PART I
CLEARING THE
TRAIL
I. THE BEGINNINGS OF A
PLAINSMAN
II. A DAUGHTER OF CANAAN
III. THE WIDENING HORIZON
IV. THE MAN IN THE DARK
V. WOMEN AND CHILDREN FIRST
VI. SPYING OUT THE LAND
VII. "SANCTUARY"
VIII. THE WILDERNESS
CROSSROADS
PART II
BUILDING THE
TRAIL
IX. IN THE MOON OF THE PEACH
BLOSSOM
X. THE HANDS THAT CLING
XI. "OUR FRIENDS--THE
ENEMY"
XII. THE BROTHERHOOD OF THE
PLAINS
XIII. IN THE SHELTER OF SAN
MIGUEL
XIV. OPENING THE RECORD
XV. THE SANCTUARY ROCKS OF SAN
CHRISTOBAL
XVI. FINISHING TOUCHES
XVII. SWEET AND BITTER
WATERS
PART III
DEFENDING THE
TRAIL
XVIII.
WHEN THE SUN WENT DOWN
XIX. A MAN'S PART
XX. GONE OUT
XXI. IN THE SHADOW OF THE
INFINITE
PART IV
REMEMBERING THE
TRAIL
XXII. THE GOLDEN WEDDING
Through the
veins
Of whose vast Empire flows, in strength'ning
tides,
Trade, the calm health of nations.
* * * * *
And sometimes I would doubt
If statesmen, rocked and dandled into power,
Could leave such legacies to kings.
There came a time in the law of life
When over the nursing sod
The shadows broke, and the soul awoke
In a strange, dim dream of God.
--LANGDON SMITH.
It might have been but yesterday that I saw it all: the
glinting sunlight on the yellow Missouri boiling endlessly along
at the foot of the bluff; the flood-washed sands across the
river; the tangle of tall, coarse weeds fringing them, edged by
the scrubby underbrush. And beyond that the big trees of the
Missouri woodland, so level against the eastern horizon that I
used to wonder if I might not walk upon their solid-looking tops
if I could only reach them. I wondered, too, why the trees on our
side of the river should vary so in height when those in the
eastern distance were so evenly grown. One day I had asked Jondo
the reason for this, and had learned that it was because of the
level ground on the farther side of the valley. I began then to
love the level places of the earth. I love them still. And,
always excepting that one titanic rift, where the world stands
edgewise, with the sublimity of the Almighty shimmering through
its far depths, I love them more than any other thing that nature
has yet offered to me.
But to come back to that picture of yesterday: old Fort
Leavenworth on the bluff; the little and big ravines that billow
the landscape about it; the faint lines of trails winding along
the hillsides toward the southwest; the unclouded skies so
everlastingly big and intensely blue; and, hanging like a spray
of glorious blossoms flung high above me, the swaying folds of
the wind-caressed flag, now drooping on its tall staff, now
swelling full and free, straight from its gripping halyards.
Between me and the fort many people were passing to and fro, some
of whom were to walk with me down the long trail of years.
Evermore that April day stands out as the beginning of things for
me. Dim are the days behind it, a jumble of happy childish hours,
each keen enough as the things of childhood go; but from that one
day to the present hour the unforgotten deeds of busy years run
clearly in my memory as I lift my pen to write somewhat of their
dramatic record.
And that this may not seem all a backward gaze, let me face about
and look forward from the beginning--a stretch of canvas, lurid
sometimes, sometimes in glorious tinting, sometimes intensely
dark, with rifts of lightning cleaving through its blackness. But
nowhere dull, nowhere without design in every brush-stroke.
I had gone out on the bluff to watch for the big fish that Bill
Banney, a young Kentuckian over at the fort, had told me were to
be seen only on those April days when the Missouri was running
north instead of south. And that when little boys kept very
still, the fish would come out of the water and play leap-frog on
the sand-bars.
If I failed to see them this morning, I meant to run back to the
parade-ground and play leap-frog myself with my cousin Beverly,
who wanted proof for most of Bill Banney's stories. Beverly was
growing wise and lanky for his age. I was still chubby, and in
most things innocent, and inclined to believe all that I heard,
or I should not have been taken in by that fish story.
We were orphans with no recollection of any other home than the
log house near the fort. We had been fathered and mothered by our
uncle, Esmond Clarenden, owner of the little store across the
square from our house, and a larger establishment down at
Independence on the Missouri River.
Always a wonderful man to me was that Esmond Clarenden, product
of one of the large old New England colleges. He found time to
guard our young years with the same diplomatic system by which he
controlled all of his business affairs. He laid his plans
carefully and never swerved from carrying them through afterward;
he insisted on order in everything; he rendered value for value
in his contracts; he chose his employees carefully, and trusted
them fully; he had a keen sense of humor, a genial spirit of
good-will, and he loved little children. Fitted as he was by
culture and genius to have entered into the greater opportunities
of the Eastern States, he gave himself to the real up-building of
the West, and in the larger comfort and prosperity and peace of
the Kansas prairies of to-day his soul goes marching on.
The waters, as I watched them, were all running south toward that
vague, down-stream world shut off by trees at a bend of the
course. I waited a long time there for the current to shift to
the north, wondering meanwhile about those level-topped forests,
and what I might see beyond them if I were sitting on their flat
crests. And, as I wondered, the first dim sense of being shut
in came filtering through my childish consciousness. I could
not cross the river. Big as my playground had always been, I had
never been out of sight of the fort's flagstaff up-stream, nor
down-stream. The wooded ravines blocked me on the southwest. What
lay beyond these limits I had tried to picture again and again. I
had been a dreamer all of my short life, and this new feeling of
being shut in, held back, from something slipped upon me
easily.
As I sat on the bluff in the April sunshine, I turned my face
toward the west and stretched out my chubby arms for larger
freedom. I wanted to see the open level places, wanted
till it hurt me. I could cry easily enough for some things. I
could not cry for this. It was too deep for tears to reach.
Moreover, this new longing seemed to drop down on me suddenly and
overwhelm me, until I felt almost as if I were caught in a
net.
As I stared with half-seeing eyes toward the wooded ravines
beyond the fort, suddenly through the budding branches I caught
sight of a horseman riding down a half-marked trail into a deep
hollow. Horsemen were common enough to forget in a moment, but
when this one reappeared on the hither side of the ravine, I saw
that the rider's face was very dark, that his dress, from the
sombrero to the spurred heel, was Mexican, and that he was
heavily armed, even for a plainsman. When he reached the top of
the bluff he made straight across the square toward my uncle
Esmond Clarenden's little storehouse, and I lost sight of
him.
Something about him seemed familiar to me, for the gift of
remembering faces was mine, even then. A fleeting childish memory
called up such a face and dress somewhere back in the dim days of
babyhood, with the haunting sound of a low, musical voice,
speaking in the soft Castilian tongue.
But the memory vanished and I sat a long time gazing at the
wooded west that hid the open West of my day-dreams.
Suddenly Jondo came riding up on his big black horse to the very
edge of the bluff.
"You are such a little mite, I nearly forgot to see you," he
called, cheerily. "Your Uncle Esmond wants you right away. Mat
Nivers, or somebody else, sent me to run you down," he added,
leaning over to lift me up to a seat on the horse behind him.
Few handsomer men ever graced a saddle. Big, broad-shouldered,
muscular, yet agile, a head set like a Greek statue, and a
face--nobody could ever make a picture of Jondo's face for
me--the curling brown hair, soft as a girl's, the broad forehead,
deep-set blue eyes, heavy dark brow, cheeks always ruddy through
the plain's tan, strong white teeth, firm square chin, and a
smile like sunshine on the gray prairies. Eyes, lips, teeth--aye,
the big heart behind them--all made that smile. No grander prince
of men ever rode the trails or dared the dangers of the untamed
West. I did not know his story for many years. I wish I might
never have known it. But as he began with me, so he ended--brave,
beloved old Jondo!
Down on the parade-ground Beverly Clarenden and Mat Nivers were
sitting with their feet crossed under them, tailor fashion,
facing each other and talking earnestly. Over by the fort, Esmond
Clarenden stood under a big elm-tree. A round little, stout
little man he was, whose sturdy strength and grace of bearing
made up for his lack of height. Like a great green tent the
boughs of the elm, just budding into leaf, drooped over him. A
young army officer on a cavalry horse was talking with him as we
came up.
"Run over there to Beverly now. Gail," my uncle said, with a wave
of his hand.
I was always in awe of shoulder-straps, so I scampered away
toward the children. But not until, child-like, I had stared at
the three men long enough to take a child's lasting estimate of
things.
I carry still the keen impression of that moment when I took,
unconsciously, the measure of the three: the mounted army man,
commander of the fort, big in his official authority and force;
Jondo on his great black horse, to me the heroic type of
chivalric courage; and between the two, Esmond Clarenden,
unmounted, with feet firmly planted, suggesting nothing heroic,
nothing autocratic. And yet, as he stood there, square-built,
solid, certain, he seemed in some dim way to be the real man of
whom the other two were but shadows. It took a quarter of a
century for me to put into words what I learned with one glance
that day in my childhood.
As I came running toward the parade-ground Beverly Clarenden
called out:
"Come here, Gail! Shut your little mouth and open your big ears,
and I'll tell you something. Maybe I'd better not tell you all at
once, though. It might make you dizzy," he added, teasingly.
"And maybe you better had," Mat Nivers said, calmly.
"Maybe you'd better tell him yourself, if you feel that way,"
Beverly retorted.
"I guess I'll do that," Mat began, with a twinkle in her big gray
eyes; but my cousin interrupted her.
Beverly loved to tease Mat through me, but he never got far, for
I relied on her to curb him; and she was not one to be ruffled by
trifles. Mat was an orphan and, like ourselves, a ward of Esmond
Clarenden, but there were no ties of kinship between us. She was
three years older than Beverly, and although she was no taller
than he, she seemed like a woman to me, a keen-witted,
good-natured child-woman, neat, cleanly, and contented. I wonder
if many women get more out of life in these days of luxurious
comforts than she found in the days of frontier hardships.
"Well, it's this way, Gail. Mat doesn't know the straight of it,"
Beverly began, dramatically. "There's going to be a war, or
something, in Mexico, or somewhere, and a lot of soldiers are
coming here to drill, and drill, and drill. And then--"
The boy paused for effect.
"And then, and then, and then--or some time," Mat Nivers
mimicked, jumping into the pause. "Why, they'll go to Mexico, or
somewhere. And what Bev is really trying to tell hasn't anything
to do with it--not directly, anyhow," she added, wisely. "The
only new thing is that Uncle Esmond is going to Santa Fé
right away. You know he has bought goods of the Santa Fé
traders since we couldn't remember. And now he's going down there
himself, and he's going to take you boys with him. That's what
Bev is trying to get out, or keep back."
"Whoopee-diddle-dee!" Beverly shouted, throwing himself backward
and kicking up his heels.
I jumped up and capered about in glee at the thought of such a
journey. But my heart-throb of childish delight was checked,
mid-beat.
"Won't Mat go, too?" I asked, with a sudden pain at my throat.
Mat Nivers was a part of life to me.
The smile fell away from the girl's lips. Her big, sunshiny gray
eyes and her laughing good nature always made her beautiful to
Beverly and me.
"I don't want to go and leave Mat," I insisted.
"Oh, I do," Beverly declared, boastingly. "It would be real nice
and jolly without her. And what could a little girl do 'way out
on the prairies, and no mother to take care of her, while we were
shooting Indians?"
He sprang up and took aim at the fort with an imaginary bow and
arrow. But there was a hollow note in his voice as if it covered
a sob.
"She can shoot Indians as good as you can, Beverly Clarenden,
and, besides, there isn't anybody to mother her here but Jondo,
and I reckon he'll go with us, won't he?" I urged.
Mothering was not in my stock of memories. The heart-hunger of
the orphan child had been eased by the gentleness of Jondo, the
championship of Mat Nivers, and the sure defense of Esmond
Clarenden, who said little to children, and was instinctively
trusted by all of them.
With Beverly's banter the smile came back quickly to Mat's eyes.
It was never lost from them long at a time.
"Beverly Clarenden, you keep your little mouth shut and
your big ears open," she began, laughingly. "I know the
whole sheboodle better 'n any of you, and I'm not teasing and
whimpering both at the same time, neither. Bev doesn't know
anything except what I've told him, and I wasn't through when you
got here, Gail. There is going to be a big war in Texas, and our
soldiers are going to go, and to win, too. Just look up at that
flag there, and remember now, boys, that wherever the Stars and
Stripes go they stay."
"Who told you all that?" Beverly inquired.
"The stars up in the sky told me that last night," Mat replied,
pulling down the corners of her mouth solemnly. "But Uncle Esmond
hasn't anything to do with the war, nor soldiers, only like he
has been doing here," the girl went on. "He's a store-man, a
merchant, and I guess he's just about as good as a general--a
colonel, anyhow. But he's too short to fight, and too fat to
run."
"He isn't any coward," Beverly objected.
"Who said he was?" Mat inquired. "He's one of them usefulest men
that keeps things going everywhere."
"I saw a real Mexican come up out of the ravine awhile ago and go
straight over toward Uncle Esmond's store. What do you suppose he
came here for? Is he a soldier from down there?" I asked.
"Oh, just one Mexican don't mean anything anywhere, but the war
in Mexico has something to do with our going to Santa Fé,
even if Uncle Esmond is just a nice little store-man. That's all
a girl knows about things," Beverly insisted.
Mat opened her big eyes wide and looked straight at the boy.
"I don't pretend to know what I don't know, but I'll bet a
million billion dollars there is something else besides just all
this war stuff. I can't tell it, I just feel it. Anyhow, I'm to
stay here with Aunty Boone till you come back. Girls can be
trusted anywhere, but it may take the whole Army of the West,
yet, to follow up and look after two little runty boys. And let
me tell you something, Bev, something I heard Aunty Boone
say this morning." She said: "Taint goin' to be more 'n a minnit
now till them boys grows up an' grows together, same size, same
age. They been little and big, long as they goin' to be. Now you
know what you're coming to."
Mat was digging in the ground with a stick, and she flipped a
clod at Beverly with the last words. Both of us had once expected
to marry her when we grew up, unless Jondo should carry her away
as his bride before that time. He was a dozen years older than
Mat, who was only fourteen and small for her age. A flush always
came to her cheeks when we talked of Jondo in that way. We didn't
know why.
We sat silent for a little while. A vague sense of desolateness,
of the turning-places of life, as real to children as to older
folk, seemed to press suddenly down upon all three of us. Ours
was not the ordinary child-life even of that day. And that was a
time when children had no world of their own as they have to-day.
Whatever developed men and women became a part of the younger
life training as well. And while we were ignorant of much that
many children then learned early, for we had lived mostly beside
the fort on the edge of the wilderness, we were alert, and
self-dependent, fearless and far-seeing. We could use tools
readily: we could build fires and prepare game for cooking; we
could climb trees, set traps, swim in the creek, and ride horses.
Moreover, we were bound to one another by the force of isolation
and need for playmates. Our imagination supplied much that our
surroundings denied us. So we felt more deeply, maybe, than many
city-bred children who would have paled with fear at dangers that
we only laughed over.
No ripple in the even tenor of our days, however, had given any
hint of the coming of this sudden tense oppression on our young
souls, and we were stunned by what we could neither express nor
understand.
"Whatever comes or doesn't come," Beverly said at last,
stretching himself at full length, stomach downward, on the bare
ground, "whatever happens to us, we three will stand by each
other always and always, won't we, Mat?"
He lifted his face to the girl's. Oh, Beverly! I saw him again
one day down the years, stretched out on the ground like this,
lifting again a pleading face. But that belongs--down the
years.
"Yes, always and always," Mat replied, and then because she had a
Spartan spirit, she added: "But let's don't say any more that
way. Let's think of what you are going to see--the plains, the
Santa Fé Trail, the mountains, and maybe bad Indians. And
even old Santa Fé town itself. You are in for 'the big
shift,' as Aunty Boone says, and you've got to be little men and
take whatever comes. It will come fast enough, you can bet on
that."
Yesterday I might have sobbed on her shoulder. I did not know
then that out on the bluff an hour ago I had come to the first
turn in my life-trail, and that I could not look back now. I did
know that I wanted to go with Uncle Esmond. I looked away
from Mat's gray eyes, and Beverly's head dropped on his arms,
face downward--looked at nothing but blue sky, and a graceful
drooping flag; nothing but a half-sleepy, half-active fort;
nothing but the yellow April floods far up-stream, between wooded
banks tenderly gray-green in the spring sunshine. But I did not
see any of these things then. Before my eyes there stretched a
vast level prairie, with dim mountain heights beyond them. And
marching toward them westward, westward, past lurking danger,
Indians here and wild beasts there, went three men: the officer
on his cavalry mount; Jondo on his big black horse; Esmond
Clarenden, neither mounted nor on foot, it seemed, but going
forward somehow. And between these three and the misty mountain
peaks there was a face--not Mat Nivers's, for the first time in
all my day-dreams--a sweet face with dark eyes looking straight
into mine. And plainly then, just as plainly as I have heard it
many times since then, came a call--the first clear bugle-note of
the child-soul--a call to service, to patriotism, and to
love.
All that afternoon while Mat Nivers sang about her tasks Beverly
and I tried to play together among the elm and cottonwood trees
about our little home, but evening found us wide awake and
moping. Instead of the two tired little sleepy-heads that could
barely finish supper, awake, when night came, we lay in our
trundle-bed, whispering softly to each other and staring at the
dark with tear-wet eyes--our spiritual barometers warning us of a
coming change. Something must have happened to us that night
which only the retrospect of years revealed. In that hour Beverly
Clarenden lost a year of his life and I gained one. From that
time we were no longer little and big to each other--we were
comrades.
It must have been nearly midnight when I crept out of bed and
slipped into the big room where Uncle Esmond and Jondo sat by the
fireplace, talking together.
"Hello, little night-hawk! Come here and roost," Jondo said,
opening his arms to me.
I slid into their embrace and snuggled my head against his broad
shoulder, listening to all that was said. Three months later the
little boy had become a little man, and my cuddling days had
given place to the self-reliance of the fearless youngster of the
trail.
"Why do you make this trip now, Esmond?" Jondo asked at length,
looking straight into my uncle's face.
"I want to get down there right now because I want to get a grip
on trade conditions. I can do better after the war if I do. It
won't last long, and we are sure to take over a big piece of
ground there when it is over. And when that is settled commerce
must do the real building-up of the country. I want to be a part
of that thing and grow with it. Why do you go with me?"
My uncle looked directly at Jondo, although he asked the question
carelessly.
"To help you cross the plains. You know the redskins get worse
every trip," Jondo answered, lightly.
I stared at both of them until Jondo said, laughingly:
"You little owl, what are you thinking about?"
"I think you are telling each other stories," I replied,
frankly.
For somehow their faces made me think of Beverly's face out on
the parade-ground that morning, when he had lifted it and looked
at Mat Nivers; and their voices, deep bass as they were, sounded
like Beverly's voice whispering between his sobs, before he went
to sleep.
Both men smiled and said nothing. But when I went to my bed again
Jondo tucked the covers about me and Uncle Esmond came and bade
me good night.
"I guess you have the makings of a plainsman," he said, with a
smile, as he patted me on the head.
"The beginnings, anyhow," Jondo added. "He can see pretty far
already."
For a long time I lay awake, thinking of all that Uncle Esmond
and Jondo had said to me. It is no wonder that I remember that
April day as if it were but yesterday. Such days come only to
childhood, and oftentimes when no one of older years can see
clearly enough to understand the bigness of their meaning to the
child who lives through them.
All of my life I had heard stories of the East, of New York and
St. Louis, where there were big houses and wonderful stores. And
of Washington, where there was a President, and a Congress, and a
strange power that could fill and empty Fort Leavenworth at will.
I had heard of the Great Lakes, and of cotton-fields, and
tobacco-plantations, and sugar-camps, and ships, and steam-cars.
I had pictured these things a thousand times in my busy
imagination and had longed to see them. But from that day they
went out of my life-dreams. Henceforth I belonged to the prairies
of the West. No one but myself took account of this, nor guessed
that a life-trend had had its commencement in the small events of
one unimportant day.
One stone the more swings to her place
In that dread Temple of Thy worth;
It is enough that through Thy grace
I saw naught common on Thy earth.
The next morning I was wakened by the soft voice of Aunty
Boone, our cook, saying:
"You better get up! Revilly blow over at the fort long time ago.
Wonder it didn't blow your batter-cakes clear away. Mat and
Beverly been up since 'fore sunup."
Aunty Boone was the biggest woman I have ever seen. Not the
tallest, maybe--although she measured up to a height of six feet
and two inches--not the fattest, but a woman with the biggest
human frame, overlaid with steel-hard muscles. Yet she was not,
in her way, clumsy or awkward. She walked with a free stride, and
her every motion showed a powerful muscular control. Her face was
jet-black, with keen shining eyes, and glittering white teeth. In
my little child-world she was the strangest creature I had ever
known. In the larger world whither the years of my manhood have
led me she holds the same place.
She had been born a princess of royal blood, heir to a queenship
in her tribe in a far-away African kingdom. In her young
womanhood, so the tale ran, the slave-hunter had found her and
driven her aboard a slave-ship bound for the American coast. He
never drove another slave toward any coast. In Virginia her first
purchaser had sold her quickly to a Georgia planter whose
heirs sent her on to Mississippi. Thence she soon found
her way to the Louisiana rice-fields. Nobody came to take her
back to any place she had quitted. "Safety first," is not a
recent practice. She had enormous strength and capacity for
endurance, she learned rapidly, kept her own counsel, obeyed no
command unless she chose to do so, and feared nothing in the
Lord's universe. The people of her own race had little in common
with her. They never understood her and so they feared her. And
being as it were outcast by them, she came to know more of the
ways and customs, and even the thoughts, of the white people
better than of her own. Being quick to imitate, she spoke in the
correcter language of those whom she knew best, rather than the
soft, ungrammatical dialect of the plantation slave or the grunt
and mumble of the isolated African. Realizing that service was to
be her lot, she elected to render that service where and to whom
she herself might choose.
One day she had walked into New Orleans and boarded a Mississippi
steamer bound for St. Louis. It took three men to eject her
bodily from the deck into a deep and dangerous portion of the
stream. She swam ashore, and when the steamer made its next stop
she walked aboard again. The three men being under the care of a
physician, and the remainder of the crew burdened with other
tasks, she was not again disturbed. Some time later she appeared
at the landing below Fort Leavenworth, and strode up the slope to
the deserted square where Esmond Clarenden stood before his
little store alone in the deepening twilight.
I have heard that she had had a way of appearing suddenly, like a
beast of prey, in the dusk of the evening, and that few men cared
to meet her at that time alone.
My uncle was a snug-built man, sixty-two inches high, with small,
shapely hands and feet. Towering above him stood this great,
strange creature, barefooted, ragged, half tiger, half
sphinx.
"I'm hungry. I'll eat or I kill. I'm nobody's slave!"
The soft voice was full of menace, the glare of famine and fury
was in the burning eyes, and the supple cruelty of the wild beast
was in the clenched hands.
Esmond Clarenden looked up at her with interest. Then pointing
toward our house he said, calmly:
"Neither are you anybody's master. Go over there to the kitchen
and get your supper. If you can cook good meals, I'll pay you
well. If you can't, you'll leave here."
Possibly it was the first time in her strange and varied career
that she had taken a command kindly, and obeyed because she must.
And so the savage African princess, the terror of the terrible
slave-ship, the untamed plantation scourge, with a record for
deeds that belong to another age and social code, became the
great, silent, faithful, fearless servant of the plains; with us,
but never of us, in all the years that followed. But she fitted
the condition of her day, and in her place she stood, where the
beloved black mammy of a gentler mold would have fallen.
She announced that her name was Daniel Boone, which Uncle Esmond
considered well enough for one of such a westward-roving nature.
But Jondo declared that the "Daniel" belonged to her because,
like unto the Bible Daniel, no lion, nor whole den of lions,
would ever dine at her expense. To us she became Aunty Boone.
With us she was always gentle--docile, rather; and one day we
came to know her real measure, and--we never forgot her.
I bounced out of bed at her call this morning, and bounced my
breakfast into a healthy, good-natured stomach. The sunny April
of yesterday had whirled into a chilly rain, whipped along by a
raw wind. The skies were black and all the spring verdure was
turned to a sickish gray-green.
"Weather always fit the times," Aunty Boone commented as she
heaped my plate with the fat buckwheat cakes that only she could
ever turn off a griddle. "You packin' up for somepin' now. What
you goin' to get is fo'casted in this here nasty day."
"Why, we are going away!" I cried, suddenly recalling the
day before. "I wish, though, that Mat could go. Wouldn't you like
to go, too, Aunty? Only, Bev says there's deserts, where there's
just rocks and sand and everything, and no water sometimes. You
and Mat couldn't stand that 'cause you are women-folks."
I stiffened with importance and clutched my knife and fork
hard.
"Couldn't!" Aunty Boone gave a scornful grunt. "Women-folks
stands double more 'n men. You'll see when you get older. I know
about you freightin' off to Santy Fee. You don't know what
desset is. You never see sand. You never
feel what it is to want watah. Only folks 'cross
the ocean in the real desset knows that. Whoo-ee!"
I remembered the weird tales she had told us of her
girlhood--tales that had thrilled me with wonder--told sometimes
in the twilight, sometimes by the kitchen fire on winter nights,
sometimes on long, still, midsummer afternoons when the air
quivered with heat and the Missouri hung about hot sand-bars,
half asleep.
"What do you know about this trip, Aunty Boone?" I asked,
eagerly; for although she could neither read nor write, she had a
sponge-like absorbing power for keeping posted on all that
happened at the fort.
"Cla'n'den"--the woman never called my uncle by any other
name--"he's goin' to Santy Fee, an' you boys with him,
'cause--"
She paused and her shining eyes grew dull as they had a way of
doing in her thoughtful or prophetic moments.
"He knows what for--him an' Jondo. One of 'em's storekeeper an'
t'other a plainsman, but they tote together always--an' they
totin' now. You can't see what, but they totin', they totin',
just the same. Now run out to the store. Things is stirrin'.
Things is stirrin'."
I bolted my cakes, sodden with maple syrup, drank my mug of milk,
and hurried out toward the storehouse.
Fort Leavenworth in the middle '40's was sometimes an indolent
place, and sometimes a very busy one, depending upon the activity
of the Western frontier. On this raw April morning everything was
fairly ajerk with life and motion. And I knew from
child-experience that a body of soldiers must be coming up the
river soon. Horses were rushed to-day where yesterday they had
been leisurely led. Orders were shouted now that had been half
sung a week ago. Military discipline took the place of fatigue
attitudes. There was a banging of doors, a swinging of brooms, a
clatter of tin, and a clanging of iron things. And everywhere
went that slapping wind. And every shallow place in the ground
held a chilly puddle. The government buildings always seemed big
and bare and cold to me. And this morning they seemed drearier
than ever, beaten upon by the fitful swish of the rain.
In contrast with these were my uncle's snug quarters, for warmth
was a part of Esmond Clarenden's creed. I used to think that the
little storeroom, filled with such things as a frontier fort
could find use for, was the biggest emporium in America, and the
owner thereof suffered nothing, in my eyes, in comparison with
A.T. Stewart, the opulent New York merchant of his day.
As I ran, bareheaded and coatless, across the wide wet space
between our home and the storehouse a soldier came dashing by on
horseback. I dodged behind him only to fall sprawling in a
slippery pool under the very feet of another horseman, riding
swiftly toward the boat-landing.
Neither man paid any attention to me as I slowly picked myself up
and started toward the store. The soldier had not seen me at all.
The other man's face was dark, and he wore the dress of the
Mexican. It was only by his alertness and skill that his horse
missed me, but as he hurried away he gave no more heed to me than
if I had been a stone in his path.
I had turned my ankle in the fall and I could only limp to the
storehouse and drop down inside. I would not cry out, but I could
not hold back the sobs as I tried to stand, and fell again in a
heap at Jondo's feet.
"Things were stirrin'" there, as Aunty Boone had said, but withal
there was no disorder. Esmond Clarenden never did business in
that way. No loose ends flapped about his rigging, and when a
piece of work was finished with him, there was nothing left to
clear away. Bill Banney, the big grown-up boy from Kentucky, who,
out of love of adventure, had recently come to the fort, was
helping Jondo with the packing of certain goods. Mat and Beverly
were perched on the counter, watching all that was being done and
hearing all that was said.
"What's the matter, little plainsman?" Jondo cried, catching me
up and setting me on the counter. "Got a thorn in your shoe, or a
stone-bruise, or a chilblain?"
"I slipped out there behind a soldier on horseback, right in
front of a little old Mexican who was just whirling off to the
river," I said, the tears blinding my eyes.
"Why, he's turned his ankle! Looks like it was swelling already,"
Mat Nivers declared, as she slid from the counter and ran toward
me.
"It's a bad job," Jondo declared. "Just when we want to get off,
too."
"Can't I go with you to Santa Fé, Uncle Esmond?" I
wailed.
"Yes, Gail, we'll fix you up all right," my uncle said, but his
face was grave as he examined my ankle.
It was a bad job, much worse than any of us had thought at first.
And as they all gathered round me I suddenly noticed the same
Mexican standing in the doorway, and I heard some one, I think it
was Uncle Esmond, say:
"Jondo, you'd better take Gail over to the surgeon right away--"
His voice trailed off somewhere and all was blank nothingness to
me. But my last impression was that my uncle stayed behind with
the strange Mexican.
