauty of this warm spring night

seemed but a setting for this girl in her graceful Greek draperies, with

the waving gold of her hair and her dainty pink-and-white coloring.

A new heaven and a new earth had begun for me, and a delicious longing,

clean and sweet, that swept every commoner feeling far away. What matter

that the life before me be filled with danger, and all the coarse and

cruel things of the hard days of the Santa Fé Trail? In that hour I knew

the best of life that a young man can know. Its benediction after all

these years of change is on me still. Awhile we watched the flashing

ripples on the river, and the sky's darkening afterglow. Then we turned

to the moonlit east.

"Do you know what the people of Hopi-land call this month?" Eloise

asked.

"I don't know Hopi words for what is beautiful," I replied.

"They call it 'the Moon of the Peach Blossom', and they cherish the time

in their calendar."

"Then we will be Hopi people," I declared, "for it was in their Moon of

the Peach Blossom that you grew up for me from the little girl who

called me a bob-cat down in the doorway of the old San Miguel Church in

Santa Fé, and from Aunty Boone's 'Little Lees' at old Fort Bent, to the

Eloise of St. Ann's by the Kansas Neosho."

The sound of a sweet-toned bell told us that we must not stay longer,

and together we followed the path from the Flat Rock up to the academy

door. And all the way was like the ways of Paradise to me, for I was in

the peach-blossom moon of my own life.

X

THE HANDS THAT CLING

The hands that take

No weight from your sad cross, oh, lighter far

It were but for the burden that they bring!

God only knows what hind'ring things they are--

The hands that cling.

--ESTHER M. CLARK

The next morning three of us waited in the stage before the door of St.

Ann's Academy. A thin-faced nun, who was called Sister Anita, sat beside

Eloise St. Vrain, her snowy head-dress, with her black veil and somber

garments, contrasting sharply with the silver-gray hat and traveling

costume of her companion. Hints of pink-satin linings to coat-collar and

pocket-flaps, and the pink facing of the broad hat-brim, seemed borrowed

from the silver and pink of misty morning skies, with the golden hair

catching the glint of all the early sunbeams. There was a tenderness in

the bright face, the sadness which parting puts temporarily into young

countenances. The girl looked lovingly at the church, and St. Ann's, and

the green fields reaching up to the edge of the mission premises.

As we waited, Mother Bridget and Little Blue Flower came slowly out of

the academy door. The good mother's arm was around the Indian girl, and

her eyes filled with tears as she looked down affectionately at the dark

face.

Little Blue Flower, true to her heritage, gave no sign of grief save for

the burning light in her big, dry eyes. She listened silently to Mother

Bridget's parting words of advice and submitted without response to the

embrace and gentle good-by kiss on her brown forehead.

The good woman gazed into my face with penetrating eyes, as if to

measure my trustworthiness.

"You will see that no harm comes to my little Po-a-be. The wolves of the

forest are not the only danger for the unprotected lambs," she said,

earnestly.

"I'll do my best, Mother Bridget," I responded, feeling a swelling pride

in my double charge.

Mother Bridget patted Eloise's hand and turned away. She loved all of

her girls, but her heart went out most to the Indian maidens whom she

led toward her civilization and her sacred creed.

As she turned away, the priest who was to go with us came out of the

church door to the stage.

Little Blue Flower sat with the other two women, facing us, her

dark-green dress with her rich coloring making as strong a contrast as

the nun's black robe against the pink-touched silver-gray gown. And the

Indian face, strong, impenetrable, with a faintly feminine softening of

the racial features, and the luminous black eyes, gave setting to the

pure Saxon type of her companion.

I turned from the three to greet the priest and give him a place beside

me. His face seemed familiar, but it was not until I heard his voice, in

a courteous good-morning, that I knew him to be the Father Josef who had

met us on the way into Santa Fé years before, and who later had shown us

the little golden-haired girl asleep on the hard bench in the old

mission church of Agua Fria. A page of my boyhood seemed suddenly to

have opened there, and I wondered curiously at the meaning of it all.

Life, that for three years had been something of a monotonous round of

action for a boy of the frontier, was suddenly filling each day with

events worth while. I wondered many things concerning Father Josef's

presence there, but I had the grace to ask no questions as we five

journeyed over the rolling green prairies of Kansas in the pleasant time

of year which the Hopi calls the Moon of the Peach Blossom.

The priest appeared hardly a day older than when I had first seen him,

and he chatted genially as we rode along.

"We are losing two of our stars," he said, with a gallant little bow.

"Miss St. Vrain goes to St. Louis to relatives, I believe, and Little

Blue Flower, eventually, to New Mexico. St. Ann's under Mother Bridget

is doing a wonderful work among our people, but it is not often that a

girl comes here from such a distance as New Mexico."

I tried to fancy what the Indian girl's thoughts might be as the priest

said this, but her face, as usual, gave no clue to her mind's activity.

Where the Santa Fé Trail crossed the Wakarusa Father Josef left us to

join a wagon-train going west. Sister Anita, who was hurrying back to

Kentucky, she said, on some churchly errand, took a steamer at Westport

Landing, and the three of us came to the Clarenden home on the crest of

the bluff.

We had washed off our travel stains and come out on the veranda when we

saw Beverly Clarenden standing in the sunlight, waiting for us. I had

never seen him look so handsome as he did that day, dressed in the full

regalia of the plains: a fringed and beaded buckskin coat, dark

pantaloons held inside of high-topped boots, a flannel shirt, with a

broad black silk tie fastened in a big bow at his throat, and his

wide-brimmed felt hat set back from his forehead. Clean-shaven, his

bright brown hair--a trifle long, after the custom of the

frontier--flung back from his brow, his blooming face wearing the happy

smile of youth, his tall form easily erect, he seemed the very

embodiment of that defiant power that swept the old Santa Fé Trail clean

for the feet of its commerce to run swiftly along. I am glad that I

never envied him--brother of my heart, who loved me so.

He was not as surprised as I had been to find the grown-up girl instead

of the little child. That wasn't Beverly's way.

"I'm mighty glad to meet you again," he said, with jaunty air, grasping

Eloise by the hand. "You look just as--shall I say promising, as ever."

"I'm glad to see you, Beverly. You and Gail have been my biggest assets

of memory these many years." Eloise was at ease with him in a moment.

Somehow they never misunderstood each other.

"Oh, I'm always an asset, but Gail here gets to be a liability if you

let him stay around too long."

"Here is somebody else. Don't you remember Little Blue Flower?" Eloise

interrupted him.

"Little Blue Flower! Why, I should say I do! And are you that little

blossom?"

Beverly's face beamed, and he caught the Indian girl's hand in both of

his in a brotherly grasp. He wasn't to blame that nature had made him

frank and unimaginative.

"I haven't forgotten the last time I saw your face in a wide crack

between two adobe shacks. A 'flower in the crannied wall' in that 'pure

water' sand-pile in New Mexico. I'd have plucked you out of the cranny

right then, if old Rex Krane hadn't given us our 'forward march!'

orders, and an Indian boy, ten feet high and sneaky as a cat, hadn't

been lurking in the middle distance to pluck _me_ as a brand _for_ the

burning. And now you are a St. Ann's girl, a good little Catholic. How

did you ever get away up into Kansas Territory, anyhow?"

Beverly had unconsciously held the girl's hand as he spoke, but at the

mention of the Indian boy she drew back and her bright face became

expressionless.

Just then Mat Nivers joined us--Mat, whom the Lord made to smooth the

way for everybody around her--and we sat down for a visit.

"We are all here, friends of my youthful days," Beverly went on, gaily.

"Bill Banney and Jondo are down in the Clarenden warehouse packing

merchandise for the Santa Fé trade. Even big black Aunty Boone, getting

supper in there, is still a feature of this circus. If only that slim

Yankee, Rex Krane, would appear here now. Uncle Esmond tells me he is to

be here soon, and if all goes well he will go with us to Santa Fé again.

How about it, Mat? Can't you hurry his coming a bit?"

But Mat was staring at the roadway leading to the ravine below us. Her

wide gray eyes were full of eagerness and her cheeks were pink with

excitement. For, sure enough, there was Rex Krane striding up the hill,

with the easy swing of vigorous health. No longer the slender, slouching

young idol of my boyhood days, with Eastern cut of garment and

devil-may-care dejection of manner, all hiding a loving tenderness for

the unprotected, and a daring spirit that scorned danger.

"It's the old settlers' picnic, eh! The gathering of the wild

tribes--anything you want to call it, so we smoke the peace pipe."

Rex greeted all of us as we rushed upon him. But the first hands he

reached for were the hands of our loving big sister Mat. And he held

them close in his as he looked down into her beautiful eyes.

A sudden rush of memories brought back to me the long days on the trail

in the middle '40's, and I knew now why he had always looked at Mat when

he talked to all of us. And I used to think that he must have had a

little sister like her. Now I knew in an instant why Mat could not meet

his eyes to-day with that unconcern with which she met them when she was

a child to me, and he, all of five years ahead of her, was very grown

up. I knew more, for I had entered a new land myself since the hour by

the shimmering Flat Rock in the Moon of the Peach Blossom, and I was

alive to every tint and odor and musical note for every other wayfarer

therein.

That was a glorious week that followed, and one to remember on the long

trail days coming to us. I have no quarrel with the happy youth of

to-day, but I feel no sense of loss nor spirit of envy when they tell

me--all young people are my friends--when they tell me of golf-links and

automobile rides, or even the daring hint of airplanes. To the heart of

youth the gasolene-motor or the thrill of the air-craft to-day is no

more than the Indian pony and the uncertain chance of the crude old

canoe on the clear waters of the Big Blue when Kansas City was a village

and the Kansas prairies were in their virgin glory.

Bill Banney had come out of the Mexican War, no longer an adventure

lover, but a seasoned frontiersman. His life knew few of the gentler

touches. He gave it to the plains, where so many lives went, unhonored

and unsung, into the building of an enduring empire.

We would have included him in all the frolic of that wonderful week in

the Moon of the Peach Blossom--but he gave us no opportunity to do so.

And we were young, and the society of girls was a revelation to us. So

with the carelessness of youth we forgot him. We forgot many things that

week that, in Heaven's name, we had cause enough to remember in the

years that followed after.

"There's a theatrical troupe come up from St. Louis to play here

to-night," Rex Krane announced, after supper. "Mat, will you let me take

you down to see the villain get what's due all villains? Then if we have

to kill off Gail and Bev, it will not be so awkward."

"Can't we all go?" Mat suggested.

"Never mind us, Lady Nivers. Little Blue Flower, may I have the pleasure

of your company? I need protection to-night," Beverly said, with much

ceremony.