In the excitement everybody forgot that I had on neither hat nor
coat as they carried me through the raw wet air to the army
surgeon's quarters beyond the soldiers' barracks.
A chill and fever followed, and for a week there was only pain
and trouble for me. Nothing else hurt quite so deeply, however,
as the fear of being left behind when the Clarendens should start
for Santa Fé. I would ask no questions, and nobody
mentioned the trip, for which everything was preparing. I began
at last to have a dread of being left in the night, of wakening
some morning to find only Mat and myself with Aunty Boone in the
little log house. Uncle Esmond had already been away for three
days, but nobody told me where he had gone, nor why he went, nor
when he would come back. It kept me awake at night, and the loss
of sleep made me nervous and feverish.
One afternoon about a week after my accident, when Beverly and
Mat were putting the room in order and chattering like a couple
of squirrels, Beverly said, carelessly:
"Gail, it's been a half a week since Uncle Esmond went down to
our other store in Independence, and we are going to start on our
trip just as soon as he gets back, unless he sends for me and
Jondo."
I knew that he was trying to tell me that they meant to go
without me, for he hurried out with the last words. No boy wants
to talk to a disappointed boy, and I had to clinch my teeth hard
to keep back the tears.
"I want to get well quicker, Mat. I want to go to Santa Fé
with Beverly," I wailed, making a desperate effort to get out of
bed.
"You cuddle right down there, Gail Clarenden, if you want to get
well at all. If you're real careful you'll be all right in a day
or two. Let's wait for Uncle Esmond to come home before we start
any worries."
It was in her voice, girl or woman, that comforting note that
could always soothe me.
"Mat, won't you try to get them to let me go?" I pleaded.
She made no promises, but busied herself with getting my foot
into its place again, singing softly to herself all the while.
Then she read me stories from our few story-books till I fell
asleep.
It was twilight when I wakened. Where I lay I could hear Esmond
Clarenden and Aunty Boone talking in the kitchen, and I listened
eagerly to all they said.
"But it's no place for a woman," my uncle was urging,
gravely.
"I ain't a woman, I'm a cook. You want cooks if you eats. Mat
ain't a woman, she's a girl. But she's stronger 'n Beverly. If
you can't leave him, how can you leave her? An' Gail never get
well if he's left here, Cla'n'den, now he's got the goin' fever.
Never! An' if you never got back--"
"I don't believe he would get well, either." Then Uncle Esmond
spoke lower and I could not hear any more.
Pretty soon Mat and Beverly burst open the door and came dancing
in together, the sweet air of the warm April evening coming in
with them, and life grew rose-colored for me in a moment.
"We are all going to Santa Fé over the long trail. Every
last gun of us. Aunty Boone, and Mat, and you, and me, and Jondo,
and Uncle Esmond, rag-tag and bobtail. Whoop-ee-diddle-dee!"
Beverly threw up his cap, and, catching Mat by the arms, they
whirled around the room together.
"Who says so, Bev?" I asked, eagerly.
"Them as knows and bosses everything in this world. Jondo told
me, and he's just the boss's shadow. Now guess who," Beverly
replied.
"It's all true, Gail," Mat assured me. "Esmond Clarenden
is going to Santa Fé in spite of 'war, pestilence,
famine, and sword,' as my History of the World says, and
he is going to take son Beverly, and son Gail to watch son
Beverly; and Miss Mat Nivers to watch both of them and shoo
Indians away; and Aunt Daniel Boone to scare the Mexicans into
the Gulf of California, if they act ugly, see!"
She capered about the room, and as she passed me she stooped and
patted me on the forehead. I didn't want her to do that. I had
taken a long jump away from little-boy-dom a week ago, but I was
supremely content now that all of us were to take the long trail
together.
That evening while Mat and Beverly went to look after some
fishing-lines they had set--Mat and Bev were always going
fishing--and Jondo was down at the store, the officer in command
of the fort came in. He paid no attention to me lying there, all
eyes and ears whenever shoulder-straps were present.
"What did you decide to do about the trip to Santa Fé?" he
asked, as he tipped back in his chair and settled down to cigars
and an evening chat.
"We shall be leaving on the boat in the morning," my uncle
replied.
The colonel's chair came down with a crack. "You don't mean it!"
he exclaimed.
"I told you a week ago that I would be starting as soon as
possible," Esmond Clarenden said, quietly.
"But, man, the war is raging, simply raging, down in Mexico right
now. Our division will be here to commence drill in a few weeks,
and we start for the border in a few months. You are mad to take
such a risk." The commander's voice rose.
"We must go, that's all!" my uncle insisted.
"We? We? Who the devil are 'we'? None of my companies mutinied, I
hope."
The words did not sound like a joke, and there was little humor
in the grim face.
"'We' means Jondo, Banney, a young fellow from Kentucky--" Uncle
Esmond began.
"Humph! Banney's father carried a gun at Fort Dearborn in 1812. I
thought that young fellow came here for military service," the
colonel commented, testily.
"Rather say he came for adventure," Esmond Clarenden
suggested.
"He'll get a deuced lot of it in a hurry, if you persuade him off
with you."
A flush swept over Esmond Clarenden's face, but his good-natured
smile did not fail as he replied:
"I don't persuade anybody. The rest of the company are my two
nephews and the little girl, my ward, with our cook, Daniel
Boone, as commander-in-chief of the pots and pans and any Indian
meat foolish enough to fall in her way."
Then came the explosion. Powder would have cost less than the
energy blown off there. The colonel stamped and swore, and sprang
to his feet in opposition, and flung himself down in disgust.
"Women and children!" he gasped. "Why do you sacrifice helpless
innocent ones?"
Just then Aunty Boone strode in carrying a log of wood as big as
a man's body, which she deftly threw on the fire. As the flame
blazed high she gave one look at the young officer sitting before
it, and then walked out as silently and sturdily as she had
entered. It was such a look as a Great Dane dog full of
superiority and indifference might have given to a terrier puppy,
and from where I lay I thought the military man's face took on a
very strange expression.
"I 'sacrifice my innocent ones,'" my uncle answered the query,
"because they will be safer with me than anywhere else. Young as
they are, there are some forces against them already."
"Well, you are going to a perilous place, over a most perilous
trail, in a most perilous time of national affairs, to meet such
treacherously villainous men as New Mexico offers in her
market-places right now? And all for the sake of the commerce of
the plains? Why do you take such chances to do business with such
people, Clarenden?"
Esmond Clarenden had been staring at the burning logs in the big
fireplace during this conversation. He turned now and faced the
young army officer squarely as he said in that level tone that we
children had learned long ago was final:
"Colonel, I'd go straight to hell and do business with the devil
himself if I had any business dealings with him."
The colonel's face fell. Slowly he relighted his cigar, and
leaned back again in his chair, and with that diplomacy that
covers a skilful retreat he said, smilingly:
"If any man west of the Missouri River ever could do that it
would be you, Clarenden. By the holy Jerusalem, the military lost
one grand commander when you chose a college instead of West
Point, and the East lost one well-bred gentleman from its circles
of commerce and culture when you elected to do business on the
old Santa Fé Trail instead of Broadway. But I reckon the
West will need just such men as you long after the frontier fort
has become a central point in the country's civilized area. And,
blast you, Clarenden, blast your very picture! No man can help
liking you. Not even the devil if he had the chance. Not one man
in ten thousand would dare to make that trip right now. You've
got the courage of a colonel and the judgment of a judge. Go to
Santa Fé! We may meet you coming back. If we do, and you
need us, command us!"
He gave a courteous salute, and the two began to talk of other
things; among them the purposes that were bringing young men
westward.
"So Banney, right out of old blue-grassy Kentucky, is going to
back out of here and go with you," the colonel remarked.
"I've hired him to drive one team. It's a lark for him, but the
army would be a lark just the same," Esmond Clarenden declared.
"He says he is to kill rattlesnakes and Mexicans, while Jondo
kills Indians and I sit tight on top of the bales of goods to
keep the wind from blowing them away. And the boys are to be made
bridle-wise, plains-broke for future freighting. That's
all that life means to him right now."
I do not know what else was said, nor what I heard and what I
dreamed after that. If this journey meant a lark to a grown-up
boy, it meant a pilgrimage through fairyland to a young boy like
myself.
And so the new life opened to us; and if the way was fraught with
hardship and danger, it also taught us courage and endurance. Nor
must we be measured by the boy life of to-day. Children lived the
grown-up life then. It was all there was for them to live.
The yellow Missouri boiled endlessly along by the foot of the
bluff. The flag flapped broadly in the strong breeze that blew in
from the west; the square log house--the only home we had ever
known--looked forlornly after us, with its two front windows with
blinds half drawn, like two half-closed, watching eyes; the
cottonwoods and elms, the tiny storehouse--everything--grew
suddenly very dear to us. The fort buildings throwing long
shadows in the early morning, the level-topped forests east of
the Missouri River, and the budding woodland that overdraped the
ravines to the west, even in their silence, seemed like sentient
things, loving us, as we loved them.
We children had gone all over the place before sunrise and
touched everything, in token of good-by; from some instinct
tarrying longest at the flagpole, where we threw kisses to the
great, beautiful banner high above us. Now, at the moment of
leaving all these familiar things of all our years, a choking
pain came to our throats. Mat's eyes filled with tears and she
looked resolutely forward. Beverly and I clutched hands and shut
our teeth together, determined to overcome this home-grip on our
hearts. Aunty Boone sat in a corner of the deck as the boat swung
out into the stream, her eyes dull and unseeing. She never spoke
of her thoughts, but I have wondered often, since that big day of
my young years, if she might not have recalled other voyages: the
slave-ship putting out to sea with the African shores fading
behind her; and the big river steamer at the New Orleans dock
where brutal hands had hurled her from the deck into the
dangerous floods of the Mississippi. This was her third voyage, a
brief run from Fort Leavenworth to Independence. She was apart
from her fellow-passengers as in the other two, but now nobody
gave her a curse, nor a blow.
Whose furthest footsteps never strayed
Beyond the village of his birth,
Is but a lodger for the night
In this old Wayside Inn of Earth.
The broad green prairies of the West roll back in huge billows
from the Missouri bluffs, and ripple gently on, to melt at last
into the level grassy plains sloping away to the foothills of the
Rocky Mountains. Up and down these land-waves, and across these
ripples, the old Santa Fé Trail, the slender pathway of a
wilderness-bridging commerce, led out toward the great
Southwest--a thousand weary miles--to end at last, where the
narrow thoroughfare reached the primitive hostelry at the corner
of the plaza in the heart of the capital of a Spanish-Mexican
demesne.
It was a strange old highway, tying the western frontier of a
new, self-reliant American civilization to the eastern limit of
an autocratic European offshoot, grafted upon an ancient Indian
stock of the Western Hemisphere. In language, nationality, social
code, political faith, and prevailing spiritual creed, the
terminals of this highway were as unlike as their geographical
naming. For the trail began at Independence, in Missouri,
and ended at Santa Fé, the "City of the Holy
Faith," in New Mexico.
The little trading town of Independence was a busy place in the
frontier years of the Middle West. Ungentle and unlovely as it
was, it was the great gateway between the river traffic on the
one side, and the plains commerce of the far Southwest on the
other. At the wharf at Westport, only a few miles away, the
steamers left their cargoes of flour and bacon, coffee and
calicoes, jewelry and sugar--whatever might have a market value
to merchants beyond the desert lands. And here these same
steamers took on furs, and silver bullion, and such other produce
of the mountains and mines and open plains as the opulently laden
caravans had toiled through long days, overland, to bring to the
river's wharf.
To-day the same old gateway stands as of yore. But it may be
given only to men who have seen what I have seen, to know how
that our Kansas City, the Beautiful, could grow up from that old
wilderness outpost of commerce threescore and more years ago.
The Clarenden store was the busiest spot in the center of this
busy little town. Goods from both lines of trade entered and
cleared here. In front of the building three Conestoga wagons
with stout mule teams stood ready. A fourth wagon, the Dearborn
carriage of that time, filled mostly with bedding, clothing, and
the few luxuries a long camping-out journey may indulge in,
waited only for a team, and we would be off to the plains.
Jondo and Bill Banney were busy with the last things to be done
before we started. Aunty Boone sat on a pile of pelts inside the
store, smoking her pipe. Beverly and Mat stood waiting in the big
doorway, while I sat on a barrel outside, because my ankle was
still a bit stiff. A crowd had gathered before the store to see
us off. It was not such a company as the soldier-men at the fort.
The outlaw, the loafer, the drunkard, the ruffian, the gambler,
and the trickster far outnumbered the stern-faced men of affairs.
When the balance turns the other way the frontier disappears.
Mingling with these was a pale-faced invalid now and then, with
the well-appointed new arrivals from the East.
"What are we waiting for, Bev?" I asked, as the street filled
with men.
"Got to get another span of moolies for our baby-cart. Uncle
Esmond hadn't counted on the nurse and the cook going, you know,
but he rigged this littler wagon out in a twinkle."
"That's the family carriage, drawn by spirited steeds. Us
children are to ride in it, with Daniel Boone to help with the
driving," Mat added.
Just then Esmond Clarenden appeared at the door.
"How soon do you start, Clarenden?" some one in the crowd
inquired.
"Just as soon as I can get a pair of well-broken mules," he
replied. "I'm looking for the man who has them to sell quick. I'm
in a hurry."
"What's your great rush?" a well-dressed stranger asked. "They
tell me things look squally out West."
"All the more reason for my being in a hurry then," Uncle Esmond
returned.
"They ain't but three men of you, is they? What do you want of
more mules?" put in an inquisitive idler of the trouble-loving
class who sooner or later turn arguments into bitter brawls.
"These three children and the cook in there have this wagon. They
are all fair drivers, if I can get the right mules," my uncle
said.
Women and children did not cross the plains in those days, nor
could public welfare allow that so valuable a piece of property
as Aunty Boone would be in the slave-market should be lost to
commerce, and the storm of protest that followed would have
overcome a less determined man. It was not on account of sympathy
for the weak and defenseless that called out all this abuse, but
the lawless spirit that stirs up a mob on the slightest
excuse.
I slid away to the door, where, with Mat and Beverly, I watched
Esmond Clarenden, who was listening with his good-natured smile
to all of that loud street talk.
"No man's life is insurable in these troublesome times, with our
troops right now down in Mexico," a suave Southern trader urged.
"Better sell your slave and put that nice little gal in a
boardin'-school somewhere in the South."
"I'll give you a mighty good bargain for that wench, Clarenden.
She might be worth a clare fortune in New Orleans. What d'ye say
to a cool thousand?" another man declared, with a slow. Southern
drawl.
Aunty Boone took the pipe from her lips and looked at the
stranger.
"Y'would!" she grunted, stretching her big right hand across her
lap, like a huge paw with claws ready underneath.
"Them plains Injuns never was more hostile than they air
right now. I just got in from the mountains an' I know. An'
they're bein' set on by more hostile Mexican devils, and
political intrigs," a bearded mountaineer trapper
argued.
"'Sides all that," interposed the suave Southern gentleman, "it's
too early in the spring. Freightin's bound to be delayed by
rains--and a nice little gal with only a nigger--" He was not
quite himself, and he did not try to say more.
"Seems like some of these gentlemen consider you are some sort of
a fool," a tall, lean Yankee youth observed, as he listened to
the babble.
I had climbed back on the barrel again to see the crowd better,
and I stared at the last speaker. His voice was not unpleasant,
but he appeared pale and weak and spiritless in that company of
tanned, rugged men. Evidently he was an invalid in search of
health. We children had seen many invalids, from time to time, at
the fort harmless folk, who came to fuss, and stayed to flourish,
in our gracious land of the open air.
"You are a dam' fool," roared a big drunken loafer from the edge
of the crowd. "An' I'd lick you in a minnit if you das step into
the middle of the street onct. Ornery sneak, to take innocent
children into such perils. Come on out here, I tell ye!"
A growl followed these words. Many men in that company were less
than half sober, and utterly irresponsible.
"Le's jes' hang the fool storekeepin' gent right now; an' make a
free-fur-all holiday. I'll begin," the drunken ruffian bawled. He
was of the sort that always leads a mob.
The growl deepened, for blood-lust and drunkenness go
together.
Terrified for my uncle's safety, I stood breathless, staring at
the evil-faced crowd of men going suddenly mad, without excuse.
At the farthest edge of the insipient mob, sitting on his horse
and watching my uncle's face intently, was the very Mexican whom
I had twice seen at Fort Leavenworth. At the drunken rowdy's
challenge, I thought that he half-lifted a threatening hand. But
Esmond Clarenden only smiled, with a mere turn of his head as if
in disapproval. In that minute I learned my first lesson in
handling ruffians. I knew that my uncle was not afraid, and
because of that my faith in his power to take care of himself
came back.
"I want to leave here in half an hour. If you have any good
plains-broke mules you will sell for cash, I can do business with
you right now. If not, the sooner you leave this place the
better."
He lifted his small, shapely hand unclenched, his good-natured
smile and gentlemanly bearing unchanged, but his low voice was
stronger than all the growls of the crowd that fell back like
whipped dogs.
As he spoke a horse-dealer, seeing the gathering before the
store, came galloping up.
"I'm your man. Money talks so I can understand it. Wait five
minutes and ten seconds and I'll bring a whole strand of
mules."
A rattling of wagons and roar of voices at the far end of the
street told of the arrival of a company coming in from the wharf
at Westport, and the crowd whirled about and made haste toward
the next scene of interest.
Only two men remained behind, the tall New England youth and the
Mexican on the farther side of the street sitting motionless on
his horse. A moment later he was gone, and the street was empty
save for the pale-faced invalid who had come over to the doorway
where Mat and Beverly and I waited together.
"Why don't you youngsters stay home with your mother, or is she
going with you?" he asked, a gleam of interest lighting his dull
face as he looked at Mat Nivers.
"We haven't any of us got a mother," Mat replied, timidly,
lifting her gray eyes to his.
"Mother! Ain't you all one family?" the young man questioned in
surprise.
"No, we are three orphan children that Uncle Esmond has adopted
all our lives, I guess." Beverly informed him.
A wave of sympathy swept over his face.
"You poor, lonely, unhappy cubs! You've never had a mother to
love you!" he exclaimed, in kindly pity.
"We aren't poor nor lonely nor unhappy. We have always had Uncle
Esmond and we didn't need a mother," I exclaimed, earnestly.
The young man stared at me as I spoke. "What's he, a bachelor or
married man?" he inquired.
"He couldn't be married and keep us, I reckon, and he's taking us
with him so nothing will happen to us while he's gone. He's
really truly Bev's uncle and mine, but he's just the same as
uncle to Mat, who hasn't anybody else," I declared,
enthusiastically. Uncle Esmond was my pride, and I meant that he
should be fully appreciated.
The Yankee gazed at all three of us, his eyes resting longest on
Mat's bright face. The listlessness left his own that minute and
a new light shone on his countenance. But when he turned to my
uncle the seeming lack of all interest in living returned to his
face again.
"Say," he drawled, looking down at the stubborn little merchant
from his slim six feet of altitude, "you are such a dam' fool as
our friend, the tipsy one, says, that I believe I'll go along
'cross the plains with you, if you'll let me. I've not got a
darned thing to lose out there but a sick carcass that I'm pretty
tired of looking after," he went on, wearily. "I reckon I might
as well see the fun through if I never set a hoof on old Plymouth
Rock again. My granddaddy was a minute-man at Lexington. Say"--he
paused, and his sober face turned sad--"if all the bean-eaters
who claim their grandpas were minute-men tell the truth, there
wasn't no glory in winning at Lexington, there was such a
tremendous sight of 'em. I've heard about eight million men
myself make the same claim. But my granddad was the real article
in the minute-men business. And I've always admired his grit most
of any man in the world. He was about your shape, I reckon, from
his picture that old man Copley got out. But, man! he wasn't a
patchin' on your coat-sleeve. You are the preposterous-est
unlawful-est infamous-est man I ever saw. It's just straight
murder and suicide you are bent on, takin' this awful chance of
plungin' into a warrin', snake-eatin' country like New Mexico,
and I like you for it. Will you take me as an added burden? If
you will, I'll deposit the price of my state-room right now. I've
got only a little wad of money to get well on or die on. I can
spend it either way--not much difference which. My name is Krane,
Rex Krane, and in spite of such a floopsy name I hail from
Boston, U.S.A."
There was a hopeless sagging about the young man's mouth,
redeemed only by the twinkle in his eye.
Esmond Clarenden gave him a steady measuring look. He estimated
men easily, and rarely failed to estimate truly.
"I'll take you on your face value," he answered, "and if you want
to turn back there will be a chance to do it out a hundred miles
or more on the trail. You can try it that far and see how you
like it. I'll furnish you your board. There are always plenty of
bedrooms on the ground floor and in one of the wagons on rainy
nights. You can take a shift driving a team now and then, and
every able-bodied man has to do guard duty some of the time. You
understand the dangers of the situation by this time. Here comes
my man," he added, as the horse-dealer appeared, leading a string
of mules up the street.
"Here's your critters. Take your choice," the dealer urged.
"I'll take the brown one," my uncle replied, promptly. And the
bargain was closed.
Mat and Beverly and I had already climbed into our wagon, and
Aunty Boone appeared now at the store door, ready to join us.
"You takin' that nigger?" the trader asked.
"Yes. Lead out your best offer now. I want another mule," Esmond
Clarenden replied.
But the horse-merchant proved to be harder to deal with than the
crowd had been. The foolish risk of losing so valuable a piece of
property as Daniel Boone ought to be in the slave-market taxed
his powers of understanding, profanity, and abuse.
"Cussin' solid, an' in streaks," Aunty Boone chuckled, softly, as
she listened to him unmoved.
Equally unmoved was Esmond Clarenden. But his genial smile and
diplomatic power of keeping still did not prevent him from being
as set as the everlasting hills in his own purpose.
"This here critter is all I'll sell you," the trader declared at
last, pulling a big white-eyed dun animal out of the group. "An'
nobody's goin' to drive her easy."
"I'll take it," Uncle Esmond said, promptly, and the
vicious-looking beast was brought to where Aunty Boone stood
beside the wagon-tongue.
It was a clear case of hate at first sight, for the mule began to
plunge and squeal the instant it saw her. The woman hesitated not
a minute, but lifting her big ham-like foot, she gave it one
broadside kick that it must have mistaken for a thunderbolt, and
in that low purr of hers, that might frighten a jungle tiger, she
laid down the law of the journey.
"You tote me to Santy Fee, or be a dead mule. Take yo' choice
right now! Git up!"
For fifty days the one dependable, docile servant of the
Clarendens was the big dun mule, as gentle and kitten-like as a
mule can be.
And so, in spite of opposing conditions and rabble protest and
doleful prophecy and the assurance of certain perils, we turned
our faces toward the unfriendly land of the sunset skies, the
open West of my childish day-dreams.
* * * * *
The prairies were splashed with showers and the warm black soil
was fecund with growths as our little company followed the
windings of the old trail in that wondrous springtime of my own
life's spring. There were eight of us: Clarenden, the merchant;
Jondo, the big plainsman; Bill Banney, whom love of adventure had
lured from the blue grass of Kentucky to the prairie-grass of the
West; Rex Krane, the devil-may-care invalid from Boston; and the
quartet of us in the "baby cab," as Beverly had christened the
family wagon. Uncle Esmond had added three swift ponies to our
equipment, which Jondo and Bill found time to tame for riding as
we went along.
We met wagon-trains, scouts, and solitary trappers going east,
but so far as we knew our little company was the only
westward-facing one on all the big prairies.
"It's just like living in a fairy-story, isn't it, Gail?" Beverly
said to me one evening, as we rounded a low hill and followed a
deep little creek down to a shallow fording-place. "All we want
is a real princess and a real giant. Look at these big trees all
you can, for Jondo says pretty soon we won't see trees at
all."
"Maybe we'll have Indians instead of giants," I suggested. "When
do you suppose we'll begin to see the real bad Indians;
not just Osages and Kaws and sneaky little Otoes and Pot'wat'mies
like we've seen all our lives?"
"Sooner than we expect," Beverly replied. "Could Mat Nivers ever
be a real princess, do you reckon?"
"I know she won't," I said, firmly, the vision of that fateful
day at Fort Leavenworth coming back as I spoke--the vision of
level green prairies, with gray rocks and misty mountain peaks
beyond. And somewhere, between green prairies and misty peaks, a
sweet child face with big dark eyes looking straight into mine. I
must have been a dreamer. And in my young years I wondered often
why things should be so real to me that nobody else could ever
understand.
"I used to think long ago at the fort that I'd marry Mat some
day," Beverly said, reminiscently, as if he were looking across a
lapse of years instead of days.
"So did I," I declared. "But I don't want to now. Maybe our
princess will be at the end of the trail, Bev, a real princess.
Still, I love Mat just as if she were my sister," I hastened to
add.
"So do I," Beverly responded, heartily.
A little grain of pity for her loss of prestige was mingling with
our subconscious feeling of a need for her help in the day of the
giant, if not in the reign of the princess.
We were trudging along behind our wagon toward the camping-place
for the night, which lay beyond the crossing of the stream. We
had lived much out of doors at Fort Leavenworth, but the real out
of doors of this journey was telling on us already in our sturdy,
up-leaping strength, to match each new hardship. We ate like
wolves, slept like dead things, and forgot what it meant to be
tired. And as our muscles hardened our minds expanded. We were no
longer little children. Youth had set its seal upon us on the day
when our company had started out from Independence toward the
great plains of the Middle West. Little care had we for the
responsibility and perils of such a journey; and because our
thoughts were buoyant our bodies were vigorous.
Our camp that night was under wide-spreading elm-trees whose
roots struck deep in the deep black loam. After supper Mat and
Beverly went down to fish in the muddy creek. Fishing was
Beverly's sport and solace everywhere. I was to follow them as
soon as I had finished my little chores. The men were scattered
about the valley and the camp was deserted. Something in the
woodsy greenness of the quiet spot made it seem like home to
me--the log house among the elms and cottonwoods at the fort. As
I finished my task I wondered how a big, fine house such as I had
seen in pictures would look nestled among these beautiful trees.
I wanted a home here some day, a real home. It was such a
pleasant place even in its loneliness.
To the west the ground sloped up gently toward the horizon-line,
shutting off the track of the trail beyond the ridge. A sudden
longing came over me to see what to-morrow's journey would offer,
bringing back the sense of being shut in that had made me
lose interest in fishes that wouldn't play leap-frog on the
sand-bars. And with it came a longing to be alone.
Instead of following Mat and Beverly to the creek I went out to
the top of the swell and stood long in the April twilight,
looking beyond the rim of the valley toward the darkening
prairies with the great splendor of the sunset's afterglow
deepening to richest crimson above the purpling shadows.
Oh, many a time since that night have I looked upon the Kansas
plains and watched the grandeur of coloring that only the
Almighty artist ever paints for human eyes. And always I come
back, in memory, to that April evening. The soul of a man must
have looked out through the little boy's eyes on that night, and
a new mile-stone was set there, making a landmark in my life
trail. For when I turned toward the darkening east and the
shadowy camp where the evening fires gleamed redly in the dusk, I
knew then, as well as I know now, if I could only have put it
into words, that I was not the same little boy who had run up the
long slope to see what lay next in to-morrow's journey.
I walked slowly back to the camp and sat down beside Esmond
Clarenden.
"What are you thinking about, Gail?" he asked, as I stared at the
fire.
"I wish I knew what would happen next," I replied.
Jondo was lying at full length on the grass, his elbow bent, and
his hand supporting his head. What a wonderful head it was with
its crown of softly curling brown hair!
"I wonder if we have done wrong by the children, Clarenden," the
big plainsman said, slowly.
Uncle Esmond shook his head as he replied:
"I can't believe it. They may not be safe with us, but we know
they would not have been safe without us."
Just then Beverly and Mat came racing up from the creek bank.
"Let us stay up awhile," Mat pleaded. "Maybe we'll be less
trouble some of these days if we hear you talk about what's
coming."
"They are right, Jondo. Gail here wants to know what is coming
next, and Mat wants a share in our councils. What do you want,
Beverly?"
"I want to practise shooting on horseback. I can hit a mark now
standing still. I want to do it on the run," Beverly replied.
I can see now the earnest look in Esmond Clarenden's eyes as he
listened. I've seen it in a mother's eyes more than once since
then, as she kissed her eldest-born and watched it toddle off
alone on its first day of school; or held her peace, when,
breaking home ties, the son of her heart bade her good-by to
begin life for himself in the world outside.
The last light of day was lost over the western ridge. The moon
was beginning to swell big and yellow through the trees. Twilight
was darkening into night. Bill Banney and Rex Krane had joined us
now, for every hour we were learning to keep closer together.
Jondo threw more wood on the fire, and we nestled about it in
snug, homey fashion as if we were to listen to a
fairy-tale--three children slipping fast out of childhood into
the stern, hard plains life that tried men's souls. As we
listened, the older men told of the perils as well as the
fascinating adventures of trail life, that we might understand
what lay before us in the unknown days. And then they told us
stories of the plains, and of the quaint historic things of Santa
Fé; of El Palacio, home of all the Governors of New
Mexico; an Indian pueblo first, it may have been standing there
when William the Norman conquered Harold of the Saxon dynasty of
England; or further back when Charlemagne was hanging heathen by
the great great gross to make good Christians of them; or even
when old Julius Cæsar came and saw and conquered, on either
side of the Rubicon, this same old structure may have sheltered
rulers in a world unknown. They told us of the old, old church of
San Miguel, a citadel for safety from the savage foes of Spain, a
sanctuary ever for the sinful and sorrowing ones. And of the
Plaza--sacred ground whereon by ceremonial form had been
established deeds that should change the destinies of tribes and
shape the trend of national pride and power in a new continent.
And of La Garita, place of execution, facing whose blind wall the
victims of the Spanish rule made their last stand, and, helpless,
fell pierced by the bullets of the Spanish soldiery.
And we children looked into the dying camp-fire and builded there
our own castles in Spain, and hoped that that old flag to which
we had thrown good-by kisses such a little while ago would one
day really wave above old Santa Fé and make it ours to
keep. For, young as we were, the flag already symbolized to us
the protecting power of a nation strong and gentle and
generous.
"The first and last law of the trail is to 'hold fast,'" Jondo
said, as we broke up the circle about the camp-fire.
"If you can keep that law we will take you into full partnership
to-night," Esmond Clarenden added, and we knew that he meant what
he said.
A stone's throw from either hand,
From that well-ordered road we tread,
And all the world is wide and strange.
--KIPLING
"We shall come to the parting of the ways to night if we make
good time, Krane," Esmond Clarenden said to the young Bostonian,
as we rested at noon beside the trait. "To-night we camp at
Council Grove and from there on there is no turning back. I had
hoped to find a big crowd waiting to start off from that place.
But everybody we have met coming in says that there are no
freighters going west now. Usually there is no risk in coming
alone from Council Grove to the Missouri River, and there is
always opportunity for company at this end of the trail."
We were sitting in a circle under the thin shade of some
cottonwood-trees beside a little stream; the air of noon, hot
above our heads, was tempered with a light breeze from the
southwest. As my uncle spoke, Rex glanced over at Mat Nivers,
sitting beside him, and then gazed out thoughtfully across the
stream. I had never thought her pretty before. But now her face,
tanned by the sun and wind, had a richer glow on cheek and lip.
Her damp hair lay in little wavelets about her temples, and her
big, sunny, gray eyes were always her best feature.
Girls made their own dresses on the frontier, and I suppose that
anywhere else Mat would have appeared old-fashioned in the neat,
comfortable little gowns of durable gingham and soft woolen
stuffs that she made for herself. But somehow in all that long
journey she was the least travel-soiled of the whole party.
At my uncle's words she looked up questioningly and I saw the
bloom deepen on her cheek as she met the young man's eyes.
Somebody else saw that shadow of a blush--Bill Banney lying on
the ground beside me, and although he pulled his hat cautiously
over his face, I thought he was listening for the answer.
The young New-Englander stared long at the green prairie before
he spoke. I never knew whether it was ignorance, or a lack of
energy, that was responsible for his bad grammar in those early
days, for Rex Krane was no sham invalid. The lines on his young
face told of suffering, and the thin, bony hands showed bodily
weakness. At length he turned to my uncle.
"I started out sort of reckless on this trip," he said, slowly.
"I'm nearly twenty and never been worth a dang to anybody
anywhere on God's earth; so I thought I might as well be where
things looked interestin'. But"--he hesitated--"I'm gettin' a lot
stronger every day, a whole lot stronger. Mebby I'd be of some
use afterwhile--I don't know, though. I reckon I'd better wait
till we get to that Council Grove place. Sounds like a nice
locality to rest and think in. Are you goin' on, anyhow,
Clarenden, crowd or no crowd?"
"Though the heavens fall," my uncle answered, simply.
Jondo had turned quickly to hear this reply and a great light
leaped into his deep-set blue eyes. I glanced over at Aunty
Boone, sitting apart from us, as she ever chose to do, her own
eyes dull, as they always were when she saw keenest; and I
remembered how, back at Fort Leavenworth, she had commented on
this journey, saying: "They tote together always, an' they're
totin' now." Child though I was, I felt that a something more
than the cargo of goods was leading my uncle to Santa Fé.
What I did not understand was his motive for taking Beverly and
Mat and me with him. I had been satisfied before just to go, but
now I wanted very much to know why I was going.
Council Grove by the Neosho River was the end of civilization for
the freighter. Beyond it the wilderness spread its untamed
lengths, and excepting Bent's Fort far up the Arkansas River on
the line of the first old trail, rarely followed now, it held not
a sign of civilization for the traveler until he should reach the
first outposts of the Mexican almost in the shadow of Santa
Fé. It is no wonder that wagon-trains mobilized here,
waiting for an increase in numbers before they dared to start on
westward. And now there were no trains waiting for our coming.
Only a gripping necessity could have led a man like Esmond
Clarenden to take the trail alone in the certain perils of the
plains during the middle '40's. I did not know until long
afterward how brave was the loving heart that beat in that little
merchant's bosom. A devotee of ease and refinement, he walked the
prairie trails unafraid, and made the desert serve his will.
The dusk of evening had fallen long before we pitched camp that
night under the big oak-trees in the Neosho River valley outside
of the little trading-post. Up in the village a light or two
gleamed faintly. From somewhere in the darkness came the sound of
a violin, mingling with loud talking and boisterous laughter in a
distant drinking-den. It would be some time until moon-rise, and
the shadowy places thickened to blackness.
In fair weather all of us except Mat Nivers slept in the open. On
stormy nights the younger men occupied one of the wagons, Jondo
and Beverly another, and my uncle and myself the third. Mat had
the "baby-cab" as Beverly called it, with Aunty Boone underneath
it. The ground was Aunty Boone's kingdom. She sat upon it, ate
from it, slept on it, and seemed no more soiled than a snake
would be by the contact with it.
"Some day I goes plop under it, and be ground myself," she used
to say. "Good black soil I make, too," she always added, with her
low chuckle.
To-night we were all in the wagons, for the spring rains had made
the Neosho valley damp and muddy. I was just on the edge of
dreamless slumber when a low voice that seemed to cut the
darkness caught my ear.
"Cla'nden! Cla'nden!" it hissed, softly.
My uncle slipped noiselessly out to where Aunty Boone stood, her
head so near to the canvas wagon-cover inside of which I lay that
I could hear all that was said.
She was always a night prowler. What other women learn now from
the evening newspaper or from neighborly gossip she, being
created without a sense of fear, went forth in her time and
gathered at first hand.
"I been prospectin' up 'round the saloon, Cla'nden. They's a
nasty mess of Mexicans in town, all gettin' drunk."
Then I heard a faint rustle of the bushes and I knew that the
woman was slipping away to her place under the wagon. I
remembered the Mexican whom I had last seen across the street
from the Clarenden store in Independence. These were bad
Mexicans, as Aunty Boone had said, and that man had seemed in a
silent way a friend of my uncle. I wondered what would happen
next. It soon happened. My uncle Esmond came inside the wagon and
called, softly:
"Gail, wake up."
"I'm awake," I replied, in a half-whisper, as alert as a
mystery-loving boy could be.
"Slip over to Jondo and tell him there are Mexicans in town, and
I'm going across the river to see what's up. Tell him to wake up
everybody and have them stay in the wagons till I get back."
He slid away and the shadows ate him. I followed as far as
Jondo's wagon, and gave my message. As I came back something
seemed to slip away before me and disappear somewhere. I dived
into our wagon and crouched down, waiting with beating heart for
Uncle Esmond to come back. Once I thought I heard the sound of a
horse's feet on the trail to the eastward, but I was not
sure.
All was still and black in the little camp for a long time, and
then Esmond Clarenden and Rex Krane crept into the wagon and
dropped the flap behind them.
"Krane, have you decided about this trip yet?" Uncle Esmond
asked. "If not, you'd better get right up into town and forget
us. You can't be too quick about it, either."
"Ain't we going to stay here a few days? Why do you want to know
to-night?"
Rex Krane, Yankee-like, met the query with a query.
"Because there's a pretty strong party of Mexican desperadoes
here who are going on east, and they mean trouble for somebody. I
shouldn't care to meet them with our strength alone. They are all
pretty drunk now and getting wilder every minute. Listen to
that!"
A yell across the river broke the night stillness.
"There is no telling how soon they may be over here, hunting for
us. We must get by them some way, for I cannot risk a fight with
them here. Which chance will you choose, the possibility of being
overtaken by that Mexican gang going east, or the perils of the
plains and the hostility of New Mexico right now? It's about as
broad one way as the other for safety, with staying here for a
time as the only middle course at present. But that is a
perfectly safe one for you."
"I am going on with you," Rex Krane said, with his slow Yankee
drawl. "When danger gets close, then I scatter. There's more
chance in seven hundred miles to miss somethin' than there is in
a hundred and fifty. And even a half-invalid might be of some
use. Say, Clarenden, how'd you get hold of this information? You
turned in before I did."
"Daniel Boone went out on scout duty--self-elected. You know she
considers that the earth was made for her to walk on when she
chooses to use it that way. She spied trouble ahead and came
back, and gave me the key to the west door of Council Grove so I
could get out early," my uncle replied.
"I reckoned as much," Rex declared.
In the dark I could feel Esmond Clarenden give a start.
"What do you mean?" he inquired.
"Oh, I saw the fat lady start out, so I followed her, but I
located the nest of Mexicans before she did, and got a good deal
out of their drunken jargon. And then I cat-footed it back after
a snaky-looking, black Spaniard that seemed to be following her.
There were three of us in a row, but the devil hasn't got the
hindmost one, not yet--that's me."
"You saw some one follow Daniel into camp?" my uncle broke in,
anxiously. But no threatening peril ever hurried Rex Krane's
speech.
"Yes, and I also followed some one; but I lost him in this
ink-well of a hole, and I was waitin' till he left so I could put
the cat out, an' shut the door, when you cut across the river.
I've been sittin' round now to see that nothin' broke loose till
you got back. Meantime, the thing sort of faded away. I heard a
horse gallopin' off east, too. Mebby they are outpostin' to
surround our retreat. I didn't wake Bill. He's got no more
imagination than Bev. If I had needed anybody I'd have stirred up
Gail, here."
In the dark I fairly swelled with pride, and from that moment Rex
Krane was added to my little list of heroes that had been made
up, so far, of Esmond Clarenden and Jondo and any army officer
above the rank of captain.
"Krane, you'll do. I thought I had your correct measure back in
Independence," Uncle Esmond said, heartily. "As to the boys, I
can risk them; they are Clarendens. My anxiety is for the little
orphan girl. She is only a child. I couldn't leave her behind us,
and I must not let a hair of her head be harmed."
"She's a right womanly little thing," Rex Krane said, carelessly;
but I wondered if in the dark his eyes might not have had the
same look they had had at noon when he turned to Mat sitting
beside my uncle. Maybe back at Boston he had a little sister of
his own like her. Anyhow, I decided then that men's words and
faces do not always agree.
Again the roar of voices broke out, and we scrambled from the
wagon and quickly gathered our company together.
"What did you find out?" Jondo asked.
"We must clear out of here right away and get through to the
other side of town and be off by daylight without anybody knowing
it. They are a gang of ugly Mexicans who would not let us cross
the river if we should wait till morning. They have already sent
a spy over here, and they are waiting for him to report."
"Where is he now?" Bill Banney broke in.
"They's two of him--I know there is," Rex Krane declared. "One of
him went east, to cut us off I reckon; an' t'other faded into
nothin' toward the river. Kind of a double deal, looks to
me."
Both men looked doubtingly at the young man; but without further
words, Jondo took command, and we knew that the big plainsman
would put through whatever Esmond Clarenden had planned. For
Aunty Boone was right when she said, "They tote together."
"We must snake these wagons through town, as though we didn't
belong together, but we mustn't get too far apart, either. And
remember now, Clarenden, if anybody has to stop and visit with
'em, I'll do it myself," Jondo said.
"Why can't we ride the ponies? We can go faster and scatter
more," I urged, as we hastily broke camp.
"He is right, Esmond. They haven't been riding all their lives
for nothing," Jondo agreed, as Esmond Clarenden turned
hesitatingly toward Mat Nivers.
In the dim light her face seemed bright with courage. It is no
wonder that we all trusted her. And trust was the large commodity
of the plains in those days, when even as children we ran to meet
danger with courageous daring.
"You must cross the river letting the ponies pick their own
ford," Jondo commanded us. "Then go through to the ridge on the
northwest side of town. Keep out of the light, and if anybody
tries to stop you, ride like fury for the ridge."
"Lemme go first," Aunty Boone interposed. "Nobody lookin' for me
this side of purgatory. 'Fore they gets over their surprise I'll
be gone. Whoo-ee!"
The soft exclamation had a breath of bravery in it that stirred
all of us.
"You are right, Daniel. Lead out. Keep to the shadows. If you
must run make your mules do record time," Uncle Esmond said.
"You'll find me there when you stop," Rex Krane declared. No sick
man ever took life less seriously. "I'm goin' ahead to
John-the-Baptist this procession and air the parlor
bedrooms."
"Krane, you are an invalid and a fool. You'd better ride in the
wagon with me," Bill Banney urged.
"Mebby I am. Don't throw it up to me, but I'm no darned coward,
and I'm foot-loose. It's my job to give the address of welcome
over t'other side of this Mexican settlement."
The tall, thin young man slouched his cap carelessly on his head
and strode away toward the river. Youth was reckless in those
days, and the trail was the home of dramatic opportunity. But
none of us had dreamed hitherto of Rex Krane's degree of daring
and his stubborn will.
The big yellow moon was sailing up from the east; the Neosho
glistened all jet and silver over its rough bed; the great
shadowy oaks looked ominously after us as we moved out toward the
threatening peril before us. Slowly, as though she had time to
kill, Aunty Boone sent the brown mule and trusty dun down to the
river's rock-bottom ford. Slowly and unconcernedly she climbed
the slope and passed up the single street toward the saloon she
had already "prospected." Pausing a full minute, she swung toward
a far-off cabin light to the south, jogging over the rough ground
noisily. The door of the drinking-den was filled with dark faces
as the crowd jostled out. Just a lone wagon making its way
somewhere about its own business, that was all.
As the crowd turned in again three ponies galloped up the street
toward the slope leading out to the high level prairies beyond
the Neosho valley. But who could guess how furiously three young
hearts beat, and how tightly three pairs of young hands clutched
the bridle reins as we surged forward, forgetting the advice to
keep in the shadow.
Just after we had crossed the river, a man on horseback fell in
behind us. We quickened our speed, but he gained on us. Before we
reached the saloon he was almost even with us, keeping well in
the shadow all the while. In the increasing moonlight, making
everything clear to the eye, I gave one quick glance over my
shoulder and saw that the horseman was a Mexican. I have lived a
life so fraught with danger that I should hardly remember the
feeling of fear but for the indelible imprint of that one
terrified minute in the moonlit street of Council Grove.
Two ruffians on watch outside the saloon sprang up with yells.
The door burst open and a gang of rowdies fairly spilled out
around us. We three on our ponies had the instinctive security on
horseback of children born to the saddle, else we should never
have escaped from the half-drunken crew. I recall the dust of
striking hoofs, the dark forms dodging everywhere, the Mexican
rider keeping between us and the saloon door, and most of all I
remember one glimpse of Mat Nivers's face with big, staring eyes,
and firm-set mouth; and I remember my fleeting impression that
she could take care of herself if we could; and over all a sudden
shadow as the moon, in pity of our terror, hid its face behind a
tiny cloud.
When it shone out again we were dashing by separate ways up the
steep slope to the west ridge, but, strangely enough, the Mexican
horseman with a follower or two had turned away from us and was
chasing off somewhere out of sight.
Up on top of the bluff, with Rex Krane and Aunty Boone, we
watched and waited. The wooded Neosho valley full of inky
blackness seemed to us like a bottomless gorge of terror which no
moonlight could penetrate. We strained our ears to catch the
rattle of the wagons, but the noise from the saloon, coming
faintly now and then, was all the sound we could hear save the
voices of the night rising up from the river, and the whisperings
of the open prairie to the west.
In that hour Rex Krane became our good angel.
"Keep the law, 'Hold fast'! You made a splendid race of it, and
if Providence made that fellow lose you gettin' out, and led him
and his gang sideways from you, I reckon she will keep on takin'
care of you till Clarenden resumes control, so don't you
worry."
But for his brave presence the terror of that lonely watch would
have been harder than the peril of the street, for he seemed more
like a gentle mother than the careless, scoffing invalid of the
trail.
Midnight came, and the chill of midnight. We huddled together in
our wagon and still we waited. Down in the village the lights
still burned, and angry voices with curses came to our ears at
intervals.
Meantime the three men across the river moved cautiously, hoping
that we were safe on the bluff, and knowing that they dared not
follow us too rapidly. The wagons creaked and the harness rattled
noisily in the night stillness, as slowly, one by one, they
lumbered through the darkness across the river and up the bank to
the village street. Here they halted and grouped together.
"We must hide out and wait, Clarenden," Jondo counciled. "I
hope the ponies and the wagon ahead are safe, but they stirred
things up. If we go now we'll all be caught."
The three wagons fell apart and halted wide of the trail where
the oak-trees made the blackest shade. The minutes dragged out
like hours, and the anxiety for the unprotected group on the
bluff made the three men frantic to hurry on. But Jondo's
patience equaled his courage, and he always took the least risk.
It was nearly midnight, and every noise was intensified. If a
mule but moved it set up a clatter of harness chains that seemed
to fill the valley.
At last a horseman, coming suddenly from somewhere, rode swiftly
by each shadow-hidden wagon, half pausing at the sound of the
mules stamping in their places, and then he hurried up the
street.
"Three against the crowd. If we must fight, fight to kill," Jondo
urged, as the ready firearms were placed for action.
In a minute or two the crew broke out of the saloon and filled
the moonlit street, all talking and swearing in broken
Spanish.
"Not come yet!"
"Pedro say they be here to-morrow night!" "We wait till to-morrow
night!"
And with many wild yells they fell back for a last debauch in the
drinking-den.
"I don't understand it," Jondo declared. "That fellow who rode by
here ought to have located every son of us, but if they want to
wait till to-morrow night it suits me."
An hour later, when the village was in a dead sleep, three wagons
slowly pulled up the long street and joined the waiting group at
the top, and the crossing over was complete.
Dawn was breaking as our four wagons, followed by the ponies,
crept away in the misty light. As we trailed off into the unknown
land, I looked back at the bluff below which nestled the last
houses we were to see for seven hundred miles. And there,
outlined against the horizon, a Mexican stood watching us. I had
seen the same man one day riding up from the ravine southwest of
Fort Leavenworth. I had seen him dashing toward the river the
next day. I had watched him sitting across the street from the
Clarenden store in Independence.
I wondered if it might have been this man who had hung about our
camp the evening before, and if it might have been this same man
who rode between us and the saloon mob, leading the crowd after
him and losing us on the side of the bluff. And as we had eluded
the Council Grove danger, I wondered what would come next, and if
he would be in it.
"So I draw the world together, link by link."
--KIPLING.
Day after day we pushed into the unknown wilderness. No
wagon-trains passed ours moving eastward. No moccasined track in
the dust of the trail gave hint of any human presence near. Where
to-day the Pullman car glides in smooth comfort, the old Santa
Fé Trail lay like a narrow brown ribbon on the green
desolation of Nature's unconquered domain. Out beyond the region
of long-stemmed grasses, into the short-grass land, we pressed
across a pathless field-of-the-cloth-of-green, gemmed with
myriads of bright blossoms--broad acres on acres that the young
years of a coming century should change into great wheat-fields
to help fill the granaries of the world. How I reveled in
it--that far-stretching plain of flower-starred verdure! It was
my world--mine, unending, only softening out into lavender mists
that rimmed it round in one unbroken fold of velvety vapor.
At last we came to the Arkansas River--flat-banked,
sand-bottomed, wide, wandering, impossible thing--whose shallow
waters followed aimlessly the line of least resistance, back and
forth across its bed. Rivers had meant something to me. The big
muddy Missouri for Independence and Fort Leavenworth, that its
steamers might bring the soldiers, and my uncle's goods to their
places. The little rivers that ran into the big ones, to feed
their currents for down-stream service. The creeks, that boys
might wade and swim and fish, else Beverly would have lived
unhappily all his days. But here was a river that could neither
fetch nor carry. Nobody lived near it, and it had no deep waters
like our beloved, ugly old Missouri. I loved the level prairies,
but I didn't like that river, somehow. I felt exposed on its
blank, treeless borders, as if I stood naked and defenseless,
with no haven of cover from the enemies of the savage plains.
The late afternoon was hot, the sky was dust-dimmed, the south
wind feverish and strength-sapping. At dawn we had sighted a peak
against the western horizon. We were approaching it now--a single
low butte, its front a sheer stone bluff facing southward toward
the river, it lifted its head high above the silent plains; and
to the north it stretched in a long gentle slope back to a
lateral rim along the landscape. The trail crept close about its
base, as if it would cling lovingly to this one shadow-making
thing amid all the open, blaring, sun-bound miles stretching out
on either side of it.
As Beverly and I were riding in front of Mat's wagon, of which we
had elected ourselves the special guardians, Rex Krane came up
alongside Bill Banney's team in front of us. The young men were
no such hard-and-fast friends as Beverly and I. For some reason
they had little to say to each other.
"Is that what you call Pike's Peak, Bill?" Rex asked.
"No, the mountains are a month away. That's Pawnee Rock, and I'll
breathe a lot freer when we get out of sight of that infernal
thing," Bill replied.
"What's its offense?" Rex inquired.
"It's the peak of perdition, the bottomless pit turned inside
out," Bill declared.
"I don't see the excuse for a rock sittin' out here, sayin'
nothin', bein' called all manner of unpleasant names," the young
Bostonian insisted.
"Well, I reckon you'd find one mighty quick if you ever heard the
soldiers at Fort Leavenworth talk about it once. All the
plainsmen dread it. Jondo says more men have been killed right
around this old stone Sphinx than any other one spot in North
America, outside of battle-fields."
"Happy thought! Do their ghosts rise up and walk at midnight?
Tell me more," Rex urged.
"Nobody walks. Everybody runs. There was a terrible Indian fight
here once; the Pawnees in the king-row, and all the hosts of the
Midianites, and Hivites, and Jebusites, Kiowa, Comanche, and Kaw,
rag-tag and bobtail, trying to get 'em out. I don't know who won,
but the citadel got christened Pawnee Rock. It took a fountain
filled with blood to do it, though."
Rex Krane gave a long whistle.
"I believe Bill is trying to scare him, Bev," I murmured.
"I believe he's just precious wasting time," Beverly replied.
"And so," Bill continued, "it came to be a sort of rock of
execution where romances end and they die happily ever afterward.
The Indians get up there and, being able to read fine print with
ease as far away as either seacoast, they can watch any
wagon-train from the time it leaves Council Grove over east to
Bent's Fort on the Purgatoire Creek out west; and having counted
the number of men, and the number of bullets in each man's pouch,
they slip down and jump on the train as it goes by. If the men
can make it to beat them to the top of the rock, as they do
sometimes, they can keep the critters off, unless the Indians are
strong enough to keep them up there and sit around and wait till
they starve for water, and have to come down. It's a grim old
fortress, and never needs a garrison. Indians or white men up
there, sometimes they defend and sometimes attack. But it's a bad
place always, and on account of having our little girl along--"
Bill paused. "A fellow gets to see a lot of country out here," he
added.
"Banney, just why didn't you join the army? You'd have a chance
to see a lot more of the country, if this Mexican War goes on,"
Rex Krane said, meditatively.
"I'd rather be my own captain and order myself to the front, and
likewise command my rear-guard to retire, whenever I doggone
please," Bill said. "It isn't the soldiers that'll do this
country the most good. They are useful enough when they are
useful, Lord knows. And we'll always need a decent few of 'em
around to look after women and children, and invalids," he went
on. "I tell you, Krane, it's men like Clarenden that's going to
make these prairies worth something one of these days. The men
who build up business, not them that shoot and run to or from.
That's what the West's got to have. I'm through going crazy about
army folks. One man that buys and sells, if he gives good weight
and measure, is, himself, a whole regiment for civilization."
Just then Jondo halted the train, and we gathered about him.
"Clarenden, let's pitch camp at the rock. The horses are dead
tired and this wind is making them nervous. There's a storm due
as soon as it lays a bit, and we would be sort of protected here.
A tornado's a giant out in this country, you know."
"This tavern doesn't have a very good name with the traveling
public, does it, Clarenden?" Rex Krane suggested.
"Not very," my uncle replied. "But in case of trouble, the top of
it isn't a bad place to shoot from."
"What if the other fellow gets there first?" Bill Banney
inquired.
"We can run from here as easily as any other place," Jondo
assured us. "I haven't seen a sign of Indians yet. But we've got
to be careful. This point has a bad reputation, and I naturally
begin to feel Indians in the air as soon as I come in
sight of it. If we need the law of the trail anywhere, we need it
here," he admonished.
Beverly and I drew close together. We were in the land of
bad Indians, but nothing had happened to us yet, and we
could not believe that any danger was near us now, although we
were foolishly half hoping that there might be, for the
excitement of it.
"There's no place in a million miles for anybody to hide, Bill.
Where would Jondo's Indians be?" Beverly asked, as we were
getting into camp order for the night.
Beverly's disposition to demand proof was as strong here as it
had been in the matter of rivers turning their courses, and
fishes playing leap-frog.
"They might be behind that ridge out north, and have a scout
lying flat on the top of old Pawnee Rock, up there, lookin'
benevolently down at us over the rim of his spectacles right
now," Bill replied, as he pulled the corral ropes out of the
wagon.
"What makes you think so?" I asked, eagerly.
"What Jondo said about his feeling Indians, I guess, but
he reads these prairie trails as easy as Robinson Crusoe read
Friday's footprints in the sand, and he hasn't read anything in
'em yet. Indians don't fight at night, anyhow. That's one good
thing. Get hold of that rope, Bev, and pull her up tight," Bill
replied.
Every night our four wagons in camp made a hollow square, with
space enough allowed at the corners to enlarge the corral inside
for the stock. These corners were securely roped across from
wagon to wagon. To-night, however, the corral space was reduced
and the quartet of vehicles huddled closer together.
At dusk the hot wind came sweeping in from the southwest, a wild,
lashing fury, swirling the sand in great spirals from the river
bed. Our fire was put out and the blackness of midnight fell upon
us. The horses were restless and the mules squealed and stamped.
All night the very spirit of fear seemed to fill the air.
Just before daybreak a huge black storm-cloud came boiling up out
of the southwest, with a weird yellow band across the sky before
it. Overhead the stars shed a dim light on the shadowy face of
the plains. A sudden whisper thrilled the camp, chilling our
hearts within us.
"Indians near!" We all knew it in a flash.
Jondo, on guard, had caught the sign first. Something creeping
across the trail, not a coyote, for it stood upright a moment,
then bent again, and was lost in the deep gloom. Jondo had
shifted to another angle of the outlook, had seen it again, and
again at a third point. It was encircling the camp. Then all of
us, except Jondo, began to see moving shapes. He saw nothing for
a long time, and our spirits rose again.
"You must have been mistaken, Jondo," Rex Krane ventured, as he
stared into the black gloom. "Maybe it was just this infernal
wind. It's one darned sea-breeze of a zephyr."
"I've crossed the plains before. I wasn't mistaken," the big
plainsman replied. "If I had been, you'd still see it. The
trouble is that it is watching now. Everybody lay low. It will
come to life again. I hope there's only one of it."
We had hardly moved after the first alarm, except to peer about
and fancy that dark objects were closing in upon us.
It did come to life again. This time on Jondo's side of the camp.
Something creeping near, and nearer.
The air was motionless and hot above us, the upper heavens were
beginning to be threshed across by clouds, and the silence hung
like a weight upon us. Then suddenly, just beyond the camp, a
form rose from the ground, stood upright, and stretched out both
arms toward us. And a low cry, "Take me. I die," reached our
ears.
Still Jondo commanded silence. Indians are shrewd to decoy their
foes out of the security of the camp. The form came nearer--a
little girl, no larger than our Mat--and again came the low call.
The voice was Indian, the accent Spanish, but the words were
English.
"Come to us!" Esmond Clarenden answered back in a clear, low
tone; and slowly and noiselessly the girl approached the
camp.
I can feel it all now, although that was many years ago: the soft
starlight on the plains; the hot, still air holding its breath
against the oncoming tornado; the group of wagons making a deeper
shadow in the dull light; beyond us the bold front of old Pawnee
Rock, huge and gray in the gloom; our little company standing
close together, ready to hurl a shower of bullets if this proved
but the decoy of a hidden foe; and the girl with light step
drawing nearer. Clad in the picturesque garb of the Southwest
Indian, her hair hanging in a great braid over each shoulder, her
dark eyes fixed on us, she made a picture in that dusky setting
that an artist might not have given to his brush twice in a
lifetime on the plains.
A few feet from us she halted.
"Throw up your hands!" Jondo commanded.
The slim brown arms were flung above the girl's head, and I
caught the glint of quaintly hammered silver bracelets, as she
stepped forward with that ease of motion that generations of
moccasined feet on sand and sod and stone can give.
"Take me," she cried, pleadingly. "The Mexicans steal me from my
people and bring me far away. They meet Kiowa. Kiowa beat me;
make me slave."
She held up her hands. They were lacerated and bleeding. She
slipped the bright blanket from her brown shoulder. It was
bruised and swollen.