Little Blue Flower was sitting next to him, or it might not have begun

that way.

"Oh, say yes. He's no poorer company than that company of actors down

town," Rex urged.

The Indian girl assented with a smile.

She did not smile often and when she did her eyes were full of light,

and her red lips and perfect white teeth were beautiful enough for a

queen to envy.

"Little Lees, it seems you are doomed to depend on Gail or jump in the

Kaw. I'd prefer the Kaw myself, but life is full of troubles. One more

can be endured." Rex had turned to Eloise St. Vrain.

"Seems to me, having first choice, you might have been more considerate

of my lot yourself," Eloise declared.

"He was. He saved you from a worse fate when he chose Mat," I broke in.

"May we have a song by the choir?" Beverly interrupted, and with his

full bass voice he began to roar our some popular tune of that time.

And it went on as it began, the rambles about the rugged bluffs and

picturesque ravines, where to-day the hard-surfaced Cliff Drive makes a

scenic highway through the beauty spots of a populous city; the daring

canoe rides on the rivers; the gatherings of the young folk in the town;

and the long twilight hours on the crest of the bluff overlooking the

two great waterways. And as by the first selection, Beverly and Little

Blue Flower were companions. Nobody could be unhappy with Bev, least of

all the shy Indian girl with a face full of sunshine, now. And I? I

walked a pathway strewn with rose petals because the golden-haired

Little Lees was beside me. Each day was a frolic day for us, teasing one

another and making a joke of life, and for the morrow we took no thought

at all.

One evening Eloise St. Vrain and I sat together on the bluff. It was the

twilight hour, and all the far valley of the Kaw was full of iridescent

misty lights, with gold-tipped clouds of pale lavender above, and the

glistening silver of the river below. We could hear Beverly and Little

Blue Flower laughing together in a big swing among the maples. Aunty

Boone was crooning some African melodies in the bushes half-way down the

slope. Rex and Mat had gone to the ravine below to meet Uncle Esmond.

"Little Lees, the first time I ever saw you you were away out there in

such a misty light as that, and I saw only your hair and your eyes then,

but as clearly as I see them now."

Eloise turned questioningly toward me, and the light in her dark eyes

thrilled to the heart of me. In all her stay with us I had hardly spoken

earnestly of anything before.

"When was that Gail?" she asked, the frivolous spirit gone from her,

too.

"When I was a little boy, one day at Fort Leavenworth. And when I caught

sight of you at the door of old San Miguel I knew you," I replied.

The girl turned her face toward the west again and was silent. I felt my

cheeks flush hotly. I had made her think I was only a dream-sick fool,

when I had told her of the sacredest moment of my life, and I had for

the minute foolishly felt that she might understand. How could I know

that it was I who could not understand?

At last she looked up with a smile as full of mischief as on that day

when she had called me a big brown bob-cat.

"You must have been having a nightmare in your sleep," she declared.

"I think I was," I replied, testily. "Let me tell you something, Little

Lees, something really important."

"I don't believe you know one important thing," Eloise replied, "but

I'll listen, and then if it is I'll tell you something more important."

"I'm willing to hear it now. Tell me first," I replied, wondering the

while how nature, that gives rough-hewn bearded faces to men, could make

a face so daintily colored, in its youthful roundness, as hers.

"I'm going to start to St. Louis day after to-morrow at six o'clock in

the morning. Isn't that important?"

Was there a real earnestness under the lightly spoken words, or did I

imagine it so? If I had only made sure then--but I was young.

"Important! It's a tragedy! I start west in three days, at eight o'clock

in the morning," I said, carelessly.

Sometimes the gray shadows fall on us when neither sunlight nor

moonlight nor starlight is dimmed by any film of vapor. They fell on me

then, and I shivered in my soul. How could I speak otherwise than

carelessly and not show what must not be known? And how could the girl

beside me know that I was speaking thus to keep down the shiver of that

cold shadow? I suppose it must always be the same old story, year after

year--

till the leaves of the judgment book unfold.

"What was that important something you were going to tell me? What Mat

told me last night when we were watching the moon rise?" Eloise asked.

"That Rex and Mat are going to be married to-morrow evening at early

candle-lighting--'early mosquito-biting,' Bev calls it. Rex has loved

Mat since the day when he joined our little wagon-train out of a foolish

sort of notion that he could protect us children, otherwise his life was

useless to him. But something in his own boyhood made him pity all

orphan children. I think it was through neglect in childhood he became

an invalid at nineteen. He doesn't show the marks of it now."

I paused and looked at the young girl beside me, whose eyes were like

stars in the deepening gloom of the evening. It was delicious to have

her look at me and listen to me. It was delicious to live in a rose-hued

twilight, and I forgot the chill of that gray shadow lurking near.

The next evening was entrancing with the soft air of spring, a night

made purposely for brides. The wedding itself was simple in its

appointments, as such events must needs be in the frontier years. All

day we had worked to decorate the plain stone house, which the deftness

of Little Blue Flower and the artistic touch of Little Lees turned into

a spring bower, with trailing vines and blossoms everywhere.

Mat's wedding-gown was neither new nor elaborate, for the affair had

been too hastily decided on, but Eloise had made it bride-like by

draping a filmy veil over Mat's bright brown hair, and Little Blue

Flower had brought her long strands of turquoise beads, "old and

borrowed and blue," to fulfil the needs of every bride.

In the bridal party Beverly and I walked in front, followed by the two

girls in the white Greek robes which they had worn at the school frolic

at St. Ann's, and wearing their headbands, the one of silver and

turquoise, the other of silver and coral. Then came Rex Krane and Bill

Banney. Poor Bill! Nobody guessed that night that the bridal blossoms

were flowers on the coffin of his dead hope. And last of all, Esmond

Clarenden and Mat Nivers, with shining eyes, leaning on his arm. I had

never seen Uncle Esmond in evening dress before, nor dreamed how

splendid a figure he could make for a drawing-room in the costume in

which he was so much at ease. But the handsomest man of all the large

company gathered there that night was Jondo, big, broad-shouldered

Jondo, his deep-blue eyes bright with joy for these two. And in the

background was Aunty Boone, resplendent in a new red calico besprinkled

with her favorite white dots, her head turbaned in a yellow silk

bandana, and about her neck a strand of huge green glass beads. Her eyes

glistened as she watched that night's events, and her comfortable

ejaculations of approval were like the low purr of a satisfied cat. Then

came the solemn pledges, the benediction and congratulations. There was

merrymaking and singing, cake and unfermented wine of grapes for

refreshing, and much good will that night.

When the guests were gone and the lights, save one kitchen candle, were

all out, I had slipped from the dining-room with the last burden of

dishes, when I paused a minute beside the open kitchen window to let the

midnight breeze cool my face.

On the side porch, a little affair made to shelter the doorway, I saw

Beverly Clarenden and Little Blue Flower. He was speaking gently, but

with his blunt frankness, as he patted the two brown hands clinging to

his arm. The Indian girl's white draperies were picturesque anywhere. In

this dramatic setting they were startlingly beautiful, and her face,

outlined in the dim light, was a thing rare to see. I could not hear her

words, but her soft Hopi voice had a tender tone.

I was waiting to let them pass in when I heard Beverly's voice, and I

saw him bend over the little maiden, and, putting one arm around her, he

drew her close to him and kissed her forehead. I knew it was a brother's

sympathetic act--and all men know how dangerous a thing that is; that

there are no ties binding brother to sister except the bonds of kindred

blood. The girl slipped inside the dining-room door, and a minute later

a candle flickered behind her bedroom window-blind in the gable of the

house. I waited for Beverly to go, determined never to mention what I

had seen, when I caught the clear low voice whose tones could make my

pulse thresh in its walls.

"Beverly, Beverly, it breaks my heart--" I lost the remainder of the

sentence, but Beverly's words were clear and direct and full of a frank

surprise.

"Eloise, do you really care?"

I turned away quickly that I might not hear any more. The rest of that

night I sat wide awake and staring at the misty valley of the Kaw, where

silvery ripples flashed up here and there against the shadowy sand-bars.

* * * * *

The steamboat for St. Louis left the Westport Landing wharf at six

o'clock in the morning, before the mists had lifted over the big yellow

Missouri. From our bluff I saw the smoke belch from its stacks as it

pulled away and started down-stream; but only Uncle Esmond and Jondo

waited to wave good-by to the sweet-faced girl looking back at them from

its deck. Beverly had overslept, and Little Blue Flower had left an hour

earlier with a wagon-train starting west toward Council Grove. In her

room lay the white Grecian robe and the headband of wrought silver with

coral pendants. On the little white pin-cushion on the dressing-table

the bright pin-heads spelled out one Hopi word that carries all good

will and blessing,

LOLOMI.

Twenty-four hours later Rex Krane left his bride, and he and Bill Banney

and Beverly and I, under command of Jondo, started on our long trip

overland to Santa Fé. And two of us carried some memories we hoped to

lose when new scenes and certain perils should surround us.

XI

"OUR FRIENDS--THE ENEMY"

And you all know security

Is mortal's chiefest enemy.

SHAKESPEARE.

In St. Louis and Kansas City men of Esmond Clarenden's type were sending

out great caravans of goods and receiving return cargoes across the

plains--pioneer trade-builders, uncrowned sovereigns of national

expansion--against whose enduring power wars for conquest are as

flashlight to daylight. And Beverly Clarenden and I, with the whole

battalion of plainsmen--"bull-whackers," in the common parlance of the

Santa Fé Trail--who drove those caravans to and fro, may also have been

State-builders, as Uncle Esmond had declared we would be. Yet we hardly

looked like makers of empire in those summer days when we followed the

great wagon-trains along the prairies and over the mountain passes.

Two of us had come home from school hilariously eager for the trail

service. But the silent plains made men thoughtful and introspective.

Days of endless level landscapes under wide-arching skies, and nights

in the open beneath the everlasting silent stars, give a man time to get

close to himself, to relive his childhood, to measure human values, to

hear the voice in the storm-cloud and the song of low-purring winds, to

harden against the monotonous glare of sunlight, to defy the burning

heat, and to feel--aye, to feel the spell of crystal day-dawns and the

sweetness of velvet-shadowed twilights. Beverly and I were typical

plainsmen in that we never spoke of these things to each other--that is

not the way of the plainsman.

Our company had been organized at Council Grove--three trains of

twenty-six wagons each, drawn by three or four spans of mules or yoke of

oxen, guarded by eightscore of "bull-whackers." And there were a dozen

or more ponies trained for swift riding in cases of emergency. There

were also half a dozen private outfits under protection of the large

body.

The usual election before starting had made Jondo captain of the whole

company. His was the controlling type of spirit that could have bent a

battalion or swayed a Congress. For all the commanders and lawmakers of

that day were not confined to the army and to Congress. Some of them

escaped to the West and became sovereigns of service there. And Jondo

had need for an intrepid spirit to rule that group of men, as that

journey across the plains proved.

On the day before we left Council Grove he was sitting with the heads of

the other wagon-trains under a big oak-tree, perfecting final plans for

the journey.

"Gail, I want you to sign some papers here," he said. "It is the

agreement for the trip among the three companies owning the trains."

I read aloud the contract setting forth how one Jean Deau, representing

Esmond Clarenden, of Kansas City, with Smith and Davis, representing two

other companies from St. Louis, together agreed to certain conditions

regarding the journey.

Smith and Davis had already signed, and as I took the pen, a

white-haired old trapper who was sitting near by burst out:

"Jean Deau! Jean Deau! Who the devil is Jean Deau?"

Jondo did not look up, but the lines hardened about his mouth.

"It's a sound. Don't get in the way, old man. Go ahead, Clarenden,"

Smith commanded.

Few questions were asked in those days, for most men on the plains had a

history, and it was what a man could do here, not what he had done

somewhere else, that counted.

So I, representing Esmond Clarenden, signed the paper and the two

managers hurried away. But the old trapper sat staring at Jondo.

"Say, I'm gittin' close to the end of the trail, and the divide ain't

fur off for me. D'ye mind if I say somethin'?" he asked at last.

Jondo looked up with that smile that could warm any man's heart.

"Say on," he commanded, kindly.

"You aint never signin' your own name nowhere, it sorter seems."

Jondo shook his head.

"Didn't you and this Clarenden outfit go through here 'bout ten years

ago one night? Some Mexican greasers was raisin' hell and proppin' it up

with a whisky-bottle that night, layin' fur you vicious."

Jondo smiled and nodded assent.

"Well, them fellers comin' in had a bargain with a passel of Kioways to

git you plenty if they missed you themselves; to clinch their bargain

they give 'em a pore little Hopi Injun girl they'd brung along with a

lot of other Mexicans and squaws."

"I had that figured out pretty well at the time," Jondo said, with a

smile.

"But, Jean Deau--" the old man began.

"No, Jondo. Go on. I'm busy," Jondo interrupted.

The old man's watery eyes gleamed.

"I just want to say friendly-like, that them Kioways never forgot the

trick you worked on 'em, an' the _tornydo_ that busted 'em at Pawnee

Rock they laid to your bad medicine. They went clare back to Bent's Fort

to fix you. Them and that rovin' bunch of Mexicans that scattered along

the trail with 'em in time of the Mexican War. They'd 'a' lost you but

fur a little Apache cuss they struck out there who showed 'em to you."

Jondo looked up quickly now. Santan, Beverly's "Satan," whom our

captain had defended, flashed to my mind, but I knew by Jondo's face

that he did not believe the old trapper's story.

"Them Kioways is still layin' fur you ever' year, I tell you, an'

they're bound to git you sooner or later. I'm tellin' ye in kindness."

The old man's voice weakened a little.

"And I'm taking you in kindness," Jondo said. "You may be doing me a

great service."

"I shore am. Take my word an' keep awake. Keep awake!"

In spite of his drink-bleared eyes and weakened frame, there was a hint

of the commander in him, a mere shadow of the energy that had gone years

ago into the wild, solitary life of the trapper who foreran the trail

days here.

"One more trip to the ha'nts of the fur-bearin' and it's good-by to the

mountain trails and the river courses fur me," he said, as he rose and

stalked unsteadily away, and--I never saw him again.

At daybreak the next morning we were off for Santa Fé. Our wagons,

loaded with their precious burdens, moved forward six abreast along the

old sun-flower bordered trail. Morning, noon, and evening, pitching camp

and breaking camp, yoking oxen and harnessing mules, keeping night vigil

by shifts, hunting buffalo, killing rattlesnakes, watching for signs of

hostile Indians, meeting incoming trains, or solitary trappers, at long

intervals, breathing the sweet air of the prairies, and gathering rugged

strength from sleep on the wholesome earth--these things, with the

jolliest of fellowship and perfect discipline of our captain, Jondo,

made this hard, free life of the plains a fascinating one. We were

unshaven and brown as Indians. We lost every ounce of fat, but we were

steel-sinewed, and fear, that wearing element that disintegrates the

soul, dropped away from us early on the trail.

But when the full moon came sweeping up the sky, and all the prairie

shadows lay flat to earth under its surge of clear light, in the

stillness of the great lonely land, then the battle with home-sickness

was not the least of the plains' perils.

One midnight watch of such a night, Jondo sat out my vigil with me. Our

eighty or more wagons were drawn up in a rude ellipse with the stock

corraled inside, for we were nearing the danger zone. And yet to-night

danger seemed impossible in such a peaceful land under such clear

moonlight.

"Gail, you were always a far-seeing youngster, even in your cub days,"

Jondo said, after we had sat silent for a long time. "We are moving into

trouble from to-night, and I'll need you now."

"What makes you think so, Jondo?" I asked.

"That train we met going east at noon."

"Mexicans with silver and skins worth double our stuff, what have they

to do with us?" I inquired.

"One of the best men I have ever known is a Mexican in Santa Fé. The

worst man I have ever known is an American there. But I've never yet

trusted a Mexican when you bunch them together. They don't fit into

American harness, and it will be a hundred years before the Mexican in

our country will really love the Stars and Stripes. Deep down in his

heart he will hate it."

"I remember Felix Narveo and Ferdinand Ramero mighty well," I commented.

Jondo stared at me.

"Can't a boy remember things?" I inquired.

"It takes a boy to remember; and they grow up and we forget they have

had eyes, ears, feelings, memories, all keener than we can ever have in

later years. Gail, the Mexican train comes from Felix Narveo, and Narveo

is a man of a thousand. They bring word, however, that the Kiowas are

unusually friendly and that we have nothing to fear this side of the

Cimarron. They don't feel sure of the Utes and Apaches."

"Good enough!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, only they lie when they say it. It's a trap to get us. No Kiowa on

the plains will let a Clarenden train through peacefully, because we

took their captive, Little Blue Flower. It's a hatred kept alive in the

Kiowas by one man in Santa Fé through his Mexican agents with Narveo's

train."

"And that man is Ramero?" I questioned.

"That man is Ramero, and his capacity for hate is appalling. Gail,

there's only one thing in the world that is stronger than hate, and that

is love."

Jondo looked out over the moonlit plains, his fine head erect, even in

his meditative moods.

"When a Mexican says a Kiowa has turned friendly, don't believe him.

And when a Kiowa says it himself--kill him. It's your only safe course,"

Jondo said, presently.

"Jondo, why does Ramero stir up the Indians and Mexicans against Uncle

Esmond?" I asked.

"Because Clarenden drove him into exile in New Mexico before it was

United States territory," Jondo replied.

"What did he do that for?" I asked.

"Because of what Ramero had done to me," Jondo replied.

"Well, New Mexico is United States territory now. What keeps this Ramero

in Santa Fé, if he is there?"

"I keep him there. It's safer to know just where a man like that is. So

I put a ring around the town and left him inside of it."

Jondo paused and turned toward me.

"Yonder comes Banney to go on guard now. Gail, I'll tell you all about

it some day. I couldn't on a night like this."

The deep voice sent a shiver through me. There was a pathos in it, too

manly for tears, too courageous for pity.

The days that followed were hard ones. Word had gotten through the camp

that the Indians were very friendly, and that we need not be uneasy this

side of the Cimarron country. Smith and Davis agreed with the train

captain, Jondo, in taking no chances, but most of the one hundred sixty

bull-whackers stampeded like cattle against precaution, and rebelled at

his rigid ruling. He had begun to tighten down upon us as we went

farther and farther into the heart of a savage domain. The night guard

was doubled and every precaution for the stock was demanded, giving

added cause for grumbling and muttered threats which no man had the

courage to speak openly to Jondo's face. I knew why he had said that he

would need me. Bill Banney was always reliable, but growing more silent

and unapproachable every day. Rex Krane's mind was on the girl-wife he

had left in the stone house on the bluff above the Missouri. Beverly was

too cock-sure of himself and too light-hearted, too eager for an Indian

fight. Jondo could counsel with Smith and Davis of the St. Louis trains,

but only as a last resort would he dictate to them. So he turned to me.

We were nearing Pawnee Rock, but as yet no hint of an Indian trail could

we find anywhere. Advance-guards and rear-guards had no news to report

when night came, and the sense of security grew hourly. The day had been

very warm, but our nooning was shortened and we went into camp early.

Everything had gone wrong that day: harness had broken; mules had grown

fractious; a wagon had upset on a rough bit of the trail; half a dozen

men, including Smith and Davis of the St. Louis trains, had fallen

suddenly ill; drinking-water had been warm and muddy; and, most of all,

the consciousness of wide-spread opposition to Jondo's strict ruling

where there were no signs of danger made a very ugly-spirited group of

men who sat down together to eat our evening meal. Bets were openly

made that we wouldn't see a hostile redskin this side of Santa Fé.

Covert sneers pointed many comments, and grim silence threatened more

than everything else. Jondo's face was set, but there was a calmness

about his words and actions, and even the most rebellious that night

knew he was least afraid of any man among us.

At midnight he wakened me. "I want you to help me, Gail," he said. "The

Kiowas will gather for us at Pawnee Rock. They missed us there once

because they were looking for a big train, and it was there we took

their captive girl. The boys are ready to mutiny to-night. I count on

you to stand by me."

Stand by Jondo! In my helpless babyhood, my orphaned childhood, my

sturdy growing years toward young manhood, Jondo had been father,

mother, brother, playmate, guardian angel. I would have walked on

red-hot coals for his sake.

"I want you to slip away to-night, when Rex and Bev are on guard, and

find out what's over that ridge to the north. Don't come back till you

do find out. We'll get to Pawnee Rock to-morrow. I must know to-night.

Can you do it? If you aren't back by sunrise, I'll follow your trail

double quick."

"I'll go," I replied, proud to show both my courage and my loyalty to my

captain.

The night was gray, with a dying moon in the west, and the north ridge

loomed like a low black shadow against the sky. There was a weird

chanting voice in the night wind, pouring endlessly across the open

plains. And everywhere an eyeless, voiceless, motionless land, whereon

my pony's hoof-beats were big and booming. Nature made my eyes and ears

for the trail life, and matched my soul to its level spaces. To-night I

was alert with that love of mastery that made me eager for this task. So

I rode forward until our great camp was only a dull blot on the

horizon-line, melting into mere nothingness as it grew farther away. And

I was alone on the earth. God had taken out every other thing in it,

save the sky over my head and the uneven short-grass sod under my feet.