"You go to Santa Fé? Take me. I do you good, not bad."
"What would these Kiowas do to us, then?"
It was Bill Banney who spoke.
"They follow you--kill you."
"Oh, cheerful! I wish you were twins," Rex Krane said,
softly.
Jondo lifted his hand.
"Let me talk to her," he said.
Then in her own language he got her story.
"Here we are." He turned to us. "Stolen from her people by the
Mexicans, probably the same ones we passed in Council Grove;
traded to the Kiowas out here somewhere, beaten, and starved, and
held for ransom, or trade to some other tribe. They are over
there behind Pawnee Rock. They got sight of us somehow, but they
don't intend to bother us. They are on the lookout for a bigger
train. She has slipped away while they sleep. If we send her back
she will be beaten and made a slave. If we keep her, they will
follow us for a fight. They are fifty to our six. What shall we
do?"
"We don't need any Indians to help us get into trouble. We are
sure enough of it without that," Bill Banney declared. "And
what's one Indian, anyhow? She's just--"
"Just a little orphan girl like Mat," Rex Krane finished his
sentence.
Bill frowned, but made no reply.
The Indian girl was standing outside the corral, listening to all
that was said, her face giving no sign of the struggle between
hope and despair that must have striven within her.
"Uncle Esmond, let's take her, and take our chances." Beverly's
boyish voice had a defiant tone, for the spirit of adventure was
strong within him. The girl turned quickly and a great light
leaped into her eyes at the boy's words.
"Save a life and lose ours. It's not the rule of the plains,
but--there's a higher law like that somewhere, Clarenden," Jondo
said, earnestly.
The girl came swiftly toward Uncle Esmond and stood upright
before him.
"I will not hide the truth. I go back to Kiowas. They sell me for
big treasure. They will not harm you," she said. "I stay with
you, they say you steal me, and they come at the first bird's
song and kill you every one. They are so many."
She stood motionless before him, the seal of grim despair on her
young face.
"What's your name?" Esmond Clarenden asked. "Po-a-be. In your
words, `Little Blue Flower,'" the girl said.
"Then, Little Blue Flower, you must stay with us."
She pointed toward the eastern sky where a faint light was
beginning to show above the horizon. "See, the day comes!"
"Then we will break camp now," my uncle said.
"Not in the face of this storm, Clarenden," Jondo declared. "You
can fight an Indian. You can't do a thing but 'hold fast' in one
of these hurricanes."
The air was still and hot. The black cloud swept swiftly onward,
with the weird yellow glow before it. In the solitude of the
plains the trail showed like a ghostly pathway of peril. Before
us loomed that grim rock bluff, behind whose crest lay the
sleeping band of Kiowas. It was only because they slept that
Little Blue Flower could steal away in hope of rescue.
Hotter grew the air and darker the swiftly rolling clouds; black
and awful stood old Pawnee Rock with the silent menace of its
sleeping enemy. In the stillness of the pause before the storm
burst we heard Jondo's voice commanding us. With our first care
for the frightened stock, we grouped ourselves together as he
ordered close under the bluff.
Suddenly an angry wind leaped out of the sky, beating back the
hot dead air with gigantic flails of fury. Then the storm broke
with tornado rage and cloudburst floods, and in its track terror
reigned. Beverly and I clung together, and, holding a hand of
each, Mat Nivers crouched beside us, herself strong in this
second test of courage as she had been in the camp that night at
Council Grove.
I have never been afraid of storms and I can never understand why
timid folk should speak of them as of a living, self-directing
force bent purposely on human destruction. I love the splendor of
the lightning and the thunder's peal. From our earliest years,
Beverly and Mat and I had watched the flood-waters of the
Missouri sweep over the bottomlands, and we had heard the winds
rave, and the cannonading of the angry heavens. But this mad
blast of the prairie storm was like nothing we had ever seen or
heard before. A yellow glare filled the sky, a half-illumined,
evil glow, as if to hide what lay beyond it. One breathed in fine
sand, and tasted the desert dust. Behind it, all copper-green, a
broad, lurid band swept up toward the zenith. Under its weird,
unearthly light, the prairies, and everything upon them, took on
a ghastly hue. Then came the inky-black storm-cloud--long,
funnel-shaped, pendulous--and in its deafening roar and the thick
darkness that could be felt, and the awful sweep of its
all-engulfing embrace, the senses failed and the very breath of
life seemed beaten away. The floods fell in streams, hot, then
suddenly cold. And then a fusillade of hail bombarded the flat
prairies, defenseless beneath the munitions of the heavens. But
in all the wild, mad blackness, in the shriek and crash of maniac
winds, in the swirl of many waters, and chill and fury of the
threshing hail, the law of the trail failed not: "Hold fast." And
with our hands gripped in one another's, we children kept the
law.
Just at the moment when destruction seemed upon us, the long
swinging cloud--funnel lifted. We heard it passing high above us.
Then it dropped against the face of old Pawnee Rock, that must
have held the trail law through all the centuries of storms that
have beaten against its bold, stern front. One tremendous blast,
one crashing boom, as if the foundations of the earth were broken
loose, and the thing had left us far behind.
Daylight burst upon us in a moment, and the blue heavens smiled
down on the clean-washed prairies. No homes, no crops, no
orchards were left in ruins in those days to mark the cyclone's
wrath on wilderness trails. As the darkness lifted we gathered
ourselves together to take hold of life again and to defend
ourselves from our human enemy.
A shower of arrows from the top of the bluff might rain upon us
at any moment, yelling warriors might rush upon us, or a ring of
riders encircle us. It was in times like this that I learned how
quickly men can get the mastery.
Jondo and Esmond Clarenden did not delay a minute in protecting
the camp and setting it in order, taking inventory of the lost
and searching for the missing. Three of our number, with one of
the ponies, were missing.
Aunty Boone had crouched in a protected angle at the base of the
bluff, and when we found her she was calmly smoking her pipe.
"Yo' skeered of this little puff?" she queried. "Yo' bettah see a
simoon on the desset, then. This here--just a racket. What's come
of that little redskin?"
She was not to be found. Nor was there any trace of Rex Krane
anywhere. In consternation we scanned the prairies far and wide,
but only level green distances were about us, holding no sign of
life. We lived hours in those watching minutes.
Suddenly Beverly gave a shout, and we saw Little Blue Flower
running swiftly from the sloping side of the bluff toward the
camp. Behind her stalked the young New-Englander.
"I went up to see what she was in such a hurry for to see," he
explained, simply. "I calculated it would be as interestin' to me
as to her, and if anything was about to cut loose"--he laid a
hand carelessly on his revolver--"why, I'd help it along. The
little pink pansy, it seems, went to look after our friends, the
enemy," Rex went on. "The hail nearly busted that old rock open.
I thought once it had. The ponies are scattered and likewise the
Kiowas. Gone helter-skelter, like the--tornado. The thing hit
hard up there. Some ponies dead, and mebby an Indian or two. I
didn't hunt 'em up. I can't use 'em that way," he added. "So I
just said, 'Pax vobiscum!' and a lot of it, and came kittering
back."
Little Blue Flower's eyes glistened.
"Gone, all gone. The rain god drove them away. Now I know I may
go with you. The rain god loves you."
It was to Beverly, and not to my uncle, that her eyes turned as
she spoke, but he was not even listening to her. To him she was
merely an Indian. She seemed more than that to me, and therein
lay the difference between us.
If she had been interesting under the starlight, in the light of
day she became picturesque, a beautiful type of her race, silent,
alert of countenance, with big, expressive, black eyes, and long,
heavy braids of black hair. With her brilliant blanket about her
shoulders, a turquoise pendant on a leather band at her throat,
silver bracelets on her brown arms, she was as pleasing as an
Indian maiden could be--adding a touch of picturesque life to
that wonderful journey westward from Pawnee Rock to Santa
Fé. Aunty Boone alone resented her presence among us.
"You can trust a nigger," she growled, "'cause you know they none
of 'em no 'count. But you can't tell about this Injun, whether
she's good or bad. I lets that sort of fish alone."
Little Blue Flower looked up at her with steady gaze and made no
reply.
Out of that morning's events I learned a lasting lesson, and I
know now that the influence of Rex Krane on my life began that
day, as I recalled how he had followed Aunty Boone about the dark
corners of the little trading-post on the Neosho; and how he had
looked at Mat Nivers once when Uncle Esmond had suggested his
turning back to Independence; and how he had gone before all of
us, the vanguard, to the top of the bluff west of Council Grove;
and now he had followed this Indian girl. From that time I knew
in my boy heart that this tall, careless Boston youth had a
zealous care for the safety of women and children. How much care,
events would run swiftly on to show me. But welded into my life
from that hour was the meaning of a man's high, chivalric duty.
And among all the lessons that the old trail taught to me, none
served me more than this one that came to me on that sweet May
morning beneath the shadow of Pawnee Rock.
City of the Holy Faith,
In thy streets so dim with age,
Do I read not Faith's decay,
But the Future's heritage.
-LILIAN WHITING.
Day was passing and the shadows were already beginning to grow
purple in the valleys, long before the golden light had left the
opal-crowned peaks of the Sangre-de-Christo Mountains beyond
them.
On the wide crest of a rocky ridge our wagons halted. Behind us
the long trail stretched back, past mountain height and
cañon wall, past barren slope and rolling green prairie,
on to where the wooded ravines hem in the Missouri's yellow
floods.
Before us lay a level plain, edged round with high mesas, over
which snowy-topped mountain peaks kept watch. A sandy plain,
checkered across by verdant-banded arroyos, and splotched with
little clumps of trees and little fields of corn. In the heart of
it all was Santa Fé, a mere group of dust-brown adobe
blocks--silent, unsmiling, expressionless--the city of the
Spanish Mexican, centuries old and centuries primitive.
As our tired mules slackened their traces and drooped to rest
after the long up-climb, Esmond Clarenden called out:
"Come here, children. Yonder is the end of the trail."
We gathered eagerly about him, a picture in ourselves, maybe, in
an age of picturesque things; four men, bronzed and bearded; two
sturdy boys; Mat Nivers, no longer a little girl, it seemed now,
with the bloom of health on her tanned cheeks, and the smile of
good nature in wide gray eyes; beside her, the Indian maiden,
Little Blue Flower, slim, brown, lithe of motion, brief of
speech; and towering back of all, the glistening black face of
the big, silent African woman.
So we stood looking out toward that northwest plain where the
trail lost itself among the low adobe huts huddled together
beside the glistening waters of the Santa Fé River.
Rex Krane was the first to speak.
"So that's what we've come out for to see, is it?" he mused,
aloud. "That's the precious old town that we've dodged Indians,
and shot rattlesnakes, and sunburnt our noses, and rain-soaked
our dress suits for! That's why we've pillowed our heads on the
cushiony cactus and tramped through purling sands, and blistered
our hands pullin' at eider-down ropes, and strained our
leg-muscles goin' down, and busted our lungs comin' up, and
clawed along the top edge of the world with nothin' but healthy
climate between us and the bottom of the bottomless pit. Humph!
That's what you call Santa Fé! 'The city of the Holy
Faith!' Well, I need a darned lot of 'holy faith' to make me see
any city there. It's just a bunch of old yellow brick-kilns to
me, and I 'most wish now I'd stayed back at Independence and
hunted dog-tooth violets along the Big Blue."
"It's not Boston, if that's what you were looking for; at least
there's no Bunker Hill Monument nor Back Bay anywhere in sight.
But I reckon it's the best they've got. I'm tired enough to take
what's offered and keep still," Bill Banney declared.
I, too, wanted to keep still. I had only a faint memory of a real
city. It must have been St. Louis, for there was a wharf, and a
steamboat and a busy street, and soft voices--speaking a foreign
tongue. But the pictures I had seen, and the talk I had heard,
coupled with a little boy's keen imagination, had built up a very
different Santa Fé in my mind. At that moment I was
homesick for Fort Leavenworth, through and through homesick, for
the first time since that April day when I had sat on the bluff
above the Missouri River while the vision of the plains descended
upon me. Everything seemed so different to-night, as if a gulf
had widened between us and all the nights behind us.
We went into camp on the ridge, with the journey's goal in plain
view. And as we sat down together about the fire after supper we
forgot the hardships of the way over which we had come. The pine
logs blazed cheerily, and as the air grew chill we drew nearer
together about them as about a home fireside.
The long June twilight fell upon the landscape. The piñon
and scrubby cedars turned to dark blotches on the slopes. The
valley swam in a purple mist. The silence of evening was broken
only by a faint bird-note in the bushes, and the fainter call of
some wild thing stealing forth at nightfall from its daytime
retreat. Behind us the mesas and headlands loomed up black and
sullen, but far before us the Sangre-de-Christo Mountains lifted
their glorified crests, with the sun's last radiance bathing them
in crimson floods.
We sat in silence for a long time, for nobody cared to talk.
Presently we heard Aunty Boone's low, penetrating voice inside
the wagon corral:
"You pore gob of ugliness! Yo' done yo' best, and it's green corn
and plenty of watah and all this grizzly-gray grass you can stuff
in now. It's good for a mule to start right, same as a man.
Whoo-ee!"
The low voice trailed off into weird little whoops of approval.
Then the woman wandered away to the edge of the bluff and sat
until late that night, looking out at the strange, entrancing New
Mexican landscape.
"To-morrow we put on our best clothes and enter the city," my
uncle broke the silence. "We have managed to pull through so far,
and we intend to keep on pulling till we unload back at
Independence again. But these are unsafe times and we are in an
unsafe country. We are going to do business and get out of it
again as soon as possible. I shall ask you all to be ready to
leave at a minute's notice, if you are coming back with me!"
"Now you see why I didn't join the army, don't you, Krane?" Bill
Banney said, aside. "I wanted to work under a real general."
Then turning to my uncle, he added:
"I'm already contracted for the round trip, Clarenden."
"You are going to start back just as if there were no dangers to
be met?" Rex Krane inquired.
"As if there were dangers to be met, not run from," Esmond
Clarenden replied.
"Clarenden," the young Bostonian began, "you got away from that
drunken mob at Independence with your children, your mules, and
your big Daniel Boone. You started out when war was ragin' on the
Mexican frontier, and never stopped a minute because you had to
come it alone from Council Grove. You shook yourself and family
right through the teeth of that Mexican gang layin' for you back
there. You took Little Trailing Arbutus at Pawnee Rock out of
pure sympathy when you knew it meant a fight at sun-up, six
against fifty. And there would have been a bloody one, too, but
for that merciful West India hurricane bustin' up the show. You
pulled us up the Arkansas River, and straddled the Gloriettas,
with every danger that could ever be just whistlin' about our
ears. And now you sit there and murmur softly that 'we are in an
unsafe country and these are unsafe times,' so we'd better be
toddlin' back home right soon. I want to tell you
something now."
He paused and looked at Mat Nivers. Always he looked at Mat
Nivers, who since the first blush one noonday long ago, so it
seemed, now, never appeared to know or care where he looked. He
must have had such a sister himself; I felt sure of that now.
"I want to tell you," Rex repeated, "that I'm goin' to
stay with you. There's something safe about you. And
then," he added, carelessly, as he gazed out toward the darkening
plain below us, "my mother always said you could tie to a man who
was good to children. And you've been good to this infant
Kentuckian here."
He flung out a hand toward Bill Banney without looking away from
the open West. "When you want to start back to God's country and
the land of Plymouth Rocks and Pawnee Rocks, I'm ready to trot
along."
"I'm glad to hear you say that, Krane," Esmond Clarenden said. "I
shall need all the help I can get on the way back. Because we got
through safely we cannot necessarily count on a safe return. I
may need you in Santa Fé, too."
"Then command me," Rex replied.
He looked toward Mat again, but she and Little Blue Flower were
coiling their long hair in fantastic fashion about their heads,
and laughing like school-girls together.
Little Blue Flower was as a shy brown fawn following us. She had
a way of copying Mat's manner, and she spoke less of Indian and
Spanish and more of English from day to day. She had laid aside
her Indian dress for one of Mat's neat gingham gowns. I think she
tried hard to forget her race in everything except her prayers,
for her own people had all been slain by Mexican ruffians. We
could not have helped liking her if we had tried to do so. Yet
that invisible race barrier that kept a fixed gulf between us and
Aunty Boone separated us also from the lovable little Indian
lass, albeit the gulf was far less deep and impassable.
To-night when she and Mat scampered away to the family wagon
together, she seemed somehow to really belong to us.
Presently Jondo and Rex Krane and Bill and Beverly rolled their
blankets about them and went to sleep, leaving Esmond Clarenden
and myself alone beside the dying fire. The air was sharp and the
night silence deepened as the stars came into the skies.
"Why don't you go to bed, Gail?" my uncle asked.
"I'm not sleepy. I'm homesick," I replied. "Come here, boy." He
opened his arms to me, and I nestled in their embrace.
"You've grown a lot in these two months, little man," he said,
softly. "You are a brave-hearted plainsman, and a good, strong
little limb when it comes to endurance, but just once in a while
all of us need a mothering touch. It keeps us sweet, my boy. It
keeps us sweet and fit to live."
Oh, many a time in the years that followed did the loving embrace
and the gentle words of this gentle, strong man come back to
comfort me.
"Let me tell you something, Gail. I'm going to need a boy like
you to help me a lot before we leave Santa Fé, and I shall
count on you."
Just then a noise at the far side of the corral seemed to disturb
the stock. A faint stir of awakening or surprise--just a hint in
the air. All was still in a moment. Then it came again. We
listened. Something, an indefinite something, somewhere, was
astir. The surprise became unrest, anxiety, fear, among the
mules.
"Wait here, Gail. I'll see what's up," Uncle Esmond said, in a
low voice.
He hurried away toward the corral and I slipped back in the
shadow of a rock and leaned against it to wait.
In the dim beams of a starlit New Mexican sky I could see clearly
out toward the valley, but behind the camp all was darkness. As I
waited, hidden by the shadows, suddenly the flap of the
family-wagon cover lifted and Little Blue Flower slid out as
softly as a cat walks in the dust. She was dressed in her own
Indian garb now, with her bright blanket drawn picturesquely
about her head and shoulders. Silently she moved about the camp,
peering toward the shadows hiding me. Then with noiseless step
she slipped toward where Beverly Clarenden lay, his boyish face
upturned to the stars, sleeping the dreamless sleep of youth and
health. I leaned forward and stared hard as the girl approached
him. I saw her drop down on one knee beside him, and, bending
over him, she gently kissed his forehead. She rose and gave one
hurried look around the place and then, like a bird lifting its
wings for flight, she threw up her arms, and in another moment
she sprang to the edge of the ridge and slipped from view. I
followed, only to see her gliding swiftly away, farther and
farther, along the dim trail, until the shadows swallowed her
from my sight.
A low whinny from the corral caught my ear, followed by a rush of
horses' feet. As I slipped into my place again to wait for my
uncle to return, the smoldering logs blazed out suddenly,
lighting up the form of a man who appeared just beyond the fire,
so that I saw the face distinctly. Then he, too, was gone,
following the way the Indian girl had taken, until he lost
himself in the misty dullness of the plains.
Presently Esmond Clarenden came back to the camp-fire.
"Gail, the pony we lost in that storm at Pawnee Rock has come
back to us. It was standing outside the corral, waiting to get
in, just as if it had lost us for a couple of hours. It is in
good condition, too."
"How could it ever get here?" I exclaimed.
"Any one of a dozen ways," my uncle replied. "It may have run far
that stormy morning when it broke out of the corral, and possibly
some party coming over the Cimarron Trail picked it up and roved
on this way. There is no telling how it got here, since it keeps
still itself about the matter. Losing and finding and losing
again is the law of events on the plains."
"But why should it find us right here to-night, like it had been
led back?" I insisted.
"That's the miracle of it, Gail. It is always the strange thing
that really happens here. In years to come, if you ever tell the
truth about this trip, it will not be believed. When this isn't
the frontier any longer, the story of the trail will be accounted
impossible."
Everything seemed impossible to me as I sat there staring at the
dying fire. Presently I remembered what I had seen while my uncle
was away.
"Little Blue Flower has run away," I said, "and I saw the Mexican
that came to Fort Leavenworth the day before I twisted my ankle.
He slipped by here just a minute ago. I know, for I saw his face
when the logs flared up."
Esmond Clarenden gave a start. "Gail, you have the most
remarkable memory for faces of any child I ever knew," he
said.
"Did he follow us, too, like the pony, or did he ride the pony
after us?" I asked. "He's just everywhere we go, somehow. Did I
ever see him before he came to the fort, or did I dream it?"
"You are a little dreamer, Gail," my uncle said, kindly. "But
dreams don't hurt, if you do your part whenever you are
needed."
"Bev and Bill Banney make fun of dreams," I said.
"Yes, they don't have 'em; but Bev and Bill are ready when it
comes to doing things. They are a good deal alike, daring, and a
bit reckless sometimes, with good hard sense enough to keep them
level."
"Don't I do, too?" I inquired.
"Yes, you do and dream, both. That's all the better. But you
mustn't forget, too, that sometimes the things we long for in our
dreams we must fight for, and even die for, maybe, that those who
come after us may be the better for our having them. What was it
you said about Little Blue Flower?" Uncle Esmond had forgotten
her for the moment.
"She's gone to Santa Fé, I reckon. Is she bad, Uncle
Esmond? Tell me all about things," I urged.
"We are all here spying out the land, Mexican, Indian, trader,
freighter, adventurer, invalid," Uncle Esmond replied. "I don't
know what started the little Indian girl off, unless she just
felt Indian, as Jondo would say; but I may as well tell you,
Gail, that it may have been the Mexican who got our pony for us.
He is a strange fellow, walks like a cat, has ears like a timber
wolf, and the cunning of a fox."
"Is he our friend?" I asked, eagerly.
"Listen, boy. He came to Fort Leavenworth on purpose to bring me
an important message, and he waited at Independence to see us
off. Do you remember the two spies Krane talked about at Council
Grove? I think he followed the Mexican spy across the river to
our camp and sent him on east. Then he went back and got the
crowd all mixed up by his report, while their own man scouted the
trail out there for miles all night. He is the man who put you
through town and decoyed the ruffians to one side. He located us
after we had crossed the river, and then broke up their meeting
and put the fellows off to wait till the next night. That is the
way I worked out that Council Grove puzzle. He has a wide range,
and there are big things ahead for him in New Mexico.
"Sooner or later however," my uncle went on, "we will have to
reckon with that Kiowa tribe for stealing their captive. They
meant to return her for a big ransom price.... Great Heavens,
Gail! You seem like a man to me to-night instead of my little boy
back at the fort. The plains bring years to us instead of months,
with just one crossing. I am counting on you not to tell all
you've been told and all you've seen. I can be sure of you if you
can keep things to yourself. You'd better get to sleep now. There
will be plenty to see over in Santa Fé. And there is
always danger afoot. But remember, it is the coward who finds the
most trouble in this world. Do your part with a gentleman's heart
and a hero's hand, and you'll get to the end of every trail
safely. Now go to bed."
Where I lay that night I could see a wide space of star-gemmed
sky, the blue night-sky of the Southwest, and I wondered, as I
looked up into the starry deeps, how God could keep so many
bright bodies afield up there, and yet take time to guard all the
wandering children of men.
With the day-dawn the strange events of the night seemed as
unreal as the vanishing night-shadows. The bluest skies of a
blue-sky land curved in fathomless majesty over the yellow valley
of the Santa Fé. Against its borders loomed the silent
mountain ranges--purple-shaddowed, silver-topped Ortiz and
Jemez, Sandia and Sangre-de-Christo. Dusty and deserted lay the
trail, save that here and there a group of dark-faced carriers of
firewood prodded on their fagot-laden burros toward the distant
town. As our wagons halted at the sandy borders of an arroyo the
brown-clad form of a priest rose up from the shade of a group of
scrubby piñon-trees beside the trail.
Esmond Clarenden lifted his hat in greeting.
"Are you going our way? We can give you a ride," he paused to
say.
The man's face was very dark, but it was a young, strong face,
and his large, dark eyes were full of the fire of life. When he
spoke his voice was low and musical.
"I thank you. I go toward the mountains. You stay here long?"
"Only to dispose of my goods. My business is brief," Esmond
Clarenden declared.
The good man leaned forward as if to see each face there,
sweeping in everything at one glance. Then he looked down at the
ground.
"These are troublesome days. War is only a temporary evil, but it
makes for hate, and hate kills as it dies. Love lives and gives
life." A smile lighted his eyes, though his lips were firm. "I
wish you well. Among friends or enemies the one haven of safety
always is the holy sanctuary."
Uncle Esmond bowed his head reverently.
"You will find it beside the trail near the river. The walls are
very old and strong, but not so old as hate, nor so strong as
love. A little street runs from it, crooked--six houses away.
Peace be to all of you." He broke off suddenly and his last
sentence was spoken in a clear, strong tone unlike the gentler
voice.
"I thank you, Father!" Jondo said, as the priest passed his
wagon.
The holy man gave him one swift, searching glance. Then lifting
his right hand as if in blessing, and slowly dropping it until
the forefinger pointed toward the west, he passed on his way.
Jondo's brown cheek flushed and the lines about his mouth grew
hard.
"Take my place, Bev," he said, as he left his wagon and joined
Esmond Clarenden.
The two spoke earnestly together. Then Jondo mounted Beverly's
pony.
"If you need me--" I heard him say, and he turned away and rode
in the direction the priest had taken.
Uncle Esmond offered no explanation for this sudden action, and
his sunny face was stern.
Usually wagon-trains were spied out long before they reached the
city, and a rabble attended their entry. To-day we moved along
quietly until the trail became a mere walled lane. On either side
one-story adobe huts sat with their backs to the street. No
windows opened to the front, and only a wooden door or a closed
gateway stared in blank unfriendliness at the passer-by. Little
straggling lanes led off aimlessly on either side, as narrow and
silent as the strange terminal of the long trail itself.
I was only a boy, with the heart of a boy and the eyes of a boy.
I could only feel; I could not understand the spell of that hour.
But to me everything was alluring, wrapt as it was in the mystery
of a civilization old here when Plymouth Rock felt the first
Pilgrim's foot, or Pawnee Rock stared at the first bold plainsman
of the pale face and the conquering soul.
I was riding beside Beverly's wagon as we neared the quaint,
centuries-old, adobe church of San Miguel, rising tall and silent
above the low huts about it, its rough walls suggesting a
fortress of strength, while its triple towers might be an outlook
for a guardsman.
"Look at that church. Bev, I wonder how old it is," I
exclaimed.
"I should say about a thousand years and a day," Beverly
declared. "See that flopsy steeple thing! It looks like
building-blocks stacked up there."
"Maybe this is the sanctuary that priest was talking about," I
suggested. "He said the walls were old as hate and strong as
love, with a crooked street beside it somewhere."
"Oh, you sponge! Soaking up everything you see and hear. I wonder
you sleep nights for fear the wind will tell the pine trees
something you'll miss," Beverly declared. "I can tell a horse's
age by its teeth, but churches don't have teeth. Go and ask Mat
about it. She knows when the De Sotos and Cortéses and all
the other Spanish grandaddees came to Mexico."
I had just turned back alongside of Mat's wagon--she was always
our book of ready reference--when a little girl suddenly dashed
out of a walled lane opening into the street behind us. She
stopped in the middle of the road, almost under my pony's feet,
then with a shout of laughter she dashed into the deep doorway of
the church and stood there, peering out at me with eyes brimful
of mischief.
I brought my pony back on its haunches suddenly. I had seen this
girl before. The big dark eyes, the straight little nose, the
curve of the pink cheek, the china-smooth chin and neck, and,
crowning all, the cloud of golden hair shading her forehead and
falling in tangled curls behind.
I did not notice all these features now. It was only the eyes,
dark eyes, somewhere this side of misty mountain peaks, and maybe
the halo of hair that had been in my vision on that day when
Beverly and Mat Nivers and I sat on the parade-ground facing a
sudden turn in our life trail.
I stared at the eyes now, only half conscious that the girl was
laughing at me.
"You big brown bob-cat! You look like you had slept in the Hondo
'royo all your life," she cried, and turned to run away
again.
As she did so a dark face peered round the corner of the church
from the crooked street beside it. A sudden gleam of white teeth
and glistening eyes, a sudden leap and grip, and a boy, larger
than Beverly, caught the little girl by the shoulders and shook
her viciously.
She screamed and struggled. Then, with a wild shriek as he
clutched at her curls, she wrenched herself away and plunged
inside the church. The boy dived in after her. Another scream,
and I had dropped from my pony and leaped across the road. I
pushed open the door against the two struggling together. With
one grip at his coat-collar I broke his hold on the little girl
and flung him outside.
I have a faint recollection of a priest hurrying down the aisle
toward the fighting children, as the little girl, freed from her
assailant, dashed out of the door.
"He jumped at her first, and shook her and pulled her hair," I
cried, as the priest caught me by the shoulder. "I'm not going to
see anybody pitched into, not a little girl, anyhow."
I jerked myself free from his grasp and ran out to my pony. At
the corner of the church stood the girl, her cheeks flushed, her
eyes blazing defiance, her rumpled curls in a tangle about her
face.
"I hate Marcos, he's so cruel, and"--her voice softened and the
defiant eyes grew mischievous--"you aren't a bob-cat. You're
a--Look out!"
She shouted the last words and disappeared up the narrow, crooked
street, just as a fragment of rock whizzed over my shoulder. I
jumped on my pony to dash away, when another rock just missed my
head, and I saw the boy, Marcos, beside the church, ready for a
third hurl. His black eyes flashed fire, and the grin of malice
on his face showed all his fine white teeth.