On I went, veering to the northwest from instinct that I should find my

journey's end soonest that way. Over the divide which hid the wide

valley of the Arkansas, and into the deep draws and low bluffs of a

creek with billowy hills beyond, I found myself still instinctively

_smelling_ my way. I grew more cautious with each step now, knowing that

the chance for me to slip along unseen gave also the chance for an enemy

to trail me unseen.

At last I caught that low breathing sound that goes with the sense of

nearness to life. Leaving my pony by the stream, I climbed to the top of

a little swell, and softly as a cat walks on a carpet, I walked straight

into an Indian camp. It was well chosen for outlook near, and security

from afar. There was a growing light in the sky that follows the

darkness of moonset and runs before the break of dawn. Everything in

the camp was dead still. I saw evidences of war-paint and a recent

war-dance that forerun an Indian attack. I estimated the strength of the

enemy--possibly four hundred warriors, and noted the symbols of the

Kiowa tribe. Then, thrilled with pride at my skill and success, I turned

to retrace my way to my pony--and looked full into the face of an Indian

brave standing motionless in my path. A breath--and two more braves

evolved out of gray air, and the three stood stock-still before me. Out

of the tail of my eye, I caught sight of a drawn bow on either side of

me. I had learned quickness with firearms years ago, but I knew that two

swift arrows would cut my life-line before the sound of my ready

revolver could break the stillness of the camp. Three pairs of snaky

black eyes looked steadily at me, and I stared back as directly into

them. Two arrow-points gently touched my ears. Behind me, a tomahawk

softly marked a ring around my scalp outside of my hat. I was standing

in a circle of death. At last the brave directly before me slowly drew

up his bow and pointed it at me; then dropping it, he snapped the arrow

shaft and threw away the pieces. Pointing to my cocked revolver, he

motioned to me to drop it. At the same time the bows and tomahawks, of

the other warriors were thrown down. It was a silent game, and in spite

of the danger I smiled as I put down my firearms.

"Can't any of you talk?" I asked. "If you are friendly, why don't you

say so?"

The men did not speak, but by a gesture toward the tallest tepee--the

chief's, I supposed--I understood that he alone would talk to me.

"Well, bring him out." I surprised myself at my boldness. Yet no man

knows in just what spirit he will face a peril.

One of the braves ran to the chief's tent, but the remaining five left

me no chance for escape. It was slowly growing lighter. I thought of

Jondo and his search at sunrise, and the moments seemed like hours. Yet

with marvelous swiftness and stillness a score of Indians with their

chief were mounted, and I, with my pony in the center of a solid ring,

was being hurried away, alive, with friendly captors daubed with

war-paint.

There was a growing light in the east, while the west was still dark. I

thought of the earth as throwing back the gray shadowy covers from its

morning face and piling them about its feet; I thought of some joke of

Beverly's; and I wondered about one of the oxen that had seemed sick in

the evening. I tried to think of nothing and a thousand things came into

my mind. But of life and death and love and suffering, I thought not at

all.

Meantime, Jondo waited anxiously for my coming. Rex and Beverly had gone

to sleep at the end of their watch and nobody else in camp knew of my

going. At dawn a breeze began to swing in from the north, and with its

refreshing touch the weariness and worries of yesterday were swept away.

Everybody wakened in a good humor. But Jondo had not slept, and his

face was sterner than ever as the duties of the day began.

Before sunrise I began to be missed.

"Where's Gail?" Bill Banney was the first to ask.

"That's Clarenden's job, not mine," another of the bull-whackers

resented a command of Jondo's.

"Gail! Gail! Anybody on earth seen Gail Clarenden this morning?" came

from a far corner of the camp.

"Have you lost a man, Jondo?" Smith, still sick in his wagon, inquired.

And the sun was filling the eastern horizon with a roseate glow. It

would be above the edge of the plains in a little while, and still I had

not returned.

Breakfast followed, with many questions for the absent one. There was an

eagerness to be off early and an uneasiness began to pervade the camp.

"Jondo, you'll have to dig up Gail now. I saw him putting out northwest

about one o'clock," Rex Krane said, aside to the train captain.

"If he isn't here in ten minutes. I'll have to start out after him,"

Jondo replied.

Ten minutes are long to one who waits. The boys were ready for the camp

order. "Catch up!" to start the harnessing of teams. But it was not

given. The sun's level rays, hot and yellow, smote the camp, and a low

murmur ran from wagon to wagon. Jondo waited a minute longer, then he

climbed to the wagon tongue at the head of the ellipse of vehicles, his

commanding form outlined against the open space, his fine face illumined

by the sunlight.

"Boys, listen to me."

Men listened when Jondo spoke.

"I believe we are in danger, but you have doubted my word. I leave the

days to prove who is right. At midnight I sent Gail Clarenden to find

out what is beyond that ridge--a band of men running parallel with us

that shadows us day by day. If he is not here in ten minutes, we must go

after him."

A hush fell on the camp. The oxen switched at the first nipping insects

of the morning, and the ponies and mules, with that horse-sense that all

horsemen have observed in them at times, stood as if waiting for a

decision to be made.

Beverly Clarenden was first to speak.

"If anybody goes after Gail, it's _me_, and I'll not stop till I get

him," he cried, all the brotherly love of a lifetime in his ringing

voice.

"And me!" "And me!" "And me!" came from a dozen throats. Plainsmen were

always the truest of comrades in the hour of danger. Nobody questioned

Jondo's wisdom now. All thought was for the missing man.

Rex Krane had leaped up on the wagon next to Jondo's and stood gazing

toward the northwest. At this outburst of eagerness he turned to the

crowd in the corral.

"You wait five minutes and Gail will be here. He's gettin' into sight

out yonder now," he declared.

Another shout, a rush for the open, and a straining of eyes to make sure

of the lone rider coming swiftly down the trail I had followed out at

midnight. And amid a wild swinging of hats and whoops of joy I rode into

camp, hugged by Beverly and questioned by everybody, eager for my story

from the time I left the camp until I rode into it again.

"They took me to Pawnee Rock before they let me know anything, except

that my scalp would hang to the old chief's war-spear if I tried one

eye-wink to get away from them. But they let me keep my gun, and I took

it for a sign," I told the company. "They had a lot of ceremony getting

seated, and then, without any smoking-tobacco or peace-pipe, they gave

their message."

"Who said the Kiowas wasn't friendly? They already sent us word enough,"

one man broke in.

Jondo's face, that had been bright and hopeful, now grew grave.

"They said they mean us no harm. They were grateful to Uncle Sam for the

favors he had given them. That the prairies were wide, and there was

room for all of us on it," I continued. "In proof, they said that we

would pass that old rock to-day unharmed where once they would have

counted us their enemies. And they let me go to bring you all this word.

They are going northeast into the big hunting-ground, and we are safe."

No man could take defeat better than Jondo.

"I am glad if I was wrong in my opinion," he said. "Fifteen years on

that trail have made me cautious. I shall still be cautious if I am your

captain. They did not smoke the peace-pipe. In my judgment the Kiowas

lied. Two or three days will prove it. Choose now between me and my

unchanged opinion, and some new train captain."

"Oh, every man makes some bad guesses, Jondo. We'll keep you, of course,

and it's a joke on you, that's all." So ran the comment, and we

hurriedly broke camp and moved on.

But with all of our captain's anxiety Pawnee Rock stood like a

protecting shield above us when we camped at its base, and the long

bright days that followed were full of a sense of security and good

cheer as we pulled away for the Cimarron crossing of the Arkansas River,

miles ahead.

All day Jondo rode wide of the trail, sometimes on one side and

sometimes on the other, watching for signs of an enemy. And the bluff,

jovial crowd of bull-whackers laughed together at his holding on to his

opinion out of sheer stubbornness.

On the second night he asked for a triple guard and nobody grumbled, for

everybody really liked the big plainsman and they could afford to be

good-natured with him, now that he was unquestioningly in the wrong.

The camp was in a little draw running down to the river, bordered by a

mere ripple of ground on either side, growing deeper as it neared the

stream and flattening out toward the level prairie in its upper

portion. In spite of the triple guard, Jondo did not sleep that night;

and, strangely enough, I, who had been dull to fear in the hands of the

Indians two nights before, felt nervous and anxious, now when all seemed

secure.

Just at daybreak a light shower with big bullet-like drops of rain

pattered down noisily on our camp and a sudden flash of lightning and a

thunderbolt startled the sleepy stock and brought us to our feet, dazed

for an instant. Another light volley of rain, another sheet of lightning

and roar of thunder, and the cloud was gone, scattering down the

Arkansas Valley. But in that flash all of Jondo's cause for anxiety was

justified. The widening draw was full of Kiowas, hideous in war-paint,

and the ridges on either side of us were swarming with Indians beating

dried skins to frighten and stampede our stock, and all yelling like

fiends, while a perfect rain of arrows swept our camp. With the river

below us full of holes and quicksands, our enemies had only to hold the

natural defense on either side while they drove us in a harrowing wedge

back to the water. If our ponies and mules should break from the corral

they would rush for the river or be lost in the widening space back from

the deeper draw, where a well-trained corps of thieves knew how to

capture them. I had estimated the Kiowas' strength at four hundred, two

nights before, which was augmented now by a roving band of Dog

Indians--outcasts from all tribes, who knew no law of heaven or hell

that they must obey. And so we stood, shocked wide awake, with the foe

four to one, man for man against us.

Men remember details acutely in the face of danger. As I write these

words I can hear the sound of Jondo's voice that morning, clear and

strong above the awful din, for nature made him to command in moments of

peril. In a flash we were marshalled, one force to guard the corral, one

to seize and hold either bank and one to charge on the advance of the

Indians down the draw. We were on the defensive, as our captain had

planned we should be, and every man of us realized bitterly now how much

he had done for us, in spite of our distrust of his judgment.

On came the yelling horde, with rifle-rip and singing arrow. And the

sharp cry of pain and the fierce oath told where these shots had sped

home. Four to one, with every advantage of well-laid plan of action

against an unsuspecting sleeping force, the odds and gods were with

them. Dark clouds hung overhead, but the eastern sky was aflame, casting

a lurid glare across the edges of the draw as a stream of savages with

painted faces and naked bedaubed bodies poured down against the corral.