I was as mad as a boy can be. Instead of fleeing, I spurred my
pony straight at him.
"You little beast, I dare you to throw that rock at me! I dare
you!" I cried.
The boy dropped the missile and sped away after the girl. I
followed in time to see them enter a doorway, six or seven houses
up the way. Then I turned back, and in a minute I had overtaken
our wagons trailing down to the ford of the Santa Fé
River.
"I thought mebby you'd gone back after Jondo and that holy
podder," Rex Krane greeted me. "Better begin to wink naturally
and look a little pleasanter now. We'll be in the Plazzer in two
or three minutes."
The drivers flourished their whips, the mules caught their
spirit, and with bump and lurch and rattle we swung down the
narrow crack between adobe walls that ended before the old
Exchange Hotel at the corner of the Plaza.
This open square in the center of the city was shaded by trees
and littered with refuse. The Palace of the Governors fronted it
along the entire north side, a long, low, one-story structure
whose massive adobe walls defy the wearing years. Compared to the
kingly palaces of my imagination, this royal dwelling seemed a
very commonplace thing, and the wide portal, or veranda, that ran
along its front looked like one of the sheds about the barracks
at the fort rather than an entranceway for rulers. Yet this was
the house of a ruler hostile to that flag to which I had thrown a
good-by kiss, up at Fort Leavenworth.
On the other three sides of the Plaza were other low adobe
buildings, for the business of the city faced this central
square.
A crowd was gathered there when we reached it. Somebody standing
before the Palace of the Governors was haranguing in fiery
Spanish, if gesture and oral vehemence are true tokens.
As our wagons rumbled up to the corner of the square the crowd
broke up with a shout.
"Los Americanos! Los Carros!"
The cry went up everywhere as the rabble left the speaker to
flock about us--men, women, children, Mexican, Spanish, Indian,
with now and then a Saxon face among them. Our outfit was as well
appointed as such a journey's end permitted. We were in our best
clothes--clean-shaven gentlemen, well-dressed boys, and one girl,
neat and comely in a dark-blue gown of thin stuff with white lace
at throat and wrist; and last, and biggest of all, Aunty Boone,
in a bright-green lawn with little white dots all over it.
As I sat on my pony beside my uncle's wagon, I caught sight of
the slim figure of Little Blue Flower, well back in the shade of
the Plaza. She was watching Beverly, who sat in Jondo's wagon,
staring at the crowd and seeing no one in particular. A minute
later a tall young Indian boy stepped in front of her, and when
he moved away she was gone.
Many men came forward to greet Esmond Clarenden, and there were
many inquiries regarding his goods and many exclamations of
surprise that he had come alone with so valuable a cargo.
It was the first time that Beverly and I had seen him among his
equals. At Fort Leavenworth, where the army overruled everything
else, men stood above him in authority or below him in business
affairs; and while he never cringed to the one, nor patronized
the other, where there are no competitors there are no true
measures. That day in the Plaza of Santa Fé the merchant
was in his own kingdom, where commerce stood above everything
else.
Moreover, this American merchant, following a danger-girt trail,
had come in fearlessly, and those men of the Plaza knew that he
was one to exact value for value in all his dealings. But I
believe that his real power lay in his ready smile, his courtesy,
his patience, and his up-bubbling good nature that made him a
friendship-builder.
Among the men who came to make acquaintance with the American
trader was a Mexican merchant. Evidently he was a man of some
importance, for an interpreter hastened to introduce him,
explaining that this man had been away on a journey of some weeks
among the mines of New Mexico and the Southwest, and only the day
before he had come in from Taos.
"You will find him a prince of merchants, a sound, unprejudiced
business man. His name is Felix Narveo," the American interpreter
added.
The two men shook hands, greeting each other in the Spanish
tongue. This Felix Narveo was well dressed and well groomed, but
I recognized him at once as the Mexican of Fort Leavenworth and
Independence and Council Grove.
There was one man in that company, however, who did not come
forward at all. When I first caught sight of him he was looking
at me. I stared back at him with a boy's curiosity, but he did
not take his eyes from me until I had dropped my own. After that
I watched him keenly. He seemed almost too fair for a Mexican--a
tall, spare-built man with black hair, and eyes so steely blue
that they were almost black. Everywhere I saw him--at the corners
of the little crowd and in the thick of it. He was an easy mark,
for he towered above the rest, and, being slender, he seemed to
worm his way quickly from place to place. At sight of him, Aunty
Boone, who had been peering out with shining eyes, drew her head
in as quick as a snake, under the shadow of the wagon cover, and
her eyes grew dull. He had not seen her, but I could see that he
was watching the remainder of us, and especially my uncle; and I
began to feel afraid of him and to wish that he would leave the
Plaza. It was years ago that all this happened, and yet to-day my
fear of that man still sticks in my memory.
When he turned away, suddenly I caught sight of the boy, whom I
had flung out of the church, standing behind him, the boy whom
the little girl had called Marcos. Although his face was dark and
the man's was fair, there was a strong likeness between the
two.
This Marcos stared insolently at all of us. Then with a laugh and
a grimace at me, he ran after the man and they disappeared
together around the corner of the Palace of the Governors. And in
the rush of strange sights I forgot them both for a time.
Our dwelling-place in all generations.--Psalms xc, 1.
They are wonderful to me still--those few brief days that
followed. While Esmond Clarenden was forcing his business
transactions to a speedy climax, he was all the time foreseeing
Santa Fé under the United States Government. He had not
come here as a spy, nor a speculator, but as a commerce-builder,
knowing that the same business life would go on when the war
cloud lifted, and that the same men who had made the plains
commerce profitable under the Mexican flag would not be exiled
when the Stars and Stripes should float above the old Palace of
the Governors. Belief in the ethics of his calling and trust in
manhood were ever a large part of his stock in trade, making him
dare to go where he chose to go, and to do what he willed to
do.
But no concern for commerce nor extension of national territory
disturbed our young minds in those sunlit days, as Mat and
Beverly and I looked with the big, quick-seeing eyes of youth on
this new strange world at the end of the trail.
We were all together in the deserted dining-room on our first
evening in Santa Fé when the man whom I had seen on the
Plaza strolled leisurely in. He sat down at one of the farthest
tables from us, and his eyes, glistening like blue-black steel,
were fixed on us.
Once at Fort Leavenworth I had watched in terror as a bird
fluttered helplessly toward a still, steel-eyed snake holding it
in thrall. And just at the moment when its enemy was ready to
strike, Jondo had happened by and shot the snake's head off. The
same terror possessed me now, and I began half-consciously to
long for Jondo.
In the midst of new sights I had hardly thought of him since he
had left us out beyond the big arroyo. He had come into town at
dusk, but soon after supper he had disappeared. His face was very
pale, and his eyes had a strange look that never left them again.
Something was different in Jondo from that day, but it did not
change his gentle nature toward his fellow-men. During our short
stay in Santa Fé we hardly saw him at all. We children
were too busy with other things to ask questions, and everybody
but Rex Krane was too busy to be questioned. Having nothing else
to do, Rex became our chaperon, as Uncle Esmond must have
foreseen he would be when he measured the young man in
Independence on the day we left there.
To-night Esmond Clarenden, smiling and good-natured, paid no heed
to the sharp eyes of this stranger fixed on him.
"What's the matter now, little weather-vane? You are always first
to sense a coming change," he declared.
"Uncle Esmond, I saw that man watching us like he knew us, out
there on the Plaza to-day. Who is he?" I asked, in a low
tone.
"His name is Ferdinand Ramero. You will find him watching
everywhere. Let that man alone as you would a snake," my uncle
warned us.
"Is that his boy?" I asked.
"What boy?" Uncle Esmond inquired.
"Marcos, the boy I pitched endways out of the church. He's bigger
than Bev, too," I declared, proudly.
"Gail Clarenden, are you crazy?" Uncle Esmond exclaimed.
"No, I'm not," I insisted, and then I told what had happened at
the church, adding, "I saw Marcos with that man in the Plaza, and
they went away together."
Esmond Clarenden's face grew grave.
"What kind of a looking child was she, Gail?" he asked, after a
pause.
"Oh, she had yellow hair and big sort of dark eyes! She could
squeal like anything. She wasn't a baby girl at all, but a
regular little fighter kind of a girl."
I grew bashful all at once and hesitated, but my uncle did not
seem to hear me, for he turned to Rex Krane and said, in low,
earnest tones:
"Krane, if you can locate that child for me you will do me an
invaluable service. It was largely on her account that I came
here now, and it's a god-send to have a fellow like you to save
time for me. Every man has his uses. Your service will be a big
one to me."
The young man's face flushed and his eyes shone with a new
light.
"If any of you happen to see that girl let me know at once," my
uncle said, turning to us, "but, remember, don't act as if you
were hunting for her."
"I know now right where she lives. It's up a crooked street by
that church. I saw her run in there," I insisted.
"Every hut looks like every other hut, and every little Mex looks
like every other little Mex," Beverly declared.
Uncle Esmond smiled, but the stern lines in his face hardly broke
as he said, earnestly, "Keep your eyes open and, whatever you do,
stay close to Krane while Bill helps me here, and don't forget to
watch for that little girl when you are sight-seeing."
"There's not much to see, as Bev says, but the outside of 'dobe
walls five feet thick," Rex Krane observed. "But if you know
which wall to look through, the lookin' may be easy enough.
Seein' things is my specialty, and we'll get this princess if we
have to slay a giant and an ogre and take a few dozen Mexican
scalps first. The plot just thickens. It's a great game." The
tall New-Englander would not take life seriously anywhere, and,
with our trust in his guardianship, we could want no better
chaperon.
That night Beverly Clarenden and I were in fairyland.
"It's the princess, Bev, the princess we were looking for," I
joyously asserted. "And, oh, Bev, she is beautiful, but
snappy-like, too. She called me a 'big brown bob-cat', and then
she apologized, just as nice as could be."
"And this little Marcos cuss, he'll be the ogre," Beverly
declared. "But who'll we have for the giant? That priest, footing
it out by that dry creek-thing they call a 'royo?"
"Oh no, no! He and Jondo made up together, and Jondo's nobody's
bad man even in a story. It will be that Ferdinand Ramero," I
insisted. "But, say, Bev, Jondo wrote a new name on the register
this evening, or somebody wrote it for him, maybe. It wasn't his
own writing. 'Jean Deau.' I saw it in big, round, back-slanting
letters. Why did he do that?"
"Well, I reckon that's his real name in big, round, back-slanting
letters down here," Beverly replied. "It's French, and we have
just been spelling it like it sounds, that's all."
"Well, maybe so," I commented, and when I fell asleep it was to
dream of a princess and Jondo by a strange name, but the same
Jondo.
The air of New Mexico puts iron into the blood. The trail life
had hardened us all, but the finishing touch for Rex Krane came
in the invigorating breath of that mountain-cooled, sun-cleansed
atmosphere of Santa Fé. Shrewd, philosophic, brave-hearted
like his historic ancestry, he laid his plans carefully now, sure
of doing what he was set to do. And the wholesome sense of really
serving the man who had measured his worth at a glance gave him a
pleasure he had not known before. Of course, he moved slowly and
indifferently. One could never imagine Rex Krane hurrying about
anything.
"We'll just 'prospect,' as Daniel Boone says," he declared, as he
marshaled us for the day. "We are strangers, sight-seein', got no
other business on earth, least of all any to take us up to this
old San Miguel Church for unholy purposes. 'Course if we see a
pretty little dark-eyed, golden-haired lassie anywhere, we'll
just make a diagram of the spot she's stand'n' on, for future
reference. We're in this game to win, but we don't do no foolish
hurryin' about it."
So we wandered away, a happy quartet, and the city offered us
strange sights on every hand. It was all so old, so different, so
silent, so baffling--the narrow, crooked street; the solid
house-walls that hemmed them in; the strange tongue, strange
dress, strange customs; the absence of smiling faces or friendly
greetings; the sudden mystery of seeking for one whom we must not
seem to seek, and the consciousness of an enemy, Ferdinand
Ramero, whom we must avoid--that it is small wonder that we lived
in fairyland.
We saw the boy, Marcos, here and there, sometimes staring
defiantly at us from some projected angle; sometimes slipping out
of sight as we approached; sometimes quarreling with other
children at their play. But nowhere, since the moment when I had
seen the door close on her up that crooked street beside the old
church, could we find any trace of the little girl.
In the dim morning light of our fifth day in Santa Fé, a
man on horseback, carrying a big, bulky bundle in his arms,
slipped out of the crooked, shadow-filled street beside the old
church of San Miguel. He halted a moment before the structure and
looked up at the ancient crude spire outlined against the sky,
then sped down the narrow way by the hotel at the end of the
trail. He crossed the Plaza swiftly and dashed out beyond the
Palace of the Governors and turned toward the west.
Aunty Boone, who slept in the family wagon--or under it--in the
inclosure at the rear of the hotel, had risen in time to peer out
of the wooden gate just as the rider was passing. It was still
too dark to see the man's face distinctly, but his form, and the
burden he carried, and the trappings of the horse she noted
carefully, as was her habit.
"Up to cussedness, that man is. Mighty long an' slim. Lemme see!
Humph! I know him. I'll go wake up somebody."
As the woman leaned far out of the gate she caught sight of a
little Indian girl crouching outside of the wall.
"You got no business here, you, Little Blue Flower! Where do you
live when you do live?"
Little Blue Flower pointed toward the west.
"Why you come hangin' 'round here?" the African woman
demanded.
"Father Josef send me to help the people who help me," she said,
in her soft, low voice.
"Go back to your own folks, then, and tell your Daddy Joseph a
man just stole a big bunch of something and rode south with it.
He can look after that man. We can get along somehow. Now
go."
The voice was like a growl, and the little Indian maiden shrank
back in the shadow of the wall. The next minute Aunty Boone was
rapping softly on the door of the room whose guest had registered
as Jean Deau. Ten minutes later another horseman left the street
beside the hotel and crossed the Plaza, riding erect and
open-faced as only Jondo could ride. Then the African woman
sought out Rex Krane, and in a few brief sentences told him what
had been taking place. All of which Rex was far too wise to
repeat to Beverly and me.
That afternoon it happened that we left Mat Nivers at the hotel,
while Rex Krane and Beverly and I strolled out of town on a
well-beaten trail leading toward the west.
"It looks interestin'. Let's go on a ways," Rex commented,
lazily.
Nobody would have guessed from his manner but that he was
indulgently helping us to have a good time with certain
restriction as to where we should go, and what we might say, nor
that, of the three, he was the most alert and full of definite
purpose.
We sat down beside the way as a line of burros loaded with
firewood from the mountains trailed slowly by, with their
stolid-looking drivers staring at us in silent
unfriendliness.
The last driver was the tall young Indian boy whom I had seen
standing in front of Little Blue Flower in the crowd of the
Plaza. He paid no heed to our presence, and his face was
expressionless as he passed us.
"Stupid as his own burro, and not nearly so handsome," Beverly
commented.
The boy turned quietly and stared at my cousin, who had not meant
to be overheard. Nobody could read the meaning of that look, for
his face was as impenetrable as the adobe walls of the Palace of
the Governors.
"Bev, you are laying up trouble. An Indian never forgets, and
you'll be finding that fellow under your pillow every night till
he gets your scalp," Rex Krane declared, as we went on our
way.
Beverly laughed and stiffened his sturdy young arms.
"He's welcome to it if he can get it," he said, carelessly. "How
many million miles do we go to-day, Mr. Krane?"
"Yonder is your terminal," Rex replied, pointing to a little
settlement of mud huts huddling together along the trail. "They
call that little metropolis Agua Fria--'pure water'--because
there ain't no water there. It's the last place to look for
anybody. That's why we look there. You will go in like gentlemen,
though--and don't be surprised nor make any great noise over
anything you see there. If a riot starts I'll do the
startin'."
Carelessly as this was said, we understood the command behind
it.
Near the village, I happened to glance back over the way we had
come, and there, striding in, soft-footed as a cat behind us, was
that young Indian. I turned again just as we reached the first
straggling houses at the outskirts of the settlement, but he had
disappeared.
It was a strange little village, this Agua Fria. Its squat
dwellings, with impenetrable adobe walls, had sat out there on
the sandy edge of the dry Santa Fé River through many and
many a lagging decade; a single trail hardly more than a
cart-width across ran through it. A church, mud-walled and
ancient, rose above the low houses, but of order or uniformity of
outline there was none. Hands long gone to dust had shaped those
crude dwellings on this sunny plain where only man decays, though
what he builds endures.
Nobody was in sight and there was something awesome in the very
silence everywhere. Rex lounged carelessly along, as one who had
no particular aim in view and was likely to turn back at any
moment. But Beverly and I stared hard in every direction.
At the end of the village two tiny mud huts, separated from each
other by a mere crack of space, encroached on this narrow way
even a trifle more than the neighboring huts. As we were passing
these a soft Hopi voice called:
"Beverly! Beverly!" And Little Blue Flower, peeping shyly out
from the narrow opening, lifted a warning hand.
"The church! The church!" she repeated, softly, then darted out
of sight, as if the brown wall were but thick brown vapor into
which she melted.
"Why, it's our own little girl!" Beverly exclaimed, with a smile,
just as Little Blue Flower turned away, but I am sure she caught
his words and saw his smile.
We would have called to her, but Rex Krane evidently did not hear
her, for he neither halted nor turned his head. So, remembering
our command to be quiet, we passed on.
"I guess we are about to the end of this 'pure water' resort.
It's gettin' late. Let's go back home now," our leader said,
dispiritedly. So we turned back toward Santa Fé.
At the narrow opening where we had seen Little Blue Flower the
young Indian boy stood upright and motionless, and again he gave
no sign of seeing us.
"Let's just run over to that church a minute while we are here.
Looks interestin' over there," Rex suggested.
I wondered if he could have heard Little Blue Flower, and thought
her suggestion was a good one, or if this was a mere whim of
his.
The church, a crude mission structure, stood some distance from
the trail. As we entered a priest came forward to meet us.
"Can I serve you?" he asked.
The voice was clear and sweet--the same voice that we had heard
out beyond the arroyo southeast of town, the same face, too, that
we had seen, with the big dark eyes full of fire. Involuntarily I
recalled how his hand had pointed to the west when he had
pronounced a blessing that day.
"Thank you, Father--" Rex began.
"Josef," the holy man said.
"Yes, thank you, Father Josef. We are just looking at things. No
wish to be rude, you know."
Rex lifted his cap and stood bareheaded in the priestly
presence.
Father Josef smiled.
"Look here, then."
He led us up the aisle to where, cuddled down on a crude seat, a
little girl lay asleep. Her golden hair fell like a cloud about
her face, flowing over the edge of the seat almost to the floor.
Her cheeks were pink and warm, and her dimpled white hands were
clasped together. I had caught Mat Nivers napping many a time,
but never in my life had I seen anything half so sweet as this
sleeping girl in the beauty of her innocence. And I knew at a
glance that this was the same girl whom I had seen before at the
door of the old Church of San Miguel.
"Same as grown-ups when the sermon is dull. Thank you, Father
Josef. It's a pretty picture. We must be goin' now." Rex Krane
dropped some silver in the priest's hand and we left the
church.
At the door we passed the Indian boy again, and a third time he
gave no sign of seeing us. I was the only one who was troubled,
however, for Rex and Beverly did not seem to notice him. As we
left the village I caught sight of him again following behind
us.
"Look there, Bev," I said, in a low voice. Beverly glanced back,
then turned and stared defiantly at the boy.
"Maybe Rex knows about Indians," he said, lightly. "That's three
times I found him fooling around in less than an hour, but my
scalp is still hanging over one ear."
He pushed back his cap and pulled at his bright brown locks.
Happy Bev! How headstrong, brave, and care-free he walked the
plains that day.
The evening shadows were lengthening and the peaks of the
Sangre-de-Christo range were taking on the scarlet stains of
sunset when we raced into town at last. Rex Krane went at once to
find Uncle Esmond, and Beverly and I hurried to the hotel to tell
Mat of all that we had seen.
Her gray eyes were glowing when she met us at the door and led us
into a corner where we could talk by ourselves.
"Uncle Esmond has sold everything to that Mexican merchant, Felix
Narveo, and we are going to start home just as soon as he can
find that little girl."
"Oh, we've found her! We've found her!" Beverly burst out. But
Mat hushed him at once.
"Don't yell it to the sides, Beverly Clarenden. Now listen!" Mat
dropped her voice almost to a whisper. "He's going to take that
little girl back with us as far as Fort Leavenworth, and then
send her on to St. Louis where she has some folks, I guess."
"Isn't he a clipper, though," Beverly exclaimed.
"But what if the Indians should get us?" I asked, anxiously. "I
heard the colonel at Fort Leavenworth just give it to Uncle
Esmond one night for bringing us."
"You are safe or you are not safe everywhere. And if we got in
here I reckon we can get out," Mat reasoned, philosophically.
"And Uncle Esmond isn't afraid and he's set on doing it. We
aren't going to take any goods back, so we can travel lots
faster, and everything will be put in the wagons so we can grab
out what's worth most in a hurry if we have to."
So we talked matters over now as we had done on that April day
out on the parade-ground at Fort Leavenworth. But now we knew
something of what might be before us on that homeward journey.
Thrilling hours those were. It is no wonder that, schooled by
their events, young as we were, we put away childish things.
That night while we slept things happened of which we knew
nothing for many years. There was no moon and the glaring yellow
daytime plain was full of gray-edged shadows, under the far stars
of a midnight blue sky, as Esmond Clarenden took the same trail
that we had followed in the afternoon. On to the village of Agua
Fria, black and silent, he rode until he came to the church door.
Here he dismounted, and, quickly securing his horse, he entered
the building. The chill midnight wind swept in through the open
door behind him, threatening to blot out the flickering candles
about the altar. Father Josef came slowly down the aisle to meet
him, while a tall man, crouching like a beast about to spring,
rather than a penitent at prayer, shrank down in the shadowy
corner inside the doorway.
The merchant, solid and square-built and fearless, stood before
the young priest baring his head as he spoke.
"I come on a grave errand, good Father. This afternoon my two
nephews and a young man from New England came in here and saw a
child asleep under protection of this holy sanctuary. That
child's name is Eloise St. Vrain. I had hoped to find her mother
able to care for her. She--cannot do it, as you know. I must do
it for her now. I come here to claim what it is my duty to
protect."
At these words the crouching figure sprang up and Ferdinand
Ramero, his steel-blue eyes blazing, came forward with cat-like
softness. But the sturdy little man before the priest stood, hat
in hand, undisturbed by any presence there.
"Father Josef," the tall man began, in a voice of menace, "you
will not protect this American here. I have confessed to you and
you know that this man is my enemy. He comes, a traitor to his
own country and a spy to ours. He has risked the lives of three
children by bringing them across the plains. He comes alone where
large wagon-trains dare not venture. He could not go back to the
States now. And lastly, good Father, he has no right to the child
that he claims is here."
"To the child that is here, asleep beside our sacred altar,"
Father Josef said, sternly.
Ferdinand Ramero turned upon the priest fiercely.
"Even the Church might go too far," he muttered,
threateningly.
"It might, but it never has," the holy man agreed. Then turning
to Esmond Clarenden, he continued: "You must see that these
charges do not stand against you. Our Holy Church offers no
protection, outside of these four walls, to a traitor or a spy or
even an unpatriotic speculator seeking to profit by the needs of
war. Nor could it sanction giving the guardianship of a child to
one who daringly imperils his own life or the lives of children,
nor can it sanction any rights of guardianship unless due cause
be given for granting them."
Ferdinand Ramero smiled as the priest concluded. He was a
handsome man, with the sort of compelling magnetism that gives
controlling power to its possessor. But because I knew my uncle
so well in after years, I can picture Esmond Clarenden as he
stood that night before the young priest in the little mud-walled
church of Agua Fria. And I can picture the tall, threatening man
in the shadows beside him. But never have I held an image of him
showing a sign of fear.
"Father Josef, I am willing to make any explanation to you. As
for this man whom you call Ramero here--up in the States he bears
another name and I finished with him there six years ago--I have
no time nor breath to waste on him. Are these your demands?" my
uncle asked.
"They are," Father Josef replied.
"Do I take away the little girl, Eloise, unmolested, if you are
satisfied?" Esmond Clarenden demanded, first making sure of his
bargain, like the merchant he was.
Ferdinand Ramero stiffened insolently at these words, and looked
threateningly at Father Josef.
"You do," the holy man replied, something of the flashing light
in his eyes alone revealing what sort of a soldier the State had
lost when this man took on churchly orders.
"I am no traitor to my flag, since my full commerical
purpose was known and sanctioned by the military authority at
Fort Leavenworth before I left there. I brought no aid to my
country's enemy because my full cargo was bargained for by your
merchant, Felix Narveo, before the declaration of war was made. I
merely acted as his agent bringing his own to him. I have come
here as a spy only in this--that I shall profit in strictly
legitimate business by the knowledge I hold of commercial
conditions and my acquaintance with your citizens when this war
for territory ends, no matter how its results may run. I deal in
wholesome trade, not in human hate. I offer value for value, not
blood for blood."
Up to this time a smile had lighted the merchant's eyes. But now
his voice lowered, and the lines about his mouth hardened.
"As to the guardianship of children, Father Josef, I am a
bachelor who for nearly nine years have given a home, education,
support, and affection to three orphan children, until, though
young in years, they are wise and capable. So zealous was I for
their welfare, that when word came to me--no matter how--that a
company of Mexicans were on their way to Independence, Missouri,
ostensibly to seek the protection of the United States Government
and to settle on the frontier there, but really to seize these
children in my absence, and carry them into the heart of old
Mexico, I decided at once that they would be safer with me in New
Mexico than without me in Missouri.
"In the night I passed this Mexican gang at Council Grove,
waiting to seize me in the morning. At Pawnee Rock a storm
scattered a band of Kiowa Indians to whom these same Mexicans had
given a little Indian slave girl as a reward for attacking our
train if the Mexicans should fail to get us themselves. Through
every peril that threatens that long trail we came safely because
the hand of the Lord preserved us."
Esmond Clarenden paused, and the priest bowed a moment in
prayer.
"If I have dared fate in this journey," the merchant went on, "it
was not to be foolhardy, nor for mere money gains, but to keep my
own with me, and to rescue the daughter of Mary St. Vrain, of
Santa Fé, and take her to a place of safety. It was her
mother's last pleading call, as you, Father Josef, very well
know, since you yourself heard her last words and closed her dead
eyes. Under the New Mexican law, the guardianship of her property
rests with others. Mine is the right to protect her and, by the
God of heaven, I mean to do it!"
Esmond Clarenden's voice was deep and powerful now, filling the
old church with its vehemence.
Up by the altar, the little girl sat up suddenly and looked about
her, terrified by the dim light and the strange faces there.
"Don't be afraid, Eloise."
How strangely changed was this gentle tone from the vehement
voice of a moment ago.
The little girl sprang up and stared hard at the speaker. But no
child ever resisted that smile by which Esmond Clarenden held
Beverly and me in loving obedience all the days of our lives with
him.
Shaking with fear as she caught sight of Ferdinand Ramero, the
girl reached out her hands toward the merchant, who put his arm
protectingly about her. The big, dark eyes were filled with
tears; the head with its sunny ripples of tangled hair leaned
against him for a moment. Then the fighting spirit came back to
her, so early in her young life had the need for defending
herself been forced upon her.
"Where have I been? Where am I going?" she demanded.
"You are going with me now," Uncle Esmond said, softly.
"And never have to fight Marcos any more? Oh, good, good, good!
Let's go now!"
She frowned darkly at Ferdinand Ramero, and, clutching tightly at
Esmond Clarenden's hands, she began pulling him toward the open
door.
"Eloise," Father Josef said, "you are about to go away with this
good man who will be a father to you. Be a good child as your
mother would want you to be." His musical voice was full of
pathos.
Eloise dropped her new friend's hand and sprang down the
aisle.
"I will be good, Father Josef," she said, squeezing his dark hand
between her fair little palms. Then, tossing back the curls from
her face, she reached up a caressing hand to his cheek.
Father Josef stooped and kissed her white forehead, and turned
hastily toward the altar.
"Esmond Clarenden!" It was Ferdinand Ramero who spoke, his sharp,
bitter voice filling the church.
"By order of this priest Eloise St. Vrain is yours to protect so
long as you stay within these walls. The minute you leave them
you reckon with me."
Father Josef whirled about quickly, but the man made a scoffing
gesture.
"I brought this child here for protection this morning. But for
that sickly Yankee and two inquisitive imps of boys she would
have been safe here. I acknowledge sanctuary privilege. Use it as
long as you choose in the church of Agua Fria. Set but a foot
outside these walls and I say again you reckon with me."
His tall form thrust itself menacingly before the little man and
his charge clinging to his arm.
"Set but a foot outside these walls and you will reckon
with me."
It was Jondo's clear voice, and the big plainsman, towering up
suddenly behind Ferdinand Ramero, filled the doorway.
"You meant to hide in the old Church of San Miguel because it is
so near to the home where you have kept this little girl. But
Gail Clarenden blocked your game and found your house and this
child in the church door before our wagon-train had reached the
end of the trail. You found this church your nearest refuge,
meaning to leave it again early in the morning. I have waited
here for you all day, protected by the same means that brought
word to Santa Fé this morning. Come out now if you wish.
You dare not follow me to the States, but I dare to come to your
land. Can you meet me here?" Jondo was handsome in his sunny
moods. In his anger he was splendid.
Ferdinand Ramero dropped to a seat beside Father Josef.
"I have told you I cannot face that man. I will stay here now,"
he said, in a low voice to the priest. "But I do not stay here
always, and I can send where I do not follow," he added,
defiantly.
Esmond Clarenden was already on his horse with his little charge,
snugly wrapped, in his arms.
Father Josef at the portal lifted his hand in sign of
blessing.
"Peace be with you. Do not tarry long," he said. Then, turning to
Jondo, he gazed into the strong, handsome face. "Go in peace. He
will not follow. But forget not to love even your enemies."
In the midnight dimness Jondo's bright smile glowed with all its
courageous sweetness.
"I finished that fight long ago," he said. "I come only to help
others."
Long these two, priest and plainsman, stood there with clasped
hands, the gray night mists of the Santa Fé Valley round
about them and all the far stars of the midnight sky gleaming
above them. Then Jondo mounted his horse and rode away up the
trail toward Santa Fé.
I will even make a way in the wilderness. --ISAIAH.
Bent's fort stood alone in the wide wastes of the upper Arkansas
valley. From the Atlantic to the Pacific shores there was in
America no more isolated spot holding a man's home. Out on the
north bank of the Arkansas, in a grassy river bottom, with
rolling treeless plains rippling away on every hand, it reared
its high yellow walls in solitary defiance, mute token of the
white man's conquering hand in a savage wilderness. It was a
great rectangle built of adobe brick with walls six feet through
at the base, sloping to only a third of that width at the top,
eighteen feet from the ground. Round bastions, thirty feet high,
at two diagonal corners, gave outlook and defense. Immense wooden
doors guarded a wide gateway looking eastward down the Arkansas
River. The interior arrangement was after the Mexican custom of
building, with rooms along the outer walls all opening into a big
patio, or open court. A cross-wall separated this court
from the large corral inside the outer walls at the rear. A
portal, or porch, roofed with thatch on cedar poles, ran around
the entire inner rectangle, sheltering the rooms somewhat from
the glare of the white-washed court. A little world in itself was
this Bent's Fort, a self-dependent community in the solitary
places. The presiding genius of this community was William Bent,
whose name is graven hard and deep in the annals of the eastern
slopes of the Rocky Mountain country in the earlier decades of
the nineteenth century.
Hither in the middle '40's the wild trails of the West converged:
northward, from the trading-posts of Bent and St. Vrain on the
Platte; south, over the Raton Pass from Taos and Santa Fé;
westward, from the fur-bearing plateaus of the Rockies, where
trappers and traders brought their precious piles of pelts down
the Arkansas; and eastward, half a thousand miles from the
Missouri River frontier--the pathways of a restless, roving
people crossed each other here. And it was toward this wilderness
crossroads that Esmond Clarenden directed his course in that
summertime of my boyhood years.
The heat of a July sun beat pitilessly down on the scorching
plains. The weary trail stretched endlessly on toward a somewhere
in the yellow distance that meant shelter and safety. Spiral
gusts of air gathering out of the low hills to the southeast
picked up great cones of dust and whirled them zigzagging across
the brown barren face of the land. Every draw was bone dry; even
the greener growths along their sheltered sides, where the last
moisture hides itself, wore a sickly sallow hue.
Under the burden of this sun-glare, and through these stifling
dust-cones, our little company struggled sturdily forward.
We had left Santa Fé as suddenly and daringly as we had
entered it, the very impossibility of risking such a journey
again being our, greatest safeguard. Esmond Clarenden was doing
the thing that couldn't be done, and doing it quickly.
In the gray dawn after that midnight ride to Agua Fria a little
Indian girl had slipped like a brown shadow across the Plaza.
Stopping at the door of the Exchange Hotel, she leaned against
the low slab of petrified wood that for many a year served as a
loafer's roost before the hotel doorway. Inside the building
Jondo caught the clear twitter of a bird's song at daybreak,
twice repeated. A pause, and then it came again, fainter this
time, as if the bird were fluttering away through the Plaza
treetops.
In that pause, the gate in the wall had opened softly, and Aunty
Boone's sharp eyes peered through the crack. The girl caught one
glimpse of the black face, then, dropping a tiny leather bag
beside the stone, she sped away.
A tall young Indian boy, prone on the ground behind a pile of
refuse in the shadowy Plaza, lifted his head in time to see the
girl glide along the portal of the Palace of the Governors and
disappear at the corner of the structure. Then he rose and
followed her with silent moccasined feet.
And Jondo, who had hurried to the hotel door, saw only the lithe
form of an Indian boy across the Plaza. Then his eye fell on the
slender bag beside the stone slab. It held a tiny scrap of paper,
bearing a message:
Take long trail QUICK. Mexicans follow
far. Trust bearer anywhere.
JOSEF.
An hour later we were on our way toward the open prairies and
the Stars and Stripes afloat above Fort Leavenworth.
In the wagon beside Mat Nivers was the little girl whose face had
been clear in the mystic vision of my day-dreams on the April
morning when I had gone out to watch for the big fish on the
sand-bars; the morning when I had felt the first heart-throb of
desire for the trail and the open plains whereon my life-story
would later be written.
We carried no merchandise now. Everything bent toward speed and
safety. Our ponies and mules were all fresh ones--secured for
this journey two hours after we had come into Santa
Fé--save for the big sturdy dun creature that Uncle
Esmond, out of pure sentiment, allowed to trail along behind the
wagons toward his native heath in the Missouri bottoms.
We had crossed the Gloriettas and climbed over the Raton Pass
rapidly, and now we were nearing the upper Arkansas, where the
old trail turns east for its long stretch across the
prairies.
As far as the eye could see there was no living thing save our
own company in all the desolate plain aquiver with heat and ashy
dry. The line of low yellow bluffs to the southeast hardly cast a
shadow save for a darker dun tint here and there.
At midday we drooped to a brief rest beside the sun-baked
trail.
"You all jus' one color," Aunty Boone declared. "You all like the
dus' you made of 'cep' Little Lees an' me. She's white and I'm
black. Nothin' else makes a pin streak on the face of the
earth."
Aunty Boone flourished on deserts and her black face glistened in
the sunlight. Deep in the shadow of the wagon cover the face of
Eloise St. Vrain--"Little Lees," Aunty Boone had named
her--bloomed pink as a wild rose in its frame of soft hair. She
had become Aunty Boone's meat and drink from the moment the
strange African woman first saw her. This regard, never expressed
in caress nor word of tenderness, showed itself in warding from
the little girl every wind of heaven that might visit her too
roughly. Not that Eloise gave up easily. Her fighting spirit made
her rebel against weariness and the hardships of trail life new
to her. She fitted into our ways marvelously well, demanding
equal rights, but no favors. By some gentle appeal, hardly put
into words, we knew that Uncle Esmond did not want us to talk to
her about herself. And Beverly and Mat and I, however much we
might speculate among ourselves, never thought of resisting his
wishes.
Eloise was gracious with Mat, but evidently the boy Marcos had
made her wary of all boys. She paid no attention to Beverly and
me at first. All her pretty smiles and laughing words were for
Uncle Esmond and Jondo. And she was lovely. Never in all these
long and varied years have I seen another child with such a
richness of coloring, nor such a mass of golden hair rippling
around her forehead and falling in big, soft curls about her
neck. Her dark eyes with their long black lashes gave to her face
its picturesque beauty, and her plump, dimpled arms and sturdy
little form bespoke the wholesome promise of future years.
But the life of the trail was not meant for such as she, and I
know now that the assurance of having saved her from some greater
misfortune alone comforted Uncle Esmond and Jondo in this
journey. For Aunty Boone was right when she declared, "They tote
together always."
As we grouped together under that shelterless glare, getting what
comfort we could out of the brief rest, Jondo sprang up suddenly,
his eyes aglow with excitement.
"What's the matter? Because if it isn't, this is one hot day to
pretend like it is," Rex Krane asserted.
He was lying on the hot earth beside the trail, his hat pulled
over his face. Beverly and Bill Banney were staring dejectedly
across the landscape, seeing nothing. I sat looking off toward
the east, wondering what lay behind those dun bluffs in the
distance.
"Something is wrong back yonder," Jondo declared, making a
half-circle with his hand toward the trail behind us.
My heart seemed to stop mid-beat with a kind of fear I had never
known before. Aunty Boone had always been her own defender. Mat
Nivers had cared for me so much that I never doubted her bigger
power. It was for Eloise, Aunty Boone's "Little Lees," that my
fear leaped up.
I can close my eyes to-day and see again the desolate land banded
by the broad white trail. I can see the dusty wagons and our
tired mules with drooping heads. I can see the earnest, anxious
faces of Esmond Clarenden and Jondo; Beverly and Bill Banney
hardly grasping Jondo's meaning; Rex Krane, half asleep on the
edge of the trail. I can see Mat Nivers, brown and strong, and
Aunty Boone oozing sweat at every pore. But these are only the
setting for that little girl on the wagon-seat with white face
and big dark eyes, under the curl-shadowed forehead.
Jondo stared hard toward the hills in the southeast. Then he
turned to my uncle with grim face and burning eyes; His was a
wonderful voice, clear, strong and penetrating. But in danger he
always spoke in a low tone.
"I've watched those dust-whirls for an hour. The wind isn't
making all of them. Somebody is stirring them up for cover. Every
whirl has an Indian in it. It's all of ten miles to Bent's. We
must fight them off and let the others run for it, before they
cut us off in front. Look at that!"
The exclamation burst from the plainsman's lips.
That was my last straight looking. The rest is ever a
kaleidoscope of action thrilled through with terror. What I saw
was a swiftly moving black splotch coming out of the hills, with
huge dust-heaps flying here and there before it. Then a yellow
cloud spiral blinded our sight as a gust of hot wind swept round
us. I remember Jondo's stern face and blazing eyes and his
words:
"Mexicans behind the Indians!"
And Uncle Esmond's voice:
"Narveo said they would get us, but I hoped we had outrun
them."
The far plains seemed spotted with Indians racing toward us, and
coming at an angle from the southeast a dozen Mexicans swept in
to cut us off from the trail in front.
I remember a quick snatching of precious things in boxes placed
for such a moment as this, a quick snapping of halter ropes
around the ponies' necks, a gleaming of gun-barrels in the hot
sunlight; a solid cloud of dust rolling up behind us, bigger and
nearer every second; and the urgent voice of Jondo: "Ride for
your lives!"
And the race began. On the trail somewhere before us was Bent's
Fort. We could only hope to reach it soon. We did not even look
behind as we tore down that dusty wilderness way.
At the first motion Aunty Boone had seized Eloise St. Vrain with
one hand and the big dun mule's neck-strap with the other.
"Go to the devil, you tigers and cannibals!" She roared with the
growl of a desert lioness, shaking her big black fist at the band
of Mexicans pouring out of the hills.
And dun mule and black woman and white-faced, terror-stricken
child became only a dust-cloud far in front of us. Mat and
Beverly and I leaped to the ponies and followed the lead of the
African woman. Nearest to us was Rex Krane, always a shield for
the younger and less able. And behind him, as defense for the
rear and protection for the van, came Esmond Clarenden and Bill
Banney, with Jondo nearest the enemy, where danger was
greatest.
I tell it calmly, but I lived it in a blind whirl. The swift
hoof-beat, the wild Indian yells, the whirl of arrows and whiz of
bullets, the onrush to outrun the Mexicans who were trying to cut
us off from the trail in front. Lived it! I lived ages in it. And
then an arrow cut my pony's flank, making him lurch from the
trail, a false step, the pony staggering, falling. A sharp pain
in my shoulder, the smell of fire, a shriek from demon throats,
the glaring sunlight on the rocking plain, searing my eyes in a
mad whirlpool of blinding light, the fading sounds--and then--all
was black and still.
When I opened my eyes again I was lying on a cot. Bare adobe
walls were around me, and a high plastered roof resting on cedar
poles sheltered that awful glare from my eyes. Through the open
door I could see the rain falling on the bare ground of the
court, filling the shallow places with puddles.
I tried to lift myself to see more as shrieks of childish
laughter caught my ear, but there was a sickish heat in my dry
skin, an evil taste in my throat, and a sharp pain in my left
shoulder; and I fell back again.
Another shriek, and Eloise St. Vrain came before my doorway,
pattering with bare white feet out into the center of the
patio puddles and laughing at the dashing summer shower.
Her damp hair, twisted into a knot on top of her head, was
curling tightly about her temples and neck, her eyes were
shining; her wet clothes slapping at her bare white knees--a
picture of the delicious happiness of childhood. A little child
of three or four years was toddling after her. He was brown as a
berry, and at first I thought he was a little Indian. I could
hear Mat and Beverly splashing about safe and joyous somewhere,
and I forgot my fever and pain and the dread of that awful glare
coming again to sear my burning eyeballs as I watched and
listened. A louder shriek as the little child ran behind Eloise
and gave her a vigorous shove for one so small.
"Oh, Charlie Bent, see what you've done," Mat cried; and then
Beverly was picking up "Little Lees," sprawling, all mud-smeared
and happy, in the very middle of the court.
The child stood looking at her with shining black eyes full of a
wicked mischief, but he said not a word.
Just then a dull grunt caught my ear, and I half-turned to see a
cot beyond mine. An Indian boy lay on it, looking straight at me.
I stared back at him and neither of us spoke. His head was
bandaged and his cheek was swollen, but with my memory for faces,
even Indian faces, I knew him at once for the boy who had
followed us into Agua Fria and out of it again.
Just then the frolickers came to the door and peered in at
me.
"Are you awake?" Eloise asked.
Then seeing my face, she came romping in, followed by Mat and
Beverly and little Charlie Bent, all wet and hilarious. They gave
no heed to the Indian boy, who pretended to be asleep. Once,
however, I caught him watching Beverly, and his eyes were like
dagger points.
"We are having the best times. You must get well right away,
because we are going to stay." They all began to clatter,
noisily.
Rex Krane appeared at the door just then and they stopped
suddenly.
"Clear out of here, you magpies," he commanded, and they scuttled
away into the warm rain and the puddles again.
"Do you want anything, Gail?" Rex asked, bending over me.
I drew his head down with my right arm.
"I want that Indian out of here," I whispered.
"Out he goes," Rex returned, promptly, and almost before I knew
it the boy was taken away. When we were alone the tall young man
sat down beside me.
"You want to ask me a million questions. I'll answer 'em to save
you the trouble," he began, in his comfortable way.
"You are wounded in your shoulder. Slight, bullet, that's
Mexican; deep, arrow, that's Indian. But you are here and pretty
much alive and you will be well soon."
"And Uncle Esmond? Jondo? Bill?" I began, lifting myself up on my
well arm.
"Keep quiet. I'll answer faster. Everybody all right. Clarenden
and Jondo leave for Independence the minute you are better, and a
military escort permits."
I dropped down again.
"The U.S. Army, en route for perdition, via Santa Fé, is
camping in the big timbers down-stream now. Jondo and Esmond
Clarenden will leave you boys and girls here till it's safe to
take you out again. And I and Daniel Boone, vestal god and
goddess of these hearth-fires, will keep you from harm till that
time. Bill's joining the army for sure now, and our happy family
life is ended as far as the Santa Fé Trail is concerned.
I'm a well man now, but not quite army-well yet, they tell
me."
"Tell me about this." I pointed to my shoulder.
"All in good time. It was a nasty mess of fish. A dozen Mexicans
and as many Indians had followed us all the way from the sunny
side of the Gloriettas. You and Bev and Mat had got by the
Mexics. Daniel Boone and 'Little Lees' were climbing the North
Pole by that time. The rest of us were giving battle straight
from the shoulder; and someway, I don't know how, just as we had
the gang beat back behind us--you had a sniff of a bullet just
then--an Indian slipped ahead in the dust. I was tendin' to mite
of an arrow wound in my right calf, and I just caught him in
time, aimin' at Bev; but he missed him for you. I got him,
though, and clubbed his scalp a bit loose."
Rex paused and stared at his right leg.
"How did that boy get here, Rex? Is he a friendly Indian?" I
asked.
"Oh, Jondo brought him in out of the wet. Says the child was made
to come along, and as soon as he could get away from the gang he
had to run with up here; he came right into camp to help us
against them. Fine young fellow! Jondo has it from them in
authority that we can trust him lyin' or tellin' the truth.
He's all right."
"How did he get hurt?" I inquired, still remembering in my own
mind the day at Agua Fria.
"He'd got into our camp and was fightin' on our side when it
happened," Rex replied.
"Some of them shot at him, then?" I insisted. "No, I beat him up
with the butt of my gun for shootin' you," Rex said, lazily.
"At me! Why don't you tell Jondo?"
"I tried to," Rex answered, "but I can't make him see it that
way. He's got faith in that redskin and he's going to see that he
gets back to New Mexico safely--after while."
"Rex, that's the same boy that was down in Agua Fria, the one Bev
laughed at. He's no good Indian," I declared.
"You are too wise, Gail Clarenden," Rex drawled, carelessly. "A
boy of your brains had ought to be born in Boston. Jondo and I
can't agree about him. His name, he says, is Santan. There's one
'n' too many. If you knock off the last one it makes him
Santa--'holy'; but if you knock out the middle it's Satan. We
don't knock out the same 'n', Jondo and me."
Just then the little child came tumbling noisily into the
room.
"Look here, youngun. You can't be makin' a racket here," Rex
said.
The boy stared at him, impudently.
"I will, too," he declared, sullenly, kicking at my cot with all
his might.
Rex made no reply but, seizing the child around the waist, he
carried him kicking and screaming outside.
"You stay out or I'll spank you!" Rex said, dropping him to the
ground.
The boy looked up with blazing eyes, but said nothing.
"That's little Charlie Bent. His daddy runs this splendid fort.
His mother is a Cheyenne squaw, and he's a grim clinger of a
half-breed. Some day he'll be a terror on these plains. It's in
him, I know. But that won't interfere with us any. And you
children are a lot safer here than out on the trail. Great God! I
wonder we ever got you here!" Rex's face was very grave. "Now go
to sleep and wake up well. No more thinkin' like a man. You can
be a child again for a while."
Those were happy days that followed. Safe behind the strong walls
of old Fort Bent, we children had not a care; and with the stress
and strain of the trail life lifted from our young minds, we
rebounded into happy childhood living. Every day offered a new
drama to our wonder-loving eyes. We watched the big hide-press
for making buffalo robes and furs into snug bales. We climbed to
the cupola of the headquarters department and saw the soldiers
marching by on their way to New Mexico. We saw the Ute and the
Red River Comanche come filing in on their summer expeditions
from the mountains. We saw the trade lines from the far north
bearing down to this wilderness crossroads with their early fall
stock for barter.
Our playground was the court off which all the rooms opened. And
however wild and boisterous the scenes inside those walls in that
summer of 1846, in four young lives no touch of evil took root.
Stronger than the six-feet width of wall, higher than the
eighteen feet of adobe brick guarding us round about, was the
stern strength of the young Boston man interned in the fort to
protect us from within, as the strength of that structure
defended us from without.
And yet he might have failed sometimes, had it not been for Aunty
Boone. Nobody trifled with her.
"You let them children be. An give 'em the run of this shack,"
she commanded of the lesser powers whose business was to domineer
over the daily life there. "The man that makes trouble wide as a
needle is across is goin' to meet me an' the Judgment Day the
same minute."
"When Daniel gets on her crack-o'-doom voice, the mountains goin'
to skip like rams and the little hills like lambs, an' the Army
of the West won't be necessary to protect the frontier," Rex
declared. But he knew her worth to his cause, and he welcomed
it.
And so with her brute force and his moral strength we were
unconsciously intrenched in a safety zone in this far-isolated
place.
With neither Uncle Esmond nor Jondo near us for the first time in
our remembrance, we gained a strength in self-dependence that we
needed. For with the best of guardianship, there are many ways in
which a child's day may be harried unless the child asserts
himself. We had the years of children but the sturdy defiance of
youth. So we were happy within our own little group, and we paid
little heed to the things that nobody else could forestall for
us.
Outside of our family, little Charlie Bent, the half-breed child
of the proprietor of the fort, was a daily plague. He entered
into all of our sports with a quickness and perseverance and
wilfulness that was thoroughly American. He took defeat of his
wishes, and the equal measure of justice and punishment, with the
silent doggedness of an Indian; and on the edge of babyhood he
showed a spirit of revenge and malice that we, in our rollicking,
affectionate lives, with all our teasing and sense of humor,
could not understand; so we laughed at his anger and ignored his
imperious demands.
Behind him always was his Cheyenne mother, jealously defending
him in everything, and in manifold ways making life a burden--if
we would submit to the making, which we seldom did.
And lastly Santan, the young boy who had deserted his Mexican
masters for Jondo's command, contrived, with an Indian's
shrewdness, never to let us out of his sight. But he gave us no
opportunity to approach him. He lived in his own world, which was
a savage one, but he managed that it should overlap our world and
silently grasp all that was in it. Beverly had persistently tried
to be friendly for a time, for that was Beverly's way. Failing to
do it, he had nick-named the boy "Satan" for all time.
"We found Little Blue Flower a sweet little muggins," Beverly
told the Indian early in our stay at the fort. "We like good
Indians like her. She's one clipper."
Santan had merely looked him through as though he were air, and
made no reply, nor did he ever by a single word recognize Beverly
from that moment.
The evening before we left Fort Bent we children sat together in
a corner of the court. The day had been very hot for the season
and the night was warm and balmy, with the moonlight flooding the
open space, edging the shadows of the inner portal with silver.
There was much noise and boisterous laughter in the billiard-room
where the heads of affairs played together. Rex Krane had gone to
bed early. Out by the rear gate leading to the fort corral, Aunty
Boone was crooning a weird African melody. Crouching in the deep
shadows beside the kitchen entrance, the Indian boy, Santan,
listened to all that was said.
To-night we had talked of to-morrow's journey, and the strength
of the military guard who should keep us safe along the way.
Then, as children will, we began to speculate on what should
follow for us.
"When I get older I'm going to be a freighter like Jondo, Bill
and me. We'll kill every Indian who dares to yell along the
trail. I'm going back to Santa Fé and kill that boy that
stared at me like he was crazy one day at Agua Fria."
In the shadows of the porchway, I saw Santan creeping nearer to
us as Beverly ran on flippantly:
"I guess I'll marry a squaw, Little Blue Flower, maybe, like the
Bents do, and live happily ever after."
"I'm going to have a big fine house and live there all the time,"
Mat Nivers declared. Something in the earnest tone told us what
this long journey had meant to the brave-hearted girl.
"I'm going to marry Gail when I grow up," Eloise said,
meditatively. "He won't ever let Marcos pull my hair." She shook
back the curly tresses, gold-gleaming in the moonlight, and
squeezed my hand as she sat beside me.
"What will you be, Gail?" Mat asked.
"I'll go and save Bev's scalp when he's gunning too far from
home," I declared.
"Oh, he'll be 'Little Lees's' husband, and pull that Marcos
cuss's nose if he tries to pull anybody's curls. Whoo-ee! as
Aunty Boone would say," Beverly broke in.
I kept a loving grip on the little hand that had found mine, as I
would have gripped Beverly's hand sometimes in moments when we
talked together as boys do, in the confidences they never give to
anybody else.
A gray shadow dropped on the moon, and a chill night wind crept
down inside the walls. A sudden fear fell on us. The noises
inside the billiard room seemed far away, and all the doors
except ours were closed. Santan had crept between us and the two
open doorways leading to our rooms. What if he should slip
inside. A snake would have seemed better to me.
A silence had fallen on us, and Eloise still clung to my hand. I
held it tightly to assure her I wasn't afraid, but I could not
speak nor move. Aunty Boone's crooning voice was still, and
everything had grown weird and ghostly. The faint wailing cry of
some wild thing of the night plains outside crept to our ears,
making us shiver.
"When the stars go to sleep an' the moon pulls up the gray
covers, it's time to shut your eyes an' forget." Aunty Boone's
soft voice broke the spell comfortingly for us. "Any crawlin'
thing that gits in my way now, goin' to be stepped on."
At the low hissing sound of the last sentence there was a swift
scrambling along the shadows of the porch, and a door near the
kitchen snapped shut. The big shining face of the African woman
glistened above us and the court was flooded again with the
moon's silvery radiance. As we all sprang up to rush for our
rooms, "Little Lees" pulled me toward her and gently kissed my
cheek.
"You never would let Marcos in if he came to Fort Leavenworth,
would you?" she whispered.
"I'd break his head clear off first," I whispered back, and then
we scampered away.
That night I dreamed again of the level plains and Uncle Esmond
and misty mountain peaks, but the dark eyes were not there,
though I watched long for them.
The next day we left Fort Bent, and when I passed that way again
it was a great mass of yellow mounds, with a piece of broken wall
standing desolately here and there, a wreck of the past in a
solitary land.
Love took me softly by the hand,
Love led me all the country o'er,
And showed me beauty in the land,
That I had never seen before.
--ANONYMOUS.
You might not be able to find the house to-day, nor the high
bluff whereon it stood. So many changes have been wrought in half
a century that what was green headland and wooded valley in the
far '50's may be but a deep cut or a big fill for a new roadway
or factory site to-day. So diligently has Kansas City fulfilled
the scriptural prophecy that "every valley shall be exalted, and
every mountain and hill shall be made low."
Where the great stream bends to the east, the rugged heights
about its elbow, Aunty Boone, in those days, was wont to declare,
did not offer enough level ground to set a hen on. Small reason
was there then to hope that a city, great and gracious, would one
day cover those rough ravines and grace those slopes and hilltops
in the angle between the Missouri and the Kaw.
Aunty Boone had resented leaving Fort Leavenworth when the
Clarenden business made the young city at the Kaw's mouth more
desirable for a home. But Esmond Clarenden foresaw that a
military post, when the protection it offers is no longer needed,
will not, in itself, be a city-builder. The war had brought New
Mexico into United States territory; railroads were slowly
creeping westward toward the Mississippi River; steamboats and
big covered wagons were bringing settlers into Kansas, where
little cabins were beginning to mark the landscape with new
hearth-stones. Congress was wrangling over the great slavery
question. The Eastern lawmakers were stupidly opposing the
efforts of Missouri statesmen to extend mail routes westward, or
to spend any energy toward developing that so-called worthless
region which they named "the great American desert." And the old
Santa Fé Trail was now more than ever the highway for the
commerical treasures of the Rocky Mountains and the great
Southwest.
It was the time of budding things. In the valley of the Missouri
the black elm boughs, the silvery sycamores and cottonwoods, and
the vines on the gray rock-faced cliffs were veiled in shimmering
draperies of green, with here and there a little group of orchard
trees faintly pink against the landscape's dainty verdure.
Beverly Clarenden and I stood on the deck of a river steamer as
it made the wharf at old Westport Landing, where Esmond Clarenden
waited for us. And long before the steamer's final bump against
the pier we had noted the tall, slender girl standing beside him.
We had been away three years, the only schooling outside of Uncle
Esmond's teaching we were ever to have. We were big boys now,
greatly conscious of hands and feet in our way, "razor broke,"
Aunty Boone declared, brimful of hilarity and love of adventure,
and eager for the plains life, and the dangers of the old trail
by which we were to conquer or be conquered. In the society of
women we were timid and ill at ease. Aside from this we were
self-conceited, for we knew more of the world and felt ourselves
more important on that spring morning than we ever presumed to
know or dared to feel in all the years that followed.
"Who is she, Gail, that tall one by little fat Uncle Esmond?"
Beverly questioned, as we neared the wharf. "You don't reckon
he's married, Bev? He's all of twenty-four or five years older
than we are, and we aren't calves any more." I replied, scanning
the group on the wharf.
But we forgot the girl in our eagerness to bound down the
gang-plank and hug the man who meant all that home and love could
mean to us. In our three growing years we had almost eliminated
Mat Nivers, save as a happy memory, for mails were slow in those
days and we were poor letter-writers; and we had wondered how to
meet her properly now. But when the tall, slender girl on the
wharf came forward and we looked into the wide gray eyes of our
old-time playmate whom, as little boys, we had both vowed to
marry, we forgot everything in our overwhelming love for our
comrade-in-arms, our jolliest friend and counselor.
"Oh, Mat, you miserable thing!" Beverly bubbled, hugging her in
his arms.
"You are just bigger and sweeter than ever. I mistook you for
Aunty Boone at first," I chimed in, kissing her on each cheek.
And we all bundled away in an old-fashioned, low-swung carriage,
happy as children again, with no barrier between us and the dear
playmate of the past.
The new home, on the high crest overlooking the Missouri valley,
nestled deep in the shade of maple and elm trees, a mansion,
compared to that log house of blessed memory at Fort Leavenworth.
A winding road led up the steep slope from a wooded ravine where
a trail ran out from the little city by the river's edge. Vistas
of sheer cliff and stretches of the muddy on-sweeping Missouri
and the full-bosomed Kaw, with scrubby timbered ravines and
growing groves of forest trees, offered themselves at every turn.
And from the top of the bluff the world unrolled in a panorama of
nature's own shaping and coloring.
The house was built of stone, with vines climbing about its thick
walls, and broad veranda. And everywhere Mat's hands had put
homey touches of comfort and beauty. An hundredfold did she
return to Esmond Clarenden all the care and protection he had
given to her in her orphaned childhood. And, after all, it was
not military outposts, nor railroads, nor mail-lines alone that
pushed back the wilderness frontier. It was the hand of woman
that also builded empire westward.