In an instant the chains and ropes holding the stock were severed, and

our mules and oxen and ponies stampeded wildly. By some adroit movement

they were herded over the low bank, and a cloud of dust hid the entire

battleground as the animals, mad with fright and goaded by arrows,

tossed against one another, stumbled blindly until they had cleared the

ridge. A shriek of savage glee and the thunder of hoofs on the hard

earth told how well the thing had been done and how furiously our

animals were being whirled away.

"Go, get 'em, Gail! Stay by 'em! Run!"

Jondo's voice sounded far away, but my work was near. With a dozen

bull-whackers I made a dash out of the draw and, circling wide, we rode

like demons to outflank the cloud of dust that hid our precious

property. On we swept, fleet and sure, in a mad burst of speed to save

our own. We were gaining now, and turning the cloud toward the river.

Another spurt, and we would have them checked, faced about, subdued. I

saw the end, and as the boys swung forward I urged them on.

"To the river. To the river. Head 'em south!" I cried.

And Rex Krane, like a centaur, swirled by me to do the thing I ordered.

Behind me rode Beverly Clarenden bareheaded, his face aglow with power.

As I looked back the dust engulfed him for a moment, and then I heard an

arrow sing, and a sharp cry of pain. The dust had lifted and Beverly and

a huge Indian, the tallest I have ever seen, were grappling together, a

scalping-knife gleaming in the morning light. I dashed forward and

felled the savage with the butt of my revolver. He leaped to his feet

and sprang at me just as Beverly, with unerring aim, sent a blaze of

fire between us. As the savage fell again, my cousin seized his pony;

and with an arrow still swinging to his arm, dashed into the chase, and

left it only when the stock, with the loss of less than a fourth, was

driven up the river's sandy bank and over the swell into the camp

inclosure.

Meantime, Jondo at the front of his men charged into the very center of

the savage battle-line as, furious for blood, they threshed across the

narrow draw--the disciplined arm and courageous heart against a

blood-thirsty foe. A charge, a falling back, another surge to win the

lost ground, a steady holding on and sure advance, and then Jondo, with

one triumphant shout of victory, struck the last fierce blow that sent

the Kiowas into full flight toward the northwest, and the day was won.

Out by the river, a sudden dullness seized me. I lifted my eyes to see

Beverly free and Rex directing the charge; cattle, mules, and ponies

turned back toward safety, and something crawling and writhing about my

feet; Jondo's great shout of victory far away, it seemed, miles and

miles to the north; a cloud of dust sweeping toward me; the crimson east

aflame like the Day of judgment; the dust cloud rolling nearer; the

yellow sands and slow-moving waters of the Arkansas; and six silent

stalwart Kiowa braves, with snaky black eyes, looking steadily at me.

Shadows, and the dust cloud upon me. Then all was night.

XII

THE BROTHERHOOD OF THE PLAINS

Deeper than speech our love, stronger than life our tether,

But we do not fall on the neck, nor kiss when we come together.

--"A SONG OF THE ENGLISH."

The whole thing was clear now, clear as the big white day that suddenly

beamed along the prairies, scattering the clouds into gray strands

against the upper heavens. The treachery of the Kiowas had been cleverly

executed. Word of their friendliness had come to us through the Mexican

caravan which could have no object in deceiving us, since it was on its

way to Kansas City to do business with the Clarenden house there. And

Jondo had sent a spy by night into the Kiowa camp as if they were not to

be trusted. Yet they had taken no offense; but, letting me keep my

firearms, had led me into their council on the top of Pawnee Rock, where

they had told me in clear English that they had nothing but love for the

white brothers of the plains. And to prove it we should pass unharmed

along the trail where once we had wronged them by stealing their

captive. The prairies were wide enough for all of us and they had

forgotten--as an Indian always forgets--all malice against us. They had

sent me back to camp with greetings to my captain, and had gone on their

way to the heart of the Grand Prairie in the northeast.

It was only Jondo, as he rode wide of the trail for two days, who could

see any mark of an Indian's track. And we had not believed Jondo. We

never made that mistake again: But trust in his shrewdness now, however,

would not bring back the oxen lost and the mules and ponies captured by

the thieving band of Dog Indians. But there was a greater loss than

these. The Kiowas had come for revenge. It was blood, not plunder, they

wanted. A dozen men with arrow wounds reported at roll call, and six men

lay stark dead under the pitiless sky. Among them Davis of the St. Louis

train, who had been too ill to take part in the struggle. One more loss

was there to report, but it was not discovered until later.

Indians seldom leave their dead on the field of battle, but the

blood-stained sod beside their fallen ponies told a story of heavy toll.

Blood marked the trail of hoofprints to the northwest in their wild rout

thither. One comrade they had missed in their flight. He lay down near

the river where the ground had been threshed over by the stampeded

stock. He must have been a giant in life, for his was the longest grave

made in the prairie sod that day. At the river's edge the sands were

pricked with hoofprints, where the struggle to carry away the dead

seemed to have reached clear into the thin yellow current of the

Arkansas, although no trail led out on the far side of the stream.

"That's the very copper cuss with yellow trimmings who had me down when

that arrow stopped me," Beverly exclaimed. "He was seven feet tall and

streaked with yellow just that way. I thought ten million rattlesnakes

and eight billion polecats had hit me. His club was awful. Then I caught

sight of old Gail's face in the dust-storm, coming back to help me. He

gave the Indian one dose and got one back, a good hard bill, and then

the dust closed in and Gail was off again to the northwest out there,

like a hurricane. I could hear him a mile away. Couldn't I Gail? Where

is Gail?"

Where?

"Oh, back there with the stock!"

No?

"Out there looking over the draw for things that's got all scattered."

No? Not there?

"Oh, he's getting breakfast. And we are all hungry enough to eat raw

Kiowas now."

No? No?

"Gail would be helping the wounded, anyhow, or straightening out dead

men's limbs. Poor fellows--to lose six! It's awful!"

No? No? No?

"Bathing in the river? Where? Over there across the sand-bar?"

Nowhere! Nowhere!

"By the eternal God, they've got him!" Jondo's agonized voice rang

through the camp.

"We can take care of the wounded, and those fellows lying over there

don't need us. But, oh, Gail! They'll torture him to death!" Rex Krane's

voice choked and he ground his teeth.

"Gail, my Gail!" Beverly sat down white and desparingly calm--Beverly,

whose up-bubbling spirits nobody could repress.

The others wrung their hands and cursed and groaned aloud. Only Bill

Banney, the unimaginative and stern-hearted, stood motionless with set

jaws and black-frowning brows. Bill, whom the plains had made hard and

unfeeling.

"We won't give up Gail, will we, Bill?" Jondo spoke sternly, but his

face--they said his face was bright with courage and that his eyes shone

with the inspiration of his will. In all that crowd of eager, faithful

men, he turned now to Bill Banney. Every man had his place on the

plains, and Jondo out of the chrism of his own life-struggle knew that

Bill was bearing a cross in silence, and that his was the martyr spirit

that finds salvation only in deeds. Bill was the man for the place.

And so while straying animals were slowly recovered, while the camp was

set in order, while the dead were laid with simple reverence in

un-coffined graves, and the sick were crudely ministered to, while

Beverly grew feverish and his arrow wound became a festering sore, and

Rex Krane, master of the company, cared for every thing and everybody

with that big mother-heart of his--Jondo and Bill Banney pushed alone

across the desolate plains toward where the Smoky Hills wrapped in their

dim gray-blue mist mark the low watershed that rims the western valley

of the Kaw.

They went alone because skill, and not numbers, could save a captive

from the hands of the Kiowas, and the sight of a force would mean death

to the victim before he could be rescued.

A splash of water against a hot hand hanging down; a sense of light, of

motion; a glimpse of coarse sands and thin straggling weeds beside the

edge of the stream down which the pathway ran; a sharp aching at the

base of the brain; an agony of strained muscles--thus slowly I came to

my senses, to memory, to the knowledge that I was bound hand and foot to

a pony's back; that the sun was hot, and the sands were hotter, and the

glare on the waters blinding; that every splash of the pony's hoofs sent

up glittering sparkles that stabbed my aching eyes like white-hot

dagger-points; that the black and clotted dirt on the pony's shoulder

was not mud, but blood; that before and behind were other splashing

feet, all hiding the trail in the thin current of the wide old Arkansas;

that the quick turns to follow the water and the need for speed gave no

consideration to the helpless rider. The image of six pairs of snaky

black eyes came to help the benumbed brain, and I knew with whom I was

again captive. But there was no question about the friendly motive now,

for there was no friendly motive now. And as we pushed on east, Jondo

and Bill Banney were hurrying toward the northwest, and the space

between us widened every minute. A wave of helplessness and despair

swept over me; then a wild up-leaping prayer for deliverance to a

far-away unpitying Heaven; a sudden sense of the futility of prayer in a

land the Lord had forgotten; and then anger, hot and wholesome, and an

unconquered, dominant will to gain freedom or to die game, swept every

other feeling away, marvelously mastering the sense of pain that had

ground mercilessly at every nerve. Then came that small voice which a

man hears sometimes in the night stillness and sometimes in the blare of

daylight wrangle. And all suddenly I knew that He who notes the

sparrow's fall knew that I was alone with death, slow-lingering,

inch-creeping death, out on that wide, lonely plain. The glare on the

waters softened. The heat fell away. The despair and agony lifted. In

all the world--my world--there was only one, God; not a far, unpitying,

book-made Lord beyond the height of the glaring blue dome above me. God

beside me on, the yellow waters of the Arkansas. His hand in my hot

hand! His strength about me, invisible, unbreakable, infinite. When a

man enters into that shielding Presence, nothing else matters.

I do not know how many miles we went down-stream, leaving no trail in

the shallow water or along its hard-baked edges. But by the time we

dropped that line I had begun to think coherently and to take note of

everything possible to me, bound as I was, face downward, on the pony's

back. It was when we had left the river that the hard riding began, and

a merciful unconsciousness, against which I fought, softened some

stretches of that long day's journey. We crossed the Santa Fé Trail and

were pushing eastward out of sight of it to the north. No stop, no word,

nothing but ride, ride, ride. Truly, I needed the Presence that went

with me on the way.

At sunset we stopped, and I was taken from my pony and thrown to the

ground. I managed, in spite of my bonds, to sit up and look about me.

We were on the top of Pawnee Rock. The heat of the day was spent and all

the radiant tints of evening were making the silent prairies unspeakably

beautiful. I do not know why I should have noted or remembered any of

this, save that the mind sometimes gathers impressions under strange

stress of suffering. I had had no food all day, and when our ponies

stopped to drink, the agony of thirst was maddening. My tongue was

swollen and my lips were cracked and bleeding. The leather thongs that

bound me cut deep now. But--only the men who lived it can know what all

this meant to the pioneer of the trail.

I have sat on the same spot at sunset many a time in these my sunset

years; have gazed in tranquil joy at the whole panorama of the heavens

that hang over the prairies in the opalescent splendor of the

after-sunset hour; have looked out over the earthly paradise of waving

grain, all glowing with the golden gleam of harvest, in the heart of the

rich Kansas wheat-lands--and somehow I'm glad of soul that I foreran

this day and--maybe--maybe I, too, helped somewhat to build the way--the

way that Esmond Clarenden had helped to clear a decade before and was

building then.

The six Indians gathered near me. One of them with unmerciful mercy

loosened my bonds a trifle and gave me a sup of water. They did not want

me to die too soon. Then they sat down to eat and drink. I did not shut

my eyes, nor turn my head. I defied their power to crush me, and the

very defiance gave me strength.

The chill air of evening blew about the brow of the rock, the twilight

deepened, and down in the valley the shadows were beginning to hide the

landscape. But the evening hour is long on the headlands. And there was

ample time for another kind of council than that to which I had listened

three mornings ago, when I had been set free to bear a friendly message

to my chief.

They carried me--helpless in their hands--to where, unseen myself, and

secured by rock fragment and rawhide thong, I could see far up the trail

to the eastward. But I could give no signal of distress, save for the

feeble call of my swollen, thirst-parched throat. Then the six bronze

sons of the plains sat down before me, and looked at me. Looked! I never

see a pair of beady black eyes to-day--and there are many such--that I

do not long to kill somebody, so vivid yet is the memory of those

murdering eyes looking at me.

At last they spoke--plains English, it is true--but clear to give their

meaning.

"Chief Clarenden thinks Kiowas forget. He comes with little train across

the prairies; Kiowas go to meet big train east and fight fair for

Mexican brothers who hate Chief Clarenden. They do not stop to look for

little sneaking coyotes when they seek big game. Clarenden steals away

Kiowas' captive Hopi. Cheat Kiowas of big pay that white Medicine-man

Josef would give for her. Mexican brothers and Kiowa tribe hate

Clarenden. They take his son, _you_, to show Clarenden they can steal,

too. Hopi girl! white brave! all the same."

The speaker's words came deliberately, and he gave a contemptuous wave

of the hand as he closed. And the six sat silent for a time. Then

another voice broke the stillness.

"Yonder is your trail. Chief Clarenden and big white chiefs go by to

Santa Fé to buy and sell and grow rich. Indian sell captives to grow

rich! No! White chief not let Indians buy and sell. But we do not kill

white dogs. We leave you here to watch the trail for wagon-trains. They

may not come soon. They may not see you nor hear you. You can see them

pass on their way to get rich. You can watch them. Hopi girl would have

brought us big money. We get no richer. Watch white men go get rich. You

may watch many days till sun dries your eyes. Nothing trouble you here.

Watch the trail. No wild animal come here. No water drown you here. No

fine meat make you ache with eating here. Watch."

The six looked long at me, and as the light faded their black eyes and

dark faces seemed like the glittering eyes and hooked bills of six great

dark birds of prey.

When the last sunset glow was in the west the six rose up and walked

backward, still looking at me, until they passed my range of vision and

I could only feel their eyes upon me. Then I heard the clatter of

ponies' feet on the hard rock, the fainter stroke on the thin, sandy

soil, the thud on the thickening sod. Thump, thump, thump, farther and

farther and farther away. The west grew scarlet, deepened to purple and

melted at last into the dull gray twilight that foreruns the darkness of

night. One ray of pale gold shimmered far along toward the zenith and

lost itself in the upper heavens, and the stars came forth in the

blue-black eastern sky. And I was alone with the Presence whose arm is

never shortened and whose ear grows never heavy.

The trail to the east was only a dull line along the darker earth. I

looked up at the myriad stars coming swiftly out of space to greet me.

The starlit sky above the open prairie speaks the voice of the Infinite

in a grandeur never matched on land or sea.

I thought of Little Blue Flower on that dim-lighted dawning when she had

showed us her bleeding hands and lashed shoulders. And again I heard

Beverly's boyish voice ring out:

"Let's take her and take our chances."

And then I was beside the glistening waters of the Flat Rock, and Little

Blue Flower was there in her white Grecian robe and the wrought-silver

headband with coral pendants. And Eloise. The golden hair, the soft dark

eyes, the dainty peach-bloom cheek. Eloise whom I had loved always and

always. Eloise who loved Beverly--good, big-hearted, sunny-faced

Beverly, who never had visions. Any girl would love him. Most of all,

Little Blue Flower. What a loving message she had left us in the one

word, _Lolomi_. God pity her.

A thousand sharp pains racked my body. I tried to move. I longed for

water. Then a merciful darkness fell upon me--not sleep, but

unconsciousness. And the stars watched over me through that black night,

lying there half dead and utterly alone.

Out to the northwest Jondo and Bill Banney rode long on the trail of the

fleeing Kiowas. A picture for an artist of the West, these two rough men

in the garb and mount and trappings of the plainsman, with eyes alert

and strong faces, riding only as men can ride who go to save a life more

eagerly than they would save their own. Not in rash haste, but with

unchecked speed, losing no mark along the trail that should guide them

more quickly to their goal, so they passed side by side, and neither

said a word for hours along the way. Night came, and the needs of their

ponies made them pause briefly. The trail, too, was harder to follow

now. They might lose it in the darkness and so lose time. And those two

men were going forth to victory. Not for one single heart-beat did they

doubt their power to win, and the stead-fast assurance made them calm.

Daylight again, and a fresher trail made them hurry on. They drank at

every stream and ate a snatch of food as they rode. They reached the

hurriedly quitted Kiowa camp, and searched for the sign of vengeance on

a captive there. Jondo knew those signs, and his heart beat high with

hope.

"They haven't done it yet," he said to his companion. "They want to get

away first. We are safe for a day."

And they rode swiftly on again.

"There's trouble here," Bill Banney declared as he watched the ground.

"Too many feet. Could it be here?"

His voice was hardly audible. The two men halted and read the ground

with piercing eyes. Something had happened, for there had been a

circling and chasing in and out, and the sod was cut deep with

hoofprints.

"No council nor ceremony, no open space for anything." Jondo would not

even speak the word he was bound not to know.

"They've divided, Jondo. Here goes the big crowd, and there a smaller

one," Bill declared.

"There were a lot of Dog Indians along for thieving. They've split here.

Seem to have fussed a bit over it, too. And yonder runs the Kiowa trail

to the north. Here go the Dogs east." Jondo replied. "We'll follow the

Kiowas a spell," he added, after a thoughtful pause.

And again they were off. It was nearing noon now, and the trail was

fresher every minute. At last the plainsmen climbed a low swell, halting

out of sight on the hither side. Then creeping to the crest, they looked

down on the Indian camp lying in a little dry valley of a lost stream

whose course ran underground beneath them.

Lying flat on the ground, each with his head behind a low bush on the

top of the swell, the men read the valley with searching eyes. Then

Jondo, with Bill at his heels, slid swiftly down the slope.

"Gail Clarenden isn't there. We must take the trail east, and ride

hard," he said, in a hoarse voice.

And they rode hard until they were beyond the range of the Kiowa

outposts.

"What's your game, Jondo?" Bill asked, at length.

"They quarreled back there. Either the Dogs have Gail, or he's lost

somewhere. The Kiowas are waiting for something. I can't quite

understand, but we'll go on."

It was mid-afternoon and the two riders were faint from the hardship of

the chase, but nobody who knew Jondo ever expected him to give up. The

sun blazed down in the heat of the late afternoon, and the baking earth

lay brown and dry beneath the heat-quivering air. There was no sound

nor motion on the plains as the two faithful brothers--in

purpose--followed hard on the track of the Dog Indian band.

Ahead of them the trail grew clearer until they saw the object of their

chase, a band nearly a hundred strong, riding slowly, far ahead. Jondo

and Bill halted and dropped to the ground. No cover was in sight, but if

the Indians were unsuspicious they might not be discovered. On went the

outlaw band, and the two white men followed after. Suddenly the Indians

halted and grouped themselves together. The plainsmen watched eagerly

for the cause. Out of the south six Indians came riding swiftly into

view. They, too, halted, but neither group seemed aware that the two

dull, motionless spots to the west were two white men watching them.

White men didn't belong there.

The six rode forward. There was much parleying and pointing eastward.

Then the six rode rapidly northward and the Dog band spurted east as

rapidly.

Jondo looked at Bill.

"I see it clear as day. God help us not to be too late!" he cried,

triumphantly, leaping to his saddle.

"What in Heaven's name to you see?" Bill asked eagerly.

"Gail wasn't with the Kiowas back there. He wasn't with the Dogs out

yonder. Don't you remember he told us about six of the devils getting

him in their friendly camp that morning? Yonder go the six. They have

left Gail somewhere to die and they are cutting back to join the tribe.

They have sent the Dogs on east. We'll run down this trail to the south.

Hurry, Bill! For God's sake, hurry! It's the Lord's mercy they didn't

see us back here."

That day Pawnee Rock saw the same old beauty of sunrise; the same clear

sweeping breeze; the same long shining hours on the green prairies; but

it all meant nothing to me, racked with pain and choking with thirst

through the awful lengths of that summer day. Fitful unconsciousness,

with fever and delirium, seeing mocking faces with snaky black eyes,

looking long at me; food almost touching my lips, and floods of crystal

waters everywhere just out of reach. I was on the bluff above the river

at Fort Leavenworth again, watching for the fish on the sand-bars. They

were Indians instead of fish, and they laughed at me and called me a big

brown bob-cat. Then Mother Bridget and Aunty Boone would have come to me

if I could only make them hear me. But the sun beat hot upon my burning

face, and my swollen lips refused to moan.

And then I looked to the eastward and hope sprang to life within me. A

wagon-train was crawling slowly toward Pawnee Rock. Tears drenched my

eyes until I could hardly count the wagons--twenty, thirty, forty. It

must be far in the afternoon now, and they might encamp here. But they

seemed to be hurrying. I could not see for pain, but I knew they were

near the headland now. I could hear the rattle of the wagon-chains and

the tramp of feet and shouts of the bull-whackers. I tugged masterfully

at my bonds. It was a useless effort. I tried to shout, but only low

moans came forth from my parched lips. I strove and raged and prayed.

The wagons hurried on and on, a long time, for there were many of them.

Then the rattling grew fainter, the voices were far off, the thud of

hoof-beats ceased. The train had passed the Rock, never dreaming that a

man lay dying in sight of the succor they would so gladly have given.