"Mat's got her wish at last," I said, as we sat with Uncle Esmond
after dinner under a big maple tree and looked out at the far
yellow Missouri, churning its spring floods to foam against the
snags along its high-water bound.
"What's Mat's wish?" Uncle Esmond asked.
"To have a good home and stay there. She wished that one
night, years ago back in old Fort Bent. Don't you remember, Bev,
when we were out in the court, and how scared blue we all were
when the moon went under a cloud, and that Indian boy, Santan,
was creeping between us and the home base?"
"No, I don't remember anything except that we were in Fort Bent.
Got in by the width of a hair ahead of some Mexicans and Indians,
and got out again after a jolly six weeks. What's the real job
for us now, Uncle Esmond?"
Uncle Esmond was staring out toward the Kaw valley, rimmed by
high bluffs in the distance.
"I don't know about Mat having her wish," he said, thoughtfully,
"but never mind. Trade is booming and I'm needing help on the
trail this spring. Jondo starts west in two weeks."
Beverly and I sprang up. Six feet of height, muscular,
adventure-loving, fearless, we had been made to order for the
Santa Fé Trail. And if I was still a dreamer and caught
sometimes the finer side of ideals, where Beverly Clarenden saw
only the matter-of-fact, visible things, no shrewder, braver,
truer plainsman ever walked the long distances of the old Santa
Fé Trail than this boy with his bright face and
happy-go-lucky spirit unpained by dreams, untrammeled by
fancies.
"Two weeks! We are ready to start right after supper," we
declared.
"Oh, I have other matters first," Uncle Esmond said. "Beverly,
you must go up to Fort Leavenworth and arrange a lot of things
with Banney for this trip. He's to go, too, because military
escort is short this season."
"Suits me!" Beverly declared. "Old Bill Banney and I always could
get along together. And this infant here?"
"I'm going to send Gail down to the Catholic Mission, in Kansas.
You remember little Eloise St. Vrain, of course?" Uncle Esmond
asked.
"We do!" Beverly assured him. "Pretty as a doll, gritty as a
sand-bar, snappy as a lobster's claw--she dwells within my memory
yet."
All girls were little children to us, for the scheme of things
had not included them in our affairs.
I threw a handful of grass in the boy's face, and Uncle Esmond
went on.
"She's been at St. Ann's School at the Osage Mission down on the
Neosho River for two or three years, and now she is going to St.
Louis. In these troublesome times on the border, if I have a
personal interest, I feel safer if some big six-footer whom I can
trust comes along as an escort from the Neosho to the Missouri,"
Uncle Esmond explained.
And then we spoke of other things: the stream of emigration
flowing into the country, the possibilities of the prairies, the
future of the city that should hold the key to the whole
Southwest, and especially of the chance and value of the trail
trade.
"It's the big artery that carries the nation's life-blood here,"
Esmond Clarenden declared. "Some day when the West is full of
people, and dowered with prosperity, it may remember the men who
built the highway for the feet of trade to run in. And the West
may yet measure its greatness somewhat by the honesty and
faithfulness of the merchant of the frontier, and more by the
courage and persistence of the boys who drove the ox-teams across
the plains. Don't forget that you yourselves are State-builders
now."
He spoke earnestly, but his words meant little to me. I was
looking out toward the wide-sweeping Kaw and thinking of the
journey I must make, and wondering if I should ever feel at ease
in the society of women. Wondering, too, what I should say, and
how I should really take care of "Little Lees," who had crossed
the plains with us almost a decade ago; the girl who had held my
hand tightly one night at old Fort Bent when the shadow had
slipped across the moon and filled the silvery court with a gray,
ghostly light.
That night the old heart-hunger of childhood came back to me, the
visions of the day-dreaming little boy that were almost forgotten
in the years that had brought me to young manhood. And clearly
again, as when I heard Uncle Esmond's voice that night on the
tableland above the valley of the Santa Fé, I heard his
gentle words:
"Sometimes the things we long for in our dreams we must fight
for, and even die for, that those who come after us may be the
better for our having them."
But these thoughts passed with the night, and in my youth and
inexperience I took on a spirit of fatherly importance as I went
down to St. Ann's to safeguard a little girl on her way through
the Kansas territory to the Missouri River.
It had been a beautiful day, and there was a freshness in the
soft evening breeze, and an up-springing sweetness from the
prairies. A shower had passed that way an hour before, and the
spirit of growing things seemed to fill the air with a voiceless
music.
Just at sunset the stage from the north put me down in front of
St. Ann's Academy in the little Osage Mission village on the
Neosho.
A tall nun, with commanding figure and dignified bearing, left
the church steps across the road and came slowly toward me.
"I am looking for Mother Bridget, the head of this school," I
said, lifting my hat.
"I am Mother Bridget." The voice was low and firm. One could not
imagine disobedience under her rule.
"I come from Mr. Esmond Clarenden, to act as escort for a little
girl, Eloise St. Vrain, who is to leave here on the stage for
Kansas City to-morrow," I hesitatingly offered my letter of
introduction, which told all that I had tried to say, and
more.
The woman's calm face was gentle, with the protective gentleness
of the stone that will not fail you when you lean on it. One felt
sure of Mother Bridget, as one feels sure of the solid rock to
build upon. She looked at me with keen, half-quizzical eyes. Then
she said, quietly:
"You will find the little girl down by Flat Rock Creek. The
Indian girl, Po-a-be, is with her. There may be several Indian
girls down there, but Po-a-be is alone with little Eloise."
I bowed and turned away, conscious that, with this good nun's
sincerity, she was smiling at me back of her eyes somehow.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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."
There was a world of benediction in his deep tones, and his smile
was genial, as he followed us to the street and stood as if
watching for some one.
"I will meet you at San Miguel's to-morrow afternoon, Gail,"
Eloise said, as we reached a low but pretentious adobe dwelling.
"This is my home now."
"Your new Mexican homes are thick-walled, and you live all on the
inside," I said, as we paused at the doorway. "They make me think
of the lower invertebrates, hard-shelled, soft-bodied animals. Up
on the Kansas prairies and the Missouri bluffs we have a central
vetebra--the family hearth-stone--and we live all around it. That
is the people who have them do. There isn't much home life for a
freighter of the plains anywhere. Good by, Little Lees." I took
her offered hand. "I'm glad you have let me be your friend, a
hard-shelled bull-whacker like me."
The street was full of shadows and the evening air was chill as
the door closed on that sweet face and cloud of golden hair. But
the pressure of warm white fingers lingered long in my sense of
touch as I retraced my steps to the trail's end. At the church
door I saw Father Josef still waiting, as if watching for
somebody.
All that Eloise had told me ran through my mind, but I felt sure
that neither financial nor churchly influence in Santa Fé
could be turned to evil purposes so long as men like Felix Narveo
and Father Josef were there. And then I thought of Esmond
Clarenden, himself neither Mexican nor Roman Catholic, who,
nevertheless, drew to himself such fair-dealing, high-minded men
as these, always finding the best to aid him, and combating the
worst with daring fearlessness. Surely with the priest and the
merchant and Jondo as my uncle's representative, no harm could
come to the girl whom I knew that I should always love.
And with my mind full of Eloise and her need I sought out Jondo
and listened to his story.
Fighting for leave to live and labor well,
God flung me peace and ease.
--"A SONG OF THE ENGLISH."
I found Jondo in the little piazza opening into the hotel
court.
"Where did you leave Krane and Bev?" he asked, as I sat down
beside him.
"I didn't leave them; they left me," I answered.
"Oh, you young bucks are all alike. You know just enough to be
good to yourselves. You don't think much about anybody else,"
Jondo said, with a smile.
"I think of others, Jondo, and for that reason I want you to tell
me that story about Ferdinand Ramero that you promised to tell me
one night back on the trail."
Jondo gave a start.
"I'd like to forget that man, not talk about him," he
replied.
"But it is to help somebody else, not just to be good to myself,
that I want to know it," I insisted, using his own terms. And
then I told him what Eloise had told me in the San Miguel
church.
"Are the Ramero's so powerful here that they can control the
Church in their scheme to get what they want?" I asked.
"It would be foolish to underestimate the strength of Ferdinand
Ramero," Jondo replied, adding, grimly, "It has been my lot to
know the best of men who could make me believe all men are good,
and the worst of men who make me doubt all humanity." He clenched
his fists as if to hold himself in check, and something, neither
sigh nor groan nor oath nor prayer, but like them all, burst from
his lips.
"If you ever have a real cross, Gail, thank the Lord for the
green prairies and the open plains, and the danger-stimulus of
the old Santa Fé Trail. They will seal up your wounds, and
soften your hard, rebellious heart, and make you see things big,
and despise the narrow little crooks in your path."
One must have known Jondo, with his bluff manner and sunny smile
and daring spirit, to feel the force, of these brave sad words. I
felt intuitively that I had laid bare a wound of his by my
story.
"It is for Eloise, not for my curiosity, that I have come to
you," I said, gently. "And you didn't come too soon, boy." Jondo
was himself in a moment. "It is another cruel act in the old
tragedy of Ramero against Clarenden and others."
"Will the Church be bribed by the St. Vrain estate and urge this
wedding?" I asked.
"The Church considers money as so much power for the Kingdom. I
have heard that the St. Vrain estate was left in Ramero's hands
with the proviso that if Eloise should marry foolishly before she
was twenty-five she, would lose her property. Do you see the
trick in the game, and why Ramero can say that if he chooses he
can take her heritage away from her? But as he keeps everything
in his own hands it is hard to know the truth about anything
connected with money matters."
"Would Father Josef be party to such a transaction?" I asked,
angrily.
"Ramero thinks so, but he is mistaken," Jondo replied.
"What makes you think he won't be?" I insisted.
"Because I knew Father Josef before he became a priest, and why
he took the vows," Jondo declared. "Unless a man brings some
manhood to the altar, he will not find it in the title nor the
dress there, it makes no difference whether he be Catholic,
Protestant, Hebrew, or heathen. Father Josef was a gentleman
before he was a priest."
"Well, if he's all right, why did he bring Eloise back here into
the heart of all this trouble?" I questioned.
Jondo sat thinking for a little while, then he said,
assuringly:
"I don't know his motive, unless he felt he could protect her
here himself; but I tell you, my boy, he can be trusted. Let me
tell you something, Gail. When Esmond Clarenden and I were boys
back in a New England college we knew two fellows from the
Southwest whose fathers were in official circles at Washington.
One was Felix Narveo, thoroughbred Mexican, thoroughbred
gentleman, a bit lacking in initiative sometimes, for he came
from the warmer, lazier lands, but as true as the compass in his
character. The other fellow was Dick Verra, French father,
English mother; I think he had a strain of Indian blood farther
back somewhere, but he would have been a prince in any tribe or
nation. A happy, wholesome, red-blooded, young fellow, with the
world before him for his conquest.
"We knew another fellow, too, Fred Ramer, self-willed, imperious,
extravagant in his habits, greedy and unscrupulous; but he was
handsome and masterful, with a compelling magnetism that made us
admire him and bound us to him. He had never known what it meant
to have a single wish denied him. And with his make-up, he would
stop at nothing to have his own way, until his wilful pride and
stubbornness and love of luxury ruined him. But in our college
days we were his satellites. He was always in debt to all of us,
for money was his only god and we never dared to press him for
payment. The only one of us who ever overruled him was Dick
Verra. But Dick was a born master of men. There was one other
chum of ours, but I'll tell you about him later. Boys together,
we had many escapades and some serious problems, until by the
time our college days were over we were bound together by those
ties that are made in jest and broken with choking voices and
eyes full of tears."
Jondo paused and I waited, silent, until he should continue.
"Things happened to that little group of college men as time went
on. You know your uncle's life, leading merchant of Kansas City
and the Southwest; and mine, plainsman and freighter on the Santa
Fé Trail. Felix Narveo's history is easily read. Esmond
Clarenden came down here at the outbreak of the Mexican War, and
together he and Narveo laid the foundation for the present trail
commerce that is making the country at either end of it rich and
strong. Dick Verra is now Father Josef." Jondo paused as if to
gather force for the rest of the story. Then he said:
"Back at college we all knew Mary Marchland, a beautiful
Louisiana girl who visited in Washington and New England, and all
of us were in love with her. When our life-lines crossed again
Clarenden had come to St. Louis. About that time his two older
brothers and their wives died suddenly of yellow fever, leaving
you and Beverly alone. It was Felix Narveo who brought you up to
St. Louis to your uncle."
"I remember that. The steamboat, and the Spanish language, and
Felix Narveo's face. I recalled that when I saw him years ago," I
exclaimed.
"You always were all eyes and ears, remembering names and faces,
where Beverly would not recall anything," Jondo declared.
"And what became of your Fred Ramer?" I asked.
"He is Ferdinand Ramero here. He married Narveo's sister later.
She is not the mother of Marcos, but a second wife. She owned a
tract of land inherited from the Narveo estate down in the San
Christobal country. There is a lonely ranch house in a
picturesque cañon, and many acres of grazing-land. She
keeps it still as hers, although her stepson, Marcos, claims it
now. It is for her sake that Narveo doesn't dare to move openly
against Ramero. And in his masterful way he has enough influence
with a certain ring of Mexicans here, some of whom are Narveo's
freighters, to reach pretty far into the Indian country. That's
why I knew those Mexicans were lying to us about the Kiowas at
Pawnee Rock. I could see Ramero's gold pieces in their hands. He
joined the Catholic Church, and plays the Pharisee generally. But
the traits of his young manhood, intensified, are still his. He
is handsome, and attractive, and rich, and influential, but he is
also cold-blooded, and greedy for money until it is his ruling
passion, villainously unscrupulous, and mercilessly unforgiving
toward any one who opposes his will; and his capacity for undying
hatred is appalling."
And this was the man who was seeking to control the life of
Eloise St. Vrain. I fairly groaned in my anger.
"The failure to win Mary Marchland's love was the first time in
his life that Fred Ramer's will had ever been thwarted, and he
went mad with jealousy and anger. Gail, they are worse masters
than whisky and opium, once they get a man down."
Jondo paused, and when he spoke again he did it hurriedly, as one
who, from a sense of duty, would glance at the dead face of an
enemy and turn away.
"When Fred lost his suit with Mary, he determined to wreck her
life. He came between her and the man she loved with such adroit
cruelty that they were separated, and although they loved each
other always, they never saw each other again. Through a terrible
network of misunderstandings she married Theron St. Vrain. He, by
the way, was the other college chum I spoke of just now. He and
his foster-brother, Bertrand, were wards of Fred Ramer's father.
But their guardian, the elder Ramer, had embezzled most of their
property and there was bitter enmity between them and him. Theron
and Mary were the parents of Eloise St. Vrain. It is no wonder
that she is beautiful. She had Mary Marchland for a mother.
Theron St. Vrain died early, and the management of his property
fell into Fred Ramer's hands. At Mary's death it would descend to
Eloise, with the proviso I just mentioned of an unworthy
marriage. In that case, Ramer, at his own discretion, could give
the estate to the Church. Nobody knows when Mary Marchland died,
nor where she is buried, except Fred and his confessor, Father
Josef."
"How far can a man's hate run, Jondo?" I asked.
"Oh, not so far as a man's love. Listen, Gail." Never a man had a
truer eye and a sweeter smile than my big Jondo.
"Fred Ramer was desperately in need of money when he was plotting
to darken the life of Mary Marchland--that was just before the
birth of Eloise--and through her sorrow to break the heart of the
man whom she loved--I said we college boys were all in love with
her, you remember. Let me make it short now. One night Fred's
father was murdered, by whom was never exactly proven. But he was
last seen alive with his ward, Theron St. Wain, who, with his
foster-brother, Bertrand, thoroughly despised him for his plain
robbery of their heritage.
"The case was strong against Theron, for the evidence was very
damaging, and it would have gone hard with him but for the
foster-brother. Bertrand St. Wain took the guilt upon himself by
disappearing suddenly. He was supposed to have drowned himself in
the lower Mississippi, for his body, recognized only by some
clothing, was recovered later in a drift and decently buried. So
he was effaced from the records of man."
In the dim light Jondo's blue eyes were like dull steel and his
face was a face of stone, but he continued:
"Just here Clarenden comes into the story. He learned it through
Felix Narveo, and Felix got it from the Mexicans themselves, that
Fred Ramer had plotted with them to put his father out of the
way--I said he was desperately in need of money--and to lay the
crime on Theron St. Vrain, by whose disgrace the life of Mary
Marchland would be blighted, and Fred would have his revenge and
his father's money. Narveo was afraid to act against Ramer, but
nothing ever scared Esmond Clarenden away from what he wanted to
do. Through his friendship for St. Vrain, to whom some suspicion
still clung, and that lost foster-brother, Bertrand, he turned
the screws on Fred Ramer that drove him out of the country. He
landed, finally, at Santa Fé, and became Ferdinand Ramero.
He managed by his charming manners to enchant the sister of Felix
Narveo--and you know the rest."
Jondo paused.
"Didn't Felix Narveo go to Fort Leavenworth once, just before
Uncle Esmond brought us with him to Santa Fé?" I
asked.
"Yes, he went to warn Clarenden not to leave you there
unprotected, for a band of Ramero's henchmen were on their way
then to the Missouri River--we passed them at Council Grove--to
kidnap you three and take you to old Mexico," Jondo said. "An
example of Fred's efforts to get even with Clarenden and of the
loyalty of Narveo to his old college chum. The same gang of
Mexicans had kidnapped Little Blue Flower and given her to the
Kiowas."
"You told me that Uncle Esmond forced Ferdinand Ramero out of the
country on account of a wrong done to you, Jondo," I reminded the
big plainsman.
"He did," Jondo replied. "I told you that we all loved Mary
Marchland. Fred Ramer broke under his loss of her, and became the
devil's own tool of hate and revenge, and what generally gets
tied up with these sooner or later, a passion for money and
irregular means of getting it. Money is as great an asset for
hate as for love, and Fred sold his soul for it long ago.
Clarenden came to the frontier and lost himself in the building
of the plains commerce, and his heart he gave to the three orphan
children to whom he gave a home. When New Mexico came under our
flag Narveo came with it, a good citizen and a loyal patriot. He
married a Mexican woman of culture and lives a contented life.
Dick Verra went into the Church. I came to the plains, and the
stimulus of danger, and the benediction of the open sky, and the
healing touch of the prairie winds, and the solemn stillness of
the great distances have made me something more of a man than I
should have been. Maybe I was hurt the worst. Clarenden thought I
was. Sometimes I think Dick Verra got the best of all of us."
Jondo's voice trailed off into silence and I knew what his hurt
was--that he was the man whom Mary Marchland had loved, from whom
Fred Ramer, by his cruel machinations, had separated her--"and
although they loved each other always, they never saw each other
again." Poor Jondo! What a man among men this unknown
freighter of the plains might have been--and what a loss to the
plains in the best of the trail years if Jondo had never dared
its dangers for the safety of the generations to come.
But the thought of Eloise, driven out momentarily by Jondo's
story, came rushing in again.
"You said you put a ring around Ramero to keep him in Santa
Fé. Can't we get Eloise outside of it?" I urged,
anxiously.
"Maybe I should have said that Father Josef put it around him for
me," Jondo replied. "He confessed his crimes fully to the Church.
He couldn't get by Father Josef. Here he is much honored and
secure and we let him alone. The disgrace he holds the secret
of--he alone--is that the father of Eloise killed his father, the
crime for which the foster-brother fell. Ramero as guardian of
Eloise and her property legally could have kept her here. Only a
man like Clarenden would have dared to take her away, though he
had the pleading call of her mother's last wish. Gail, I have
told you the heart-history of half a dozen men. If this had
stopped with us we could forgive after a while, but it runs down
to you and Beverly and Eloise and Marcos, who will carry out his
father's plans to the letter. So the battle is all to be fought
over again. Let me leave you a minute or two. I'll not be gone
long."
I sat alone, staring out at the shadowy court and, above it, the
blue night-sky of New Mexico inlaid with stars, until a rush of
feet in the hall and a shout of inquiry told me that Beverly
Clarenden was hunting for me.
Meantime the girl in Mexican dress, who had come out of the
church with Father Josef when he came to greet Eloise and me, had
passed unnoticed through the Plaza and out on the way leading to
the northeast. Here she came to the blind adobe wall of La
Garita, whose olden purpose one still may read in the many
bullet-holes in its brown sides. Here she paused, and as the
evening shadows lengthened the dress and wall blended their dull
tones together.
Beverly Clarenden, who had gone with Rex Krane up to Fort Marcy
that evening, had left his companion to watch the sunset and
dream of Mat back on the Missouri bluff, while he wandered down
La Garita. He did not see the Mexican woman standing motionless,
a dark splotch against a dun wall, until a soft Hopi voice
called, eagerly, "Beverly, Beverly."
The black scarf fell from the bright face, and Indian garb--not
Po-a-be, the student of St. Ann's and the guest of the Clarenden
home, with the white Grecian robe and silver headband set with
coral pendants, as Beverly had seen her last in the side porch on
the night of Mat's wedding, but Little Blue Flower, the Indian of
the desert lands, stood before him.
"Where the devil--I mean the holy saints and angels, did you come
from?" Beverly cried, in delight, at seeing a familiar face.
"I came here to do Father Josef some service. He has been good to
me. I bring a message."
She reached out her hand with a letter. Beverly took the letter
and the hand. He put the message in his pocket, but he did not
release the hand.
"That's something for Jondo. I'll see that he gets it, all right.
Tell me all about yourself now, Little
Run-Off-and-Never-Come-Back." It was Beverly's way to make people
love him, because he loved people.
It was late at last, too late for prudence, older heads would
agree, when these two separated, and my cousin came to pounce
upon me in the hotel court to tell me of his adventure.
"And I learned a lot of things," he added. "That Indian in the
Plaza to-day is Santan, or Satan, dead sure; and you'd never
guess, but he's the same redskin--Apache red--that was out at
Agua Fria that time we were there long ago. The very same little
sneak! He followed us clear to Bent's Fort. He put up a good
story to Jondo, but I'll bet he was somebody's tool. You know
what a critter he was there. But listen now! He's got his eye on
Little Blue Flower. He's plain wild Injun, and she's a Saint
Ann's scholar. Isn't that presumption, though! She's afraid of
him, too. This country fairly teams with romance, doesn't
it?"
"Bev, don't you ever take anything seriously?" I asked.
"Well, I guess I do. I found that Santan, dead loaded with
jealousy, sneaking after us in the dark to-night when I took
Little Blue Flower for a stroll. I took him seriously, and told
him exactly where he'd find me next time he was looking for me.
That I'd stand him up against La Garita and make a sieve out of
him," Beverly said, carelessly.
"Beverly Clarenden, you are a fool to get that Apache's
ill-will," I cried.
"I may be, but I'm no coward," Beverly retorted. "Oh, here comes
Jondo. I've got a letter from Father Josef. Invitation to some
churchly dinner, I expect."
Beverly threw the letter into Jondo's hands and turned to leave
us.
"Wait a minute!" Jondo commanded, and my cousin halted in
surprise.
"When did you get this? I should have had it two hours ago,"
Jondo said, sternly. "Father Josef must have waited a long time
up at the church door for his messenger to come back and bring
him word from me."
Beverly frankly told him the truth, as from childhood we had
learned was the easiest way out of trouble.
Jondo's smile came back to his eyes, but his lips did not smile
as he said: "Gail, you can explain things to Bev. This is serious
business, but it had to come sooner or later. The battle is on,
and we'll fight it out. Ferdinand Ramero is determined that
Eloise and his son shall be married early to-morrow morning. The
bribe to the Church is one-half of the St. Vrain estate. The club
over Eloise is the shame of some disgrace that he holds the key
to. He will stop at nothing to have his own way, and he will
stoop to any brutal means to secure it. He has a host of fellows
ready at his call to do any crime for his sake. That's how far
money and an ungovernable passion can lead a man. If I had known
this sooner, we would have acted to-night."
Beverly groaned.
"Let me go and kill that man. There ought to be a bounty on such
wild beasts," he declared.
"He'd do that for you through a Mexican dagger, or an Apache
arrow, if you got in his way," Jondo replied. "But what we must
do is this: Twenty miles south on the San Christobal Arroyo there
is a lonely ranch-house on the old Narveo estate, a forgotten
place, but it is a veritable fort, built a hundred years ago,
when every house here was a fort. To-morrow at daybreak you must
start with Eloise and Sister Anita down there. I will see Father
Josef later and tell him where I have sent you. Little Blue
Flower will show you the way. It is a dangerous ride, and you
must make it as quickly and as silently as possible. A bullet
from some little cañon could find you easily if Ramero
should know your trail. Will you go?"
There was no need for the question as Jondo well knew, but his
face was bright with courage and hope, and a thankfulness he
could not express shone in his eyes as he looked at us, big,
stalwart, eager and unafraid.
Mark where she stands! Around her form I draw
The awful circle of our solemn church!
Set but a foot within that holy ground,
And on thy head--yea, though it wore a crown--
launch the curse of Rome.
--"RICHELIEU."
The faint rose hue of early dawn was touching the highest peaks
of the Sandia and Jemez mountain ranges, while the valley of the
Rio Grande still lay asleep under dull night shadows, when five
ponies and their riders left the door of San Miguel church and
rode southward in the slowly paling gloom. In the stillness of
the hour the ponies' feet, muffled in the sand of the way, seemed
to clatter noisily, and their trappings creaked loudly in the
dead silence of the place. Little Blue Flower, no longer in her
Mexican dress, led the line. Behind her Beverly and the
white-faced nun of St. Ann's rode side by side; and behind these
came Eloise St. Vrain and myself. From the church door Jondo had
watched us until we melted into the misty shadows of the
trail.
"Go carefully and fearlessly and ride hard if you must. But the
struggle will be here with me to-day, not where you are," he
assured us, when we started away.
As he turned to leave the church, an Indian rose from the shadows
beyond it and stepped before him.
"You remember me, Santan, the Apache, at Fort Bent?" he
questioned.
Jondo looked keenly to be sure that his memory fitted the man
before him.
"Yes, you are Santan. You brought me a message from Father Josef
once."
The Indian's face did not change by the twitch of an eyelash as
he replied.
"I would bring another message from him. He would see you an hour
later than you planned. The young riders, where shall I tell him
they have gone?"
"To the old ranch-house on the San Christobal Arroyo," Jondo
replied.
The Indian smiled, and turning quickly, he disappeared up the
dark street. A sudden thrill shook Jondo.
"Father Josef said I could trust that boy entirely. Surely old
Dick Verra, part Indian himself, couldn't be mistaken. But that
Apache lied to me. I know it now; and I told him where our boys
are taking Eloise. I never made a blunder like that before.
Damned fool that I am!"
He ground his teeth in anger and disgust, as he sat down in the
doorway of the church to await the coming of Ferdinand Ramero and
his son, Marcos.
Out on the trail our ponies beat off the miles with steady gait.
As the way narrowed, we struck into single file, moving silently
forward under the guidance of Little Blue Flower, now plunging
into dark cañons, where the trail was rocky and perilous,
now climbing the steep sidling paths above the open plain.
Morning came swiftly over the Gloriettas. Darkness turned to
gray; shapeless masses took on distinctness; the night chill
softened to the crisp breeze of dawn. Then came the rare June day
in whose bright opening hour the crystal skies of New Mexico hung
above us, and about us lay a landscape with radiant lights on the
rich green of the mesa slopes, and gray levels atint with
mother-of-pearl and gold.
The Indian pueblos were astir. Mexican faces showed now and then
at the doorways of far-scattered groups of adobe huts. Outside of
these all was silence--a motionless land full of wild, rugged
beauty, and thrilling with the spell of mystery and glamour of
romance. And overbrooding all, the spirit of the past, that made
each winding trail a footpath of the centuries; each sheer cliff
a watch-tower of the ages; each wide sandy plain, a
rallying-ground for the tribes long ago gone to dust; each narrow
valley a battle-field for the death-struggle between the dusky
sovereigns of a wilderness kingdom and the pale-faced conquerors
of the coat of mail and the dominant soul. The sense of danger
lessened with distance and no knight of old Spain ever rode more
proudly in the days of chivalry than Beverly Clarenden and I rode
that morning, fearing nothing, sure of our power to protect the
golden-haired girl, thrilled by this strange flight through a
land of strange scenes fraught with the charm of daring and
danger. Beverly rode forward now with Little Blue Flower. I did
not wonder at her spell over him, for she was in her own land
now, and she matched its picturesque phases with her own
picturesque racial charm.
I rode beside Eloise, forgetting, in the sweet air and glorious
June sunlight, that we were following an uncertain trail away
from certain trouble.
The white-faced nun in her somber dress, rode between, with
serious countenance and downcast eyes.
"What happened to you, Little Lees, after I left you?" I asked,
as we trotted forward toward the San Christobal valley.
"Everything, Gail," she replied, looking up at me with shy, sad
eyes. "First Ferdinand Ramero came to me with the command that I
should consent to be married this morning. By this time I would
have been Marcos' wife." She shivered as she spoke. "I can't tell
you the way of it, it was so final, so cruel, so impossible to
oppose. Ferdinand's eyes cut like steel when they look at you,
and you know he will do more than he threatens. He said the
Church demanded one-half of my little fortune and that he could
give it the other half if he chose. He is as imperious as a
tyrant in his pleasanter moods; in his anger he is a maniac. I
believe he would murder Marcos if the boy got in his way, and his
threats of disgracing me were terrible."