The sun began to strike in level rays across the land, and the air was

cooler, but I gave no heed to things about me. Death was waiting--slow,

taunting death. The stars would be kind again to-night as they had been

last night, but death crouching between me and the starlight, was slowly

crawling up Pawnee Rock. Oh, so slowly, yet so surely creeping on. The

sun was gone and a tender pink illumined the sky. The light was soft

now. If death would only steal in before the glare burst forth. I forgot

that night must come first. Pity, God of heaven, pity me!

And then the Presence came, and a sweet, low voice--I hear it still

sometimes, when sunsets soften to twilight, "_My presence shall go with_

_thee, and I will give thee rest."_ I felt a thrill of triumph pulse

through my being. Unconquered, strong, and glad is he who trusts.

"I shall not die. I shall live, and in God's good time I shall be

saved." I tried to speak the words, but I could not hear my voice. My

pains were gone and I lay staring at the evening sky all

mother-of-pearl and gold above my head. And on my lips a smile.

And so they found me at twilight, as a tired child about to fall asleep.

They did not cry out, nor fall on my neck, nor weep. But Bill Banney's

strong arms carried me tenderly away. Water, food, unbound swollen

limbs, bathed in the warm Arkansas flow, soft grass for a bed, and the

eyes of the big plainsman, my childhood idol, gentle as a girl's,

looking unutterable things into my eyes.

I've never known a mother's love, but for that loss the Lord gave

me--Jondo.

XIII

IN THE SHELTER OF SAN MIGUEL

Fear not, dear love, thy trial hour shall be

The dearest bond between my heart and thee.

--ALL THE YEAR ROUND.

When we reached the end of the trail and entered a second time into

Santa Fé the Stars and Stripes were floating lazily above the Palace of

the Governors. Out on the heights beyond the old Spanish prison stood

Fort Marcy, whose battlements told of a military might, strong to

control what by its strength it had secured. In its shadow was La

Garita, of old the place of execution, against whose blind wall many a

prisoner had started on the long trail at the word of a Spanish bullet,

La Garita changed now from a thing of legalized horror to a landmark of

history.

But the city itself seemed unchanged, and there was little evidence that

Yankee thrift and energy had entered New Mexico with the new government.

The narrow street still marked the trail's end before the Exchange

Hotel. San Miguel, with its dun walls and triple-towered steeple, still

good guard over the soul of Santa Fé, as it had stood for three sunny

centuries. The Mexican still drove down the loaded burro-train of

firewood from the mountains. The Indian basked in the sunny corners of

the Plaza. The adobe dwellings clustered blindly along little lanes

leading out to nowhere in particular. The orchards and cornfields,

primitively cultivated, made tiny oases beside the trickling streams and

sandy beds of dry arroyos. The sheep grazed on the scant grasses of the

plain. The steep gray mesa slopes were splotched with clumps of

evergreen shrubs and piñon trees. And over all the silent mountains kept

watch.

The business house of Felix Narveo, however, did not share in this

lethargy. The streets about the Plaza were full of Conestoga wagons,

with tired ox-teams lying yoked or unyoked before them. Most of the

traffic borne in by these came directly or indirectly to the house of

Narveo. And its proprietor, the same silent, alert man, had taken

advantage of a less restricted government, following the Mexican War, to

increase his interests. So mine and meadow, flock and herd, trappers'

snare and Indian loom and forge, all poured their treasures into his

hands--a clearing-house for the products of New Mexico to swell the

great overland commerce that followed the Santa Fé Trail.

For all of which the ground plan had been laid mainly by Esmond

Clarenden, when with tremendous daring he came to Santa Fé and spied out

the land for these years to follow.

A boy's memory is keen, and all the hours of that other journey hither,

with their eager anticipation and youthful curiosity, and love of

surprise and adventure, came back to Beverly Clarenden and me as we

pulled along the last lap of the trail.

"Was it really so long ago, Bev, that we came in here, all eyes and

ears?" I asked my cousin.

"No, it was last evening. And not an eyebrow in this Rip Van Winkle town

has lifted since," Beverly replied. "Yonder stands that old church where

the gallant knight on a stiff-legged pony spied Little Lees and knocked

the head off of that tormenting Marcos villain, and kicked it under the

door-step. Say, Gail, I'd like mighty well to see the grown-up Little

Lees, wouldn't you? And I'd as soon this was Saint Louis as Santa Fé."

Since the night of Mat's wedding, I had been resolutely putting away all

thought of Eloise St. Vrain. I belonged to the plains. All my training

had been for this. I thought I was very old and settled now. But the

mention of her pet name sent a thrill through me; and these streets of

Santa Fé brought back a flood of memories and boyhood dreams and

visions.

"Bev, how many auld-lang-syners do you reckon we'll meet in this land of

sunshine and _chilly_ beans?" I asked, carelessly.

"Well, how many of them do you remember, Mr. Cyclopedia of Prominent Men

and Pretty Women?" Beverly inquired.

"Oh, there was Felix Narveo and Father Josef--and Little Blue

Flower"--A shadow flitted across my cousin's face for a moment, leaving

it sunny as ever again.

"And there was that black-eyed Marcos boy everywhere, and Ferdinand

Ramero whom we were warned to step wide of," I went on.

"Oh, that tall thin man with blue-glass eyes that cut your fingers when

he looked at you. Maybe he went out the back door of New Mexico when

General Kearny peeped in at the front transom. There wasn't any fight in

that man."

"Jondo says he is still in Santa Fé." Just as I spoke an Indian swept by

us, riding with the ease of that born-to-the-horseback race.

"Beverly, do you remember that Indian boy that we saw out at Agua Fria?"

I asked.

"The day we found Little Lees asleep in the church?" Beverly broke in,

eagerly.

In our whole journey he had hardly spoken of Eloise, and, knowing

Beverly as I did, I had felt sure for that reason that she had not been

on his mind. Now twice in five minutes he had called her name. But why

should he not remember her here, as well as I?

"Yes, I remember there was an Indian boy, sort of sneaky like, and deaf

and dumb, that followed us until I turned and stared him out of it.

That's the way to get rid of 'em, Gail, same as a savage dog," Beverly

said, lightly.

"What if there are six of them all staring at you?" I asked.

"Oh, Gail, for the Lord's sake forget that!"

Beverly cried, affectionately. "When you've got an arrow wound rotting

your arm off and six hundred and twenty degrees of fever in your blood,

and the son of your old age is gone for three days and nights, and you

don't dare to think where, you'll know why a fellow doesn't want to

remember." There were real tears in the boy's eyes. Beverly was deeper

than I had thought.

"Well, to change gradually, I wonder if that centaur who just passed us

might be that same Indian of Agua Fria of long ago."

"He couldn't be," Beverly declared, confidently. "That boy got one

square look at my eagle eye and he never stopped running till he jumped

into the Pacific Ocean. 'I shall see him again over there.'" Half

chanting the last words, Beverly, boy-hearted and daring and happy,

cracked his whip, and our mule-team began to prance off in mule style

the journey's latter end.

Oh, Beverly! Beverly! Why did that day on the parade-ground at Fort

Leavenworth and a boy's pleading face lifted to mine, come back to me at

that moment? Strange are the lines of life. I shall never clearly read

them all.

Down in the Plaza a tall, slender young man was sitting in the shade,

idly digging at the sod with an open pocket-knife. There was something

magnetic about him, the presence that even in a crowd demands a second

look.

He was dressed in spotless white linen, and with his handsome mustache,

his well-groomed black hair, and sparkling black eyes, he was a true

type of the leisure son of the Spanish-Mexican grandee. He stared at

our travel-stained caravan as it rolled down the Plaza's edge, but his

careless smile changed to an insolent grin, showing all his perfect

teeth as he caught sight of Beverly and me.

We laid no claims to manly beauty, but we were stalwart young fellows,

with the easy strength of good health, good habits, clear conscience,

and the frank faces of boys reared on the frontier, and accustomed to

its dangers by men who defied the very devil to do them harm. But even

in our best clothes, saved for the display at the end of the trail, we

were uncouth compared to this young gentleman, and our tanned faces and

hard brown hands bespoke the rough bull-whacker of the plains.

As our train halted, the young man lighted a cigar and puffed the smoke

toward us, as if to ignore our presence.

"Its mamma has dressed it up to go and play in the park, but it mustn't

speak to little boys, nor soil its pinafore, nor listen to any naughty

words. And it couldn't hold its own against a kitten. Nice little

clothes-horse to hang white goods on!"

Beverly had turned his back to the Plaza and was speaking in a low tone,

with the serious face and far-away air of one who referred to a thing of

the past.

"Bev, you are a mind-reader, a character-sketcher--" I began, but

stopped short to stare into the Plaza beyond him.

The young man had sprung to his feet and stood there with flashing eyes

and hands clenched. Behind him was the same young Indian who had passed

us on the trail. He was lithe, with every muscle trained to strength and

swiftness and endurance.

He had muttered a word into the young white man's ear that made him

spring up. And while the face of the Indian was expressionless, the

other's face was full of surprise and anger; and I recognized both faces

in an instant.

"Beverly Clarenden, there are two auld-lang-syners behind you right now.

One is Marcos Ramero, and the other is Santan of Bent's Fort," I said,

softly.

Beverly turned quickly, something in his fearless face making the two

men drop their eyes. When we looked again they had left the Plaza by

different ways.

After dinner that evening Jondo and Bill Banney hurried away for a

business conference with Felix Narveo. Rex and Beverly also disappeared

and I was alone.

The last clear light of a long summer day was lingering over the valley

of the Rio Grande, and the cool evening breeze was rippling in from the

mountains, when I started out along the narrow street that made the

terminal of the old Santa Fé Trail. I was hardly conscious of any

purpose of direction until I came to the half-dry Santa Fé River and saw

the spire of San Miguel beyond it. In a moment the same sense of loss

and longing swept over me that I had fought with on the night after

Mat's wedding, when I sat on the bluff and stared at the waters of the

Kaw flowing down to meet the Missouri. And then I remembered what Father

Josef had said long ago out by the sandy arroyo:

"Among friends or enemies, the one haven of safety always is the holy

sanctuary."

I felt the strong need for a haven from myself as I crossed the stream

and followed the trail up to the doorway of San Miguel.

The shadows were growing long, few sounds broke the stillness of the

hour, and the spirit of peace brooded in the soft light and sweet air. I

had almost reached the church when I stopped suddenly, stunned by what I

saw. Two people were strolling up the narrow, crooked street that

wanders eastward beside the building--a tall, slender young man in white

linen clothes and a girl in a soft creamy gown, with a crimson scarf

draped about her shoulders. They were both bareheaded, and the man's

heavy black hair and curling black mustache, and the girl's coronal of

golden braids and the profile of her fair face left no doubt about the

two. It was Marcos Ramero and Eloise St. Vrain. They were talking

earnestly; and in a very lover-like manner the young man bent down to

catch his companion's words.

Something seemed to snap asunder in my brain, and from that moment I

knew myself; knew how futile is the belief that miles of prairie trail

and strength of busy days can ever cast down and break an idol of the

heart.

In a minute they had passed a turn in the street, and there was only

sandy earth and dust-colored walls and a yellow glare above them, where

a moment ago had been a shimmer of sunset's gold.

"The one haven of safety always is the holy sanctuary."

Father Josef's words sounded in my ears, and the face of old San Miguel

seemed to wear a welcoming smile. I stepped into the deep doorway and

stood there, aimless and unthinking, looking out toward where the Jemez

Mountains were outlined against the southwest horizon. Presently I

caught the sound of feet, and Marcos Ramero strode out of the narrow

street and followed the trail into the heart of the city.

I stared after him, noting the graceful carriage, the well-fitting

clothes, and the proud set of the handsome head. There was no doubt

about him. Did he hold the heart of the golden-haired girl who had

walked into my life to stay? As he passed out of my sight Eloise St.

Vrain came swiftly around the corner of the street to the church door,

and stopped before me in wide-eyed amazement. Eloise, with her clinging

creamy draperies, and the vivid red of her silken scarf, and her

glorious hair.

"Oh, Gail Clarenden, is it really you?" she cried, stretching out both

hands toward me with a glad light in her eyes.

"Yes, Little Lees, it is I."

I took both of her hands in mine. They were soft and white, and mine

were brown and horny, but their touch sent a thrill of joy through me.

She clung tightly to my hands for an instant. Then a deeper pink swept

her cheeks, and she dropped her eyes and stepped back.

"They told me you were--lost--on the way; that some Kiowas had killed

you."

She lifted her face again, and heaven had not anything better for me

than the depths of those big dark eyes looking into mine.

"Who told you, Eloise?"

The girl looked over her shoulder apprehensively, and lowered her voice

as she replied:

"Marcos Ramero."

"He's a liar. I am awfully alive, and Marcos Ramero knows I am, for he

saw me and recognized me down in the Plaza this afternoon," I declared.

Just then the church door opened and a girl in Mexican dress came out. I

did not see her face, nor notice which way she took, for a priest

following her stepped between us. It was Father Josef.

"My children, come inside. The holy sanctuary offers you a better

shelter than the open street."

I shall never forget that voice, nor hear another like it. Inside, the

candles were burning dimly at the altar. The last rays of daylight came

through the high south windows, touching the carved old rafters and gray

adobe with a red glow. Long ago human hands, for lack of trowels, had

laid that adobe surface on the rough stone--hands whose imprint is

graven still on those crudely dented walls.

We sat down on a low seat inside of the doorway, and Father Josef passed

up the aisle to the altar, leaving us there alone.

"Eloise, Marcos Ramero is your friend, and I beg your pardon for

speaking of him as I did."

I resented with all my soul the thought of this girl caring for the son

of the man who in some infamous way had wronged Jondo, but I had no

right to be rude about him.

"Gail, may I say something to you?" The voice was as a pleading call and

the girl's farce was full of pathos.

"Say on, Little Lees," was all that I could venture to answer.

"Do you remember the day you came in here and threw Marcos Ramero out of

that door?"

"I do," I replied.

"Would you do it again, if it were necessary? I mean--if--" the voice

faltered.

I had heard the same pleading tone on the night of Mat's wedding when

Eloise and Beverly were in the little side porch together. I looked up

at the red light on the old church rafters and the rough gray walls. How

like to those hand-marked walls our memories are, deep-dented by the

words they hold forever! Then I looked down at the girl beside me and I

forgot everything else. Her golden hair, her creamy-white dress, and

that rich crimson scarf draped about her shoulders and falling across

her knees would have made a Madonna's model that old Giovanni Cimabue

himself would have joyed to copy.

"Is it likely to be necessary? Be fair with me, Eloise. I saw you two

strolling up that little goat-run of a street out there just now.

Judging from the back of his head, Marcos looked satisfied. I shouldn't

want to interfere nor make you any trouble," I said, earnestly.

"It is I who should not make you any trouble, but, oh, Gail, I came here

this evening because I was afraid and I didn't know where else to go,

and I found you. I thought you were dead somewhere out on the Kansas

prairie. Maybe it was to help me a little that you came here to-night."

Her hands were gripped tightly and her mouth was firm-set in an effort

to be brave.

"Why, Eloise, I'd never let Marcos Ramero, nor anybody else, make you

one little heart-throb afraid. If you will only let me help you, I

wouldn't call it trouble; I'd call it by another name." The longing to

say more made me pause there.

The light was fading overhead, but the church lamps gave a soft glow

that seemed to shield off the shadowy gloom.

"Father Josef came all the way from New Mexico to St. Ann's to have me

come back here, and Mother Bridget sent Sister Anita, you remember her,

up to St. Louis to come with me by way of New Orleans. I didn't tell you

that I might be here when your train came in overland because--because

of some things about my own people--"

The fair head was bowed and the soft voice trembled.

"Don't be afraid to tell me anything, Little Lees," I whispered,

assuringly.

"I never saw my father, but my mother was very beautiful and loving, and

we were so happy together. I was still a very little girl when she fell

sick and they took me away from her. I never knew when she died nor

where she was buried. Ferdinand Ramero had charge of her property. He

controlled everything after she went away, and I have always lived in

fear of his word. I am helpless when he commands, for he has a strange

power over minds; and as to Marcos--you know what a little cat I was. I

had to be to live with him. It wasn't until we were all at Bent's Fort

that I got over my fear of you and Beverly. The day you threw Marcos out

of here was the first time I ever had a champion to defend me."

I wanted to take her in my arms and tell her what I dared not think she

would let me say. So I listened in sympathetic silence.

"Then came an awful day out at Agua Fria, and Father Josef took me in

his arms as he would take a baby, and sang me to sleep with the songs my

mother loved to sing. I think it must have been midnight when I wakened.

It was dreary and cold, and Esmond Clarenden and Ferdinand Ramero were

there, and Father Josef and Jondo."

And then she told me, as she remembered them, the happenings of that

night at Agua Fria, the same story that Jondo told me later. But until

that evening I had known nothing of how Eloise had come to us.

"You know the rest," Eloise went on "I have had a boarding-school life,

and no real friends, except the Clarenden family, outside of these

schools."

"You poor little girl! One of the same Clarenden family is ready to be

your friend now," I said, tenderly, remembering keenly how Uncle Esmond

and Jondo had loved and protected three orphan children.

"The Rameros think nobody but a Ramero can do that now. Marcos is very

much changed. He has been educated in Europe, is handsome, and courtly

in his manners, and as his father's heir he will be wealthy. He came

to-night to ask me, to urge and plead with me, to marry him." Eloise

paused.

"Do you need the defense of a bull-whacker of the plains against these

things?" I asked.

"Oh, I could depend on myself if it were only Marcos. He comes with

polished ways and pleasing words," Eloise replied. "It is his father's

iron fist back of him that strikes at me through his graciousness. He

tells me that all the St. Vrain money, which he controls by the terms of

my father's will, he can give to the Church, if he chooses, and leave me

disinherited."

"We don't mind that a bit as a starter up in Kansas. Come out on our

prairies and try it," I suggested.

"But, Gail, that isn't all. There is something worse, dreadfully worse,

that I cannot tell you, that only the Rameros know, and hold like a

sword over my head. If I marry Marcos his father will destroy all

evidence of it and I shall have a handsome, talented, rich husband."

Eloise bowed her head and clasped her hands, crushed by the misery of

her lot.

"And if you refuse to marry this scoundrel?" I asked, bluntly.

"Then I will be a penniless outcast. The Rameros are powerful here, and

the Church will be with them, for it will get my inheritance. I am

helpless and alone and I don't know what to do."

I think I had never known what anger meant before. This beautiful girl,

homeless, and about to be robbed of her fortune, reared in luxury, with

no chance for developing self-reliance and courage, was being hemmed in

and forced to a marriage by threats of poverty and a secret something

against which she was powerless. All the manhood in me rallied to her

cause, and she was an hundredfold dearer to me now, in her helplessness.

"Eloise, I'm a horny-handed driver of a bull-team on the Santa Fé Trail,

but you will let me help you if I can. So far as your money is

concerned, there's a lot of it on earth, even if the Church should grab

up your little bit because Ferdinand Ramero says your father's will

permits it. There are evil representatives in every Church, no matter

what its name may be, Catholic, Protestant, Indian, or Jew, but Father

Josef up there is bigger than his priestly coat, and you can trust that

size anywhere. And as to the knowledge of this 'something' known just to

Ferdinand Ramero, if he is the only one who knows it, it is too small to

get far, if it were turned loose. And any man who would use such

infamous means to get what he wants is too small to have much influence

if he doesn't get it. This is a big, wide, good world, Little Lees, and

the father of Marcos Ramero, with all his power and wealth, has a short

lariat that doesn't let him graze wide. Jondo holds the other end of

that lariat, and he knows."

Eloise listened eagerly, but her face was very white.

"Gail, you don't know the Ramero blood. I am helpless and terrified with

them in spite of their suave manners and flattering words. Why did

Father Josef bring me back here if the Church is not with them? And then

that awful shadow of some hidden thing that may darken my life. I know

their cruel, pitiless hearts. They stop at nothing when they want their

way. I have known them to do the most cold-blooded deeds."

Poor Eloise! The net about her had been skilfully drawn.

"I don't know Father Josef's motive, but I can trust him. And no shadow

shall trouble you long, Little Lees. Jondo and Uncle Esmond tote

together,' Aunty Boone said long ago. They know something about the

Ramero blood, and Jondo has promised to tell me his story some day. He

must do it to-night, and to-morrow we'll see the end of this tangle.

Trust me, Eloise," I said, comfortingly.

"But, Gail, I'm afraid Ferdinand will kill you if you get in his way."

Eloise clung to my arm imploringly.

"Six big Kiowas got fooled at that job. Do you think this thin streak of

humanity would try it?" I asked, lightly.

Eloise stood up beside me.

"I must go away now," she said.

"Then I'll go with you. Thank you, Father Josef, for your kindness," I

said as the priest came toward us.

"You are welcome, my son. In the sanctuary circle no harm can come.

Peace be with both of you."