"But what else happened?" I wanted to turn her away from her
wretched memory.
"I have not seen anybody else except Little Blue Flower. She has
an Indian admirer who is Ferdinand's tool and spy. He let her
come in to see me late last night or I should not have been here
now. I had almost given up when she brought me word that you and
Beverly would meet me at the church at daylight. I have not slept
since. What will be the end of this day's work? Isn't there
safety for me somewhere?" The sight of the fair, sad face with
the hunted look in the dark eyes cut me to the soul.
"Jondo said last night that the battle was on and he would fight
it out in Santa Fé to-day. It is our work to go where the
Hopi blossom leads us, and Bev Clarenden and I will not let
anything happen to you."
I meant what I said, and my heart is always young when I recall
that morning ride toward the San Christobal Arroyo and my
abounding vigor and confidence in my courage and my powers.
Our trail ran into a narrow plain now where a yellow band marked
the way of the San Christobal River toward the Rio Grande. On
either hand tall cliffs, huge weather-worn points of rock, and
steep slopes, spotted with evergreen shrubs, bordered the river's
course. The silent bigness of every feature of the landscape and
the beauty of the June day in the June time of our lives, and our
sense of security in having escaped the shadows and strife in
Santa Fé, all combined to make us free-spirited. Only
Sister Anita rode, alert and sorrowful-faced, between Beverly and
the gaily-robed Indian girl, and myself with Eloise, the
beautiful.
As we rounded a bend in the narrow valley, Little Blue Flower
halted us, and pointing to an old half-ruined rock structure
beside the stream, she said:
"See, yonder is the chapel where Father Josef comes sometimes to
pray for the souls of the Hopi people. The house we go to find is
farther up a cañon over there."
"I remember the place," Eloise declared. "Father Josef brought me
here once and left me awhile. I wasn't afraid, although I was
alone, for he told me I was always safe in a church. But I was
never allowed to come back again."
Sister Anita crossed herself and, glancing over her shoulder,
gave a sharp cry of alarm. We turned about to see a group, of
horsemen dashing madly up the trail behind us. The wind in their
faces blew back the great cloud of dust made by their horses
hoofs, hiding their number and the way behind them. Their steeds
were wet with foam, but their riders spurred them on with
merciless fury. In the forefront Ferdinand Ramero's tall form,
towering above the small statured evil-faced Mexican band he was
leading, was outlined against the dust-cloud following them, and
I caught the glint of light on his drawn revolver. "Ride! Ride
like the devil!" Beverly shouted.
At the same time he and the Hopi girl whirled out and, letting us
pass, fell in as a rear guard between us and our pursuers. And
the race was on.
Jondo had said the lonely ranch-house whither we were tending was
as strong as a fort. Surely it could not be far away, and our
ponies were not spent with hard riding. Before us the valley
narrowed slightly, and on its rim jagged rock cliffs rose through
three hundred feet of earthquake-burst, volcanic-tossed confusion
to the high tableland beyond.
As we strained forward, half a dozen Mexican horsemen suddenly
appeared on the trail before us to cut off our advance. Down
between us and the new enemy stood the old stone chapel, like the
shadow of a great rock in a weary land, where for two hundred
long years it had set up an altar to the Most High on this lonely
savage plain.
"The chapel! The chapel! We must run to that now," cried Sister
Anita.
Her long veil was streaming back in the wind, and her rosary and
crucifix beating about her shoulders with the hard riding, but
her white face was brave with a divine trust. Yet even as she
urged us I saw how imposible was her plea, for the men in
front were already nearer to the place than we were. At the same
time a pony dashed up beside me, and Little Blue Flower's voice
rang in my ears.
"The rocks! Climb up and hide in the rocks!" She dropped back on
one side of Beverly, with Sister Anita on the other, guarding our
rear. As I turned our flight toward the cliff, I caught sight of
an Indian in a wedge of rock just across the river, and I heard
the singing flight of an arrow behind me, followed almost
instantly by another arrow. I looked back to see Sister Anita's
pony staggering and rearing in agony, with Little Blue Flower
trying vainly to catch its bridle-rein, and Sister Anita,
clutching wildly at her rosary, a great stream of blood flowing
from an arrow wound in her neck.
Men think swiftly in moments like these. The impulse to halt, and
the duty to press on for the protection of the girl beside me,
holding me in doubt. Instantly I saw the dark crew, with
Ferdinand Ramero leading fiercely forward, almost upon us, and I
heard Beverly Clarenden's voice filling the valley--"Run, Gail,
run! You can beat 'em up there."
It was a cry of insistences and assurances and power, and withal
there was that minor tone of sympathy which had sounded in the
boy's defiant voice long ago in the gray-black shadows below
Pawnee Rock, when his chivalric soul had been stirred by the
cruel wrongs of Little Blue Flower and he had cried:
"Uncle Esmond, let's take her, and take our chances."
I knew in a flash that the three behind us were cut off, and
Eloise St. Vrain and I pressed on alone. We crossed the narrow
strip of rising ground to where the first rocks lay as they had
fallen from the cliff above, split off by some titanic agony of
nature. Up and up we went, our ponies stumbling now and then, but
almost as surefooted as men, as they climbed the narrow way. Now
the rocks hid us from the plain as we crept sturdily through
narrow crevices, and now we clambered up an open path where
nothing concealed our way. But higher still and higher, foot, by
foot we pressed, while with oath and growl behind us came our
pursuers.
At last we could ride no farther, and the miracle was that our
ponies could have climbed so far. Above us huge slabs of stone,
by some internal cataclysm hurled into fragments of unguessed
tons of weight, seemed poised in air, about to topple down upon
the plain below. Between these wild, irregular masses a narrow
footing zigzagged upward to still other wild, irregular masses, a
footing of long leaps in cramped spaces between sharp edges of
upright clefts, all gigantic, unbending, now shielding by their
immense angles, now standing sheer and stark before us, casting
no shadows to cover us from the great white glare of the
New-Mexican day.
I have said no man knows where his mind will run in moments of
peril. As we left our ponies and clambered up and up in hope of
safety somewhere, the face of the rocks cut and carved by the
rude stone tools of a race long perished, seemed to hold groups
of living things staring at us and pointing the way. And there
was no end to these crude pictographs. Over and over and
over--the human hand, the track of the little road-runner bird,
the plumed serpent coiled or in waving line, the human form with
the square body and round head, with staring circles for eyes and
mouth, and straight-line limbs.
We were fleeing for safety through the sacred aisles of a people
God had made; and when they served His purpose no longer, they
had perished. I did not think of them so that morning. I thought
only of some hiding-place, some inaccessible point where nothing
could reach the girl I must protect. But these crawling serpents,
cut in the rock surfaces, crawled on and on. These human hands,
poor detached hands, were lifted up in mute token of what had
gone before. These two-eyed, one-mouthed circles on heads fast to
body-boxes, from which waved tentacle limbs, jigged by us, to
give place to other coiled or crawling serpents and their
companion carvings, with the track of the swift road-runner
skipping by us everywhere.
At last, with bleeding hands and torn clothing, we stood on a
level rock like a tiny mesa set out from the high summit of the
cliff.
Eloise sat down at my feet as I looked back eagerly over the
precipitous way we had come, and watched the band of Mexicans
less rapidly swarming up the same steep, devious trail.
Three hundred feet below us lay the plain with the thin current
of the San Christobal River sparkling here and there in the
sunlight. The black spot on the trail that scarcely moved must be
Beverly and Little Blue Flower with Sister Anita. No, there was
only the Indian girl there, and something moving in and out of
the shadow near them. I could not see for the intervening
rocks.
"Gail! Gail! You will not let them take you. You will not leave
me," Eloise moaned.
And I was one against a dozen. I stooped to where she sat and
gently lifted her limp white hand, saying:
"Eloise, I was on a rock like this a night and a day alone on the
prairie. I could not move nor cry out. But something inside told
me to 'hold fast'--the old law of the trail. You must do that
with me now."
A shout broke over the valley and the rocks about us seemed
suddenly to grow men, as if every pictograph of the old stone age
had become a sentient thing, a being with a Mexican dress, and
the soul of a devil. Just across a narrow chasm, a little below
us, Ferdinand Ramero stood in all the insolence of a conqueror,
with a smile that showed his white teeth, and in his steely eyes
was the glitter of a snake about to spring.
"You have given us a hard race. By Jove, you rode magnificently
and climbed heroically. I admire you for it. It is fine to bring
down game like you, Clarenden. You have your uncle's spirit, and
a six-foot body that dwarfs his short stature. And we come as
gentlemen only, if we can deal with a gentleman. It wasn't our
men who struck your nun down there. But if you, young man, dare
to show one ounce of fighting spirit now, behind you on the
rocks--don't look--as I lift my hand are my good friends who will
put a bullet into the brain beneath that golden hair, and you
will follow. Being a game-cock cannot help you now. It will only
hasten things. Deliver that girl to me at once, or my men will
close in upon you and no power on earth can save you."
Eloise had sprung to her feet and stood beside me, and both of us
knew the helplessness of our plight. A startling picture it must
have been, and one the cliffs above the San Christobal will
hardly see again: the blue June sky arched overhead, unscarred by
a single cloud-fleck, the yellow plain winding between the high
picturesque cliffs, where silence broods all through the long
hours of the sunny day; the pictured rocks with their
furnace-blackened faces white--outlined with the story of the dim
beginnings of human strivings. And standing alone and defenseless
on the little table of stone, as if for sacrifice, the tall,
stalwart young plainsman and the beautiful girl with her golden
hair in waving masses about her uncovered head, her sweet face
white as the face of the dying nun beside the sandy arroyo below
us, her big dark eyes full of a strange fire.
"I order you to close in and take these two at once." The
imperious command rang out, and the rocks across the valley must
have echoed its haughty tone.
"And I order you to halt."
The voice of Father Josef, clear and rich and powerful, burst
upon the silence like cathedral music on the still midnight air.
The priest's tall form rose up on a great mass of rock across the
cleft before us--Father Josef with bared head and flashing eyes
and a physique of power.
Ferdinand Ramero turned like a lion at bay. "You are one man. My
force number a full dozen. Move on," he ordered.
Again the voice of Father Josef ruled the listening ears.
"Since the days of old the Church has had the power to guard all
that come within the shelter of the holy sanctuary. And to the
Church of God was given also long ago the might to protect, by
sanctuary privilege, the needy and the defenseless. Ferdinand
Ramero, note that little table of rock where those two stand
helpless in your grasp. Around them now I throw, as I have power
to throw, the sacred circle of our Holy Church in sanctuary
shelter. Who dares to step inside it will be accursed in the
sight of God."
Never, never will I live through another moment like to that, nor
see the power of the Unseen rule things that are seen with such
unbreakable strength.
The Mexicans dropped to their knees in humble prayer, and
Ferdinand Ramero seemed turned to a man of stone. A hand was
gently laid upon my arm and Jondo and Rex Krane stood beside us.
A voice far off was sounding in my ears.
"Go back to your homes and meet me at the church to-morrow night.
You, Ferdinand Ramero, go now to the chapel yonder and wait until
I come."
What happened next is lost in misty waves of forgetfulness.
"Yet there be certain times in a young man's life when through
great sorrow or sin all the boy in him is burnt and seared away
so that he passes at one step to the more sorrowful state of
manhood."
--KIPLING.
The heat of midday was tempered by a light breeze up the San
Christobal Valley, and there was not a single cloud in the June
skies to throw a softening shadow on the yellow plain. A little
group of Mexicans, riding northward with sullen faces, urged on
their jaded ponies viciously as they thought of the gold that was
to have been paid them for this morning's work, and of the gold
that to-morrow night must go to pay the priest who should shrive
them; and they had nothing gained wherewith to pay. Their leader,
whom they had served, had been trapped in his own game, and they
felt themselves abused and deceived.
Down by the brown sands of the river Father Josef waited at the
door of the half-ruined little stone chapel for the strange group
coming slowly toward him: Ferdinand Ramero, riding like a
captured but unconquered king, his head erect, his flashing eyes
seeing nobody; Jondo who could make the shabbiest piece of
horseflesh take on grace when he mounted it, his tanned cheek
flushed, and the spirit of supreme sacrifice looking out through
his dark-blue eyes; Eloise, drooping like a white flower, but
brave of spirit now, sure that her grief and anxiety would be
lifted somehow. I rode beside her, glad to catch the faint smile
in her eyes when she looked at me. And last of all, Rex Krane,
with the same old Yankee spirit, quick to help a fellow-man and
oblivious to personal danger. So we all came to the chapel, but
at the door Rex wheeled and rode away, muttering, as he passed
me:
"I've got business to look after, and not a darned thing to
confess."
And Beverly! He was not with us.
When Rex Krane told his bride good-by up in the Clarenden home on
the Missouri bluff, Mat had whispered one last request:
"Look after Bev. He never sees danger for himself, nor takes
anything seriously, least of all an enemy, whom he will befriend,
and make a joke of it."
And so it happened that Rex had stayed behind to care for
Beverly's arrow wound when Bill Banney had gone out with Jondo on
the Kiowa trail to search for me this side of Pawnee Rock.
So also it happened that Rex had strolled down from Fort Marcy
the night before, in time to see Beverly and the girl in the
Mexican dress loitering along the brown front of La Garita. And
his keen eyes had caught sight of Santan crouching in an angle of
the wall, watching them.
"Indians and Mexes don't mix a lot. And Bev oughtn't mix with
either one," Rex commented. "I'll line the boy up for review
to-morrow, so Mat won't say I've neglected him."
But the Yankee took the precaution to follow the trail to the
Indian's possible abiding-place on the outskirts of Santa
Fé. And it was Rex who most aided Jondo in finding that
the Indian had gone with Ramero's men northward.
"That fellow is Santan, of Fort Bent, Rex," Jondo said.
"Yes, you thought he was Santa and I took him for
Satan then. We missed out on which to knock out of him.
Bev won't care nothin' about his name. He will knock hell out of
him if he gets in that Clarenden boy's way," Rex had replied.
At the chapel door now the Yankee turned away and rode down the
trail toward the little angle where an Indian arrow had whizzed
at our party an hour before.
In the shadow of a fallen mass of rock below the cliff Little
Blue Flower had spread her blanket, with Beverly's coat tucked
under it in a roll for a pillow, and now she sat beside the dying
nun, holding the crucifix to Sister Anita's lips. The Indian
girl's hands were blood-stained and the nun's black veil and gown
were disheveled, and her white head-dress and coif were soaked
with gore. But her white face was full of peace as the light
faded from her eyes.
And Beverly! The boy forgot the rest of the world when one of the
Apache's arrows struck down the pony and the other pierced Sister
Anita's neck. Tenderly as a mother would lift a babe he quickly
carried the stricken woman to the shelter of the rock, and with
one glance at her he turned away.
"You can do all that she needs done for her. Give her her cross
to hold," he said, gently, to Little Blue Flower.
Then he sprang up and dashed across the river, splashing the
bright waters as he leaped to the farther side where Santan stood
concealed, waiting for the return of Ramero's Mexicans.
At the sound of Beverly's feet he leaped to the open just in time
to meet Beverly's fist square between the eyes.
"Take that, you dirty dog, to shoot down an innocent nun. And
that!" Beverly followed his first blow with another.
The Apache, who had reeled back with the weight of the boy's iron
fist, was too quick for the second thrust, struggling to get hold
of his arrows and his scalping-knife. But the space was too
narrow and Beverly was upon him with a shout.
"I told you I'd make a sieve or you the next time you tried to
see me, and I'm going to do it."
He seized the Indian's knife and flung it clear into the river,
where it stuck upright in the sands of the bed, parting the
little stream of water gurgling against it; and with a powerful
grip on the Apache's shoulders he wrenched the arrows from their
place and tramped on them with his heavy boot.
The Indian's surprise and submission were gone in a flash, and
the two clinched in combat.
On the one hand, jealousy, the inherited hatred of a mistreated
race, the savage instinct, a gloating joy in brute strife,
blood-lust, and a dogged will to trample in the dirt the man who
made the sun shine black for the Apache. On the other hand, a mad
rage, a sense of insult, a righteous greed for vengeance for a
cruel deed against an innocent woman, and all the superiority of
a dominant people. The one would conquer a powerful enemy, the
other would exterminate a despicable and dangerous pest.
Back and forth across the narrow space hidden from the trail by
fallen rock they threshed like beasts of prey. The Apache had the
swiftness of the snake, his muscles were like steel springs, and
there was no rule of honorable warfare in his code. He bit and
clawed and pinched and scratched and choked and wrenched, with
the grim face and burning eyes of a murderer. But the Saxon
youth, slower of motion, heavier of bone and muscle, with a grip
like iron and a stony endurance, with pride in a conquest by
sheer clean skill, and with a purpose, not to take life, but to
humble and avenge, hammered back blow for blow; and there was
nothing for many minutes to show which was offensive and which
defensive.
As the struggle raged on, the one grew more furious and the other
more self-confident.
"Oh, I'll make you eat dust yet!" Beverly cried, as Santan in
triumph flung him backward and sprang upon his prostrate
form.
They clinched again, and with a mighty surge of strength my
cousin lifted himself, and the Indian with him, and in the next
fall Beverly had his antagonist gripped and helpless.
"I can choke you out now as easy as you shot that arrow. Say your
prayers." He fairly growled out the words.
"I didn't aim at her," the Apache half whined, half boasted. "I
wanted you."
At that moment Beverly, spent, bruised, and bleeding with
fighting and surcharged with the lust of combat, felt all the
instinct of murder urging him on to utterly destroy a
poison-fanged foe to humanity. At Santan's words he paused and,
flinging back the hair from his forehead, he caught his breath
and his better self in the same heart-beat. And the instinct of
the gentleman--he was Esmond Clarenden's brother's son--held the
destroying hand.
"You aimed at me! Well, learn your lesson on that right now.
Promise never to play the fool that way again. Promise the
everlasting God's truth, or here you go."
The boy's clutch tightened on Santan's throat. "By all that's
holy, you'll go to your happy hunting-ground right now, unless
you do!" He growled out the words, and his blazing eyes
glared threateningly at his fallen enemy.
"I promise!" Santan muttered, gasping for breath.
"You didn't mean to kill the nun? Then you'll go with me and ask
her to forgive you before she dies. You will. You needn't try to
get away from me. I let you thrash your strength out before we
came to this settlement. Be still!" Beverly commanded, as Santan
made a mad effort to release himself.
"Hurry up, and remember she is dying. Go softly and speak gently,
or by the God of heaven, you'll go with her to the Judgment Seat
to answer for that deed right now!"
Slowly the two rose. Their clothes were torn, their hair
disheveled, the ground at their feet was red with their blood.
They were as bitter, as distrustful now as when their struggle
began. For brute force never conquers anything. It can only hold
in check by fear of its power to destroy the body. Above the iron
fist of the fighter, and the sword and cannon of the soldier,
stands the risen Christ who carried his own cross up Mount
Calvary--and "there they crucified him."
The two young men, spent with their struggle, their faces stained
with dirt and bloody sweat, crossed the river and sought the
shadowy place where Little Blue Flower sat beside Sister Anita.
Twice Santan tried to escape, and twice Beverly brought him
quickly to his place. It must have been here that I caught sight
of them from the rock above.
"One more move like that and the ghost of Sister Anita will walk
behind you on every trail you follow as long as your flat feet
hit the earth," Beverly declared.
"All Indians are afraid of ghosts and I was just too tired to
fight any more," he said to me afterward when he told me the
story of that hour by the San Christobal River.
Sister Anita lay with wide-open eyes, her hands moving feebly as
she clutched at her crucifix. Her hour was almost spent.
Santan stood motionless before her, as Beverly with a grip on his
arm said, firmly:
"Tell her you did not aim at her, and ask her to forgive you. It
will help to save your own soul sometime, maybe."
Santan looked at Little Blue Flower. But she gave no heed to him
as she put the dropped crucifix into the weakening fingers.
Murder, as such, is as horrifying to the gentle Hopi tribe as it
is sport for the cruel Apache.
Beverly loosed his hold now.
"I did not want to hurt you. Forgive me!" Santan said, slowly, as
though each word were plucked from him by red-hot pincers.
Sister Anita heard and turned her eyes.
"Kneel down and tell her again," Beverly said, more gently.
The Apache dropped on his knees beside the dying woman and
repeated his words. Sister Anita smiled sweetly.
"Heaven will forgive you even as I do," she murmured, and closed
her eyes.
"Go softly. This is sacred ground," my cousin said.
The Indian rose and passed silently down the trail, leaving
Little Blue Flower and Beverly Clarenden together with the dead.
At the stream he paused and pulled his knife from the sands
beneath the trickling waters, and then went on his way.
But an Indian never forgets.
Rex Krane, who had hurried hither from the chapel, closed the
eyes and folded the thin hands of the martyred woman, and sent
Beverly forward for help to dispose of the garment of clay that
had been Sister Anita. From that day something manly and serious
came into Beverly Clarenden's face to stay, but his sense of
humor and his fearlessness were unchanged.
That was a solemn hour in the shadow of the rock down in that
yellow valley, but beautiful in its forgiving triumph. We who had
gathered in the dimly lighted chapel had an hour more solemn for
that it was made up of such dramatic minutes as change the trend
of life-trails for all the years to come.
The chapel was very old. They tell me that only a broken portion
of the circular wall about the altar stands there to-day, a
lonely monument to some holy padre's faith and courage and
sacrifice in the forgotten years when, in far Hesperia, men
dreamed of a Quivera and found only a Calvary.
It may be that I, Gail Clarenden, was also changed as I listened
to the deliberations of that day; that something of youth gave
place for the stronger manhood that should stay me through the
years that came after.
Eloise sat where I could see her face. The pink bloom had come
back to it, and the golden hair, disordered by our wild ride and
rough climb among the pictured rocks of the cliff, curled
carelessly on her white brow and rippled about her shapely head.
I used to wonder what setting fitted her beauty best--why wonder
that about any beautiful woman?--but the gracious loveliness of
this woman was never more appealing to me than in the soft light
and sacred atmosphere of the church.
Father Josef's first thought was for her, but he brought water
and coarse linen towels, so that, refreshed and clean-faced, we
came in to his presence.
"Eloise," his voice was deep and sweet, "so long as you were a
child I tried to protect and direct you. Now that you are a
woman, you must still be protected, but you must live your own
life and choose for yourself. You must meet sorrow and not be
crushed by it. You must take up your cross and bear it. It is for
this that I have called you back to New Mexico at this time. But
remember, my daughter, that life is not given to us for defeat,
but for victory; not for tears, but for smiles; not for idle
cringing safety, but for brave and joyous struggle."
I thought of Dick Verra, the college man, whose own young years
were full of hope and ambition, whose love for a woman had
brought him to the priesthood, but as I caught the rich tones of
Father Josef's voice, somehow, to me, he stood for success, not
failure.
Eloise bowed her head and listened.
"You must no longer be threatened with the loss of your own
heritage, nor coerced into a marriage for which the Church has
been offered a bribe to help to accomplish. Blood money purifies
no altars nor extends the limits of the Kingdom of the Christ.
Your property is your own to use for the holy purposes of a
goodly life wherever your days may lead you; and whatever the
civil law may grant of power to control it for you, you shall no
longer be harassed or annoyed. The Church demands that it shall
henceforth be yours."
Father Josef's dark eyes were full of fire as he turned to
Ferdinand Ramero.
"You will now relinquish all claim upon the control of this
estate, whose revenue made your father and yourself to be
accounted rich, and upon which your son has been allowed to build
up a life expectation; and though on account of it, you go forth
a poor man in wordly goods, you may go out rich in the blessing
of restoration and repentance."
Ferdinand Ramero's steel eyes were fixed like the eyes of a snake
on the holy man's face. Restoration and repentance do not belong
behind eyes like that.
"I can fight you in the courts. You and your Church may go to the
devil;" he seemed to hiss rather than to speak these words.
"We do go to him every day to bring back souls like yours,"
Father Josef's voice was calm. "I have waited a long time for you
to repent. You can go to the courts, but you will not do it. For
the sake of your wife, Gloria Ramero, and Felix Narveo, her
brother, we do not move against you, and you dare not move for
yourself, because your own record will not bear the light of
legal investigation."
Ferdinand Ramero sprang up, the blaze of passion, uncontrolled
through all his years, bursting forth in the tragedy of the hour.
Eloise was right. In his anger he was a maniac.
"You dare to threaten me! You pen me in a corner to stab me to
death! You hold disgrace and miserable poverty over my head, and
cant of restoration and repentance! Not until here you name each
thing that you count against me, and I have met them point by
point, will I restore. I never will repent!"
In the vehemence of anger, Ramero was the embodiment of the
dramatic force of unrestraint, and withal he was handsome, with a
controlling magnetism even in his hour of downfall.
Jondo had said that Father Josef had somewhere back a strain of
Indian blood in his veins. It must have been this that gave the
fiber of self control to his countenance as he looked with
pitying eyes at Jondo and Eloise St. Vrain.
"The hour is struck," he said, sadly. "And you shall hear your
record, point by point, because you ask it now. First: you have
retained, controlled, misused, and at last embezzled the fortune
of Theron St. Vrain, as it was retained, controlled, misused, and
embezzled by your father, Henry Ramer, in his lifetime. Any case
in civil courts must show how the heritage of Eloise St. Vrain,
heir to Theron St. Vrain at the death of her mother--"
"Not until the death of her mother--" Ferdinand Ramero broke in,
hoarsely.
For the first time to-day the priest's cheek paled, but his voice
was unbroken as he continued:
"I would have been kinder for your own sake. You desire
otherwise. Yes, only after the death of Mary Marchland St. Vrain
could you dictate concerning her daughter's affairs, with most
questionable legality even then. Mary Marchland St. Vrain is not
dead."
The chapel was as silent as the grave. My heart stood still.
Before me was Jondo, big, strong, self-controlled, inured to the
tragic deeds of the epic years of the West. No pen of mine will
ever make the picture of Jondo's face at these words of Father
Josef.
Eloise turned deathly pale, and her dark eyes opened wide, seeing
nothing. It was not I who comforted her, but Jondo, who put his
strong arm about her, and she leaned against his shoulder. Father
and daughter in spirit, stricken to the heart.
"For many years she has lived in that lonely ranch-house on the
Narveo grant in the little cañon up the San Christobal
Arroyo. When the fever left her with memory darkened forever, you
recorded her as dead. But your wife, Gloria Ramero, spared no
pains to make her comfortable. She has never known a want, nor
lived through one unhappy hour, because she has forgotten."
"A priest, confessor for men's inmost souls, who babbles all he
knows! I wonder that this roof does not fall on you and strike
you dead before this altar." Ferdinand Ramero's voice rose to a
shout.
"It was too strongly built by one who knew men's inmost souls,
and what they needed most," Father Josef replied. "You drove me
to this by your insistence. I would have shielded you--and
these."
He turned to Eloise and Jondo as he spoke.
"One more point, since you hold it ready to spring when I am
through. You stand accused of plotting for your father's murder.
The evidence still holds, and some men who rode with you to-day
to seize this gentle girl and drag her back to a marriage with
your son--and save your ill-gotten gold thereby--some of these
men who will confess to me and do penance to-morrow night, are
the same men who long ago confessed to other crimes--you can
guess what they were.
"It pays well to repent before such a holy tattler as yourself."
Ramero's blue eyes burned deep as their fire was centered on the
priest.
"These are the counts against you," Father Josef said in review,
ignoring the last outburst of wrath. "A life of ease and
inheritance through money not your own, nor even rightly yours to
control. A stricken woman listed with the dead, whose memory
might have come again--God knows--if but the loving touch of
childish hands had long ago been on her hands. It is years too
late for all that now. A brave young ward rescued from your
direct control by Esmond Clarenden's force of will and daring to
do the right. You know that last pleading cry of Mary
Marchland's, for Jondo to protect her child, and how Clarenden,
for love of this brave man, came to New Mexico on perilous trails
to take the little Eloise from you. And lastly in this matter,
the threats to force a marriage unholy in God's sight, because no
love could go with it. Your mad chase and villainous intention to
use brute force to secure your will out yonder on the rocks above
the cliff. You have debauched an Apache boy, making him your tool
and spy. You sanctioned the seizing of a Hopi girl whose parents
you permitted to be murdered, and their child sold into slavery
among foreign tribes. You have stirred up and kept alive a feud
of hatred and revenge among the Kiowa people against the life and
property of Esmond Clarenden and all who belong to him. And,
added to all these, you stand to-day a patricide in spirit,
accused of plotting for the murder of your own father. Do not
these things call for restoration and repentance?"
Ferdinand Ramero rose to his feet and stood in the aisle near the
door. His face hardened, and all the suave polish and cool
concentration and dominant magnetism fell away. What remained was
the man as shaped by the ruling passions of years, from whose
control only divine power could bring deliverance. And when he
spoke there was a remorseless cruelty and selfishness in his low,
even tones.
"You have called me a plotter for my father's life--based on some
lying Mexican's love of blackmail. You do not even try to prove
your charge. The man who would have killed him was Theron St.
Vrain, and his brother, Bertrand. That Theron was disgraced by
the fact you know very well, and the blackness of it drove him to
an early grave. So this young lady here, whom I would have
shielded from this stain upon her name in the marriage to my son,
may know the truth about her father. He was what you, Father
Josef, try to prove me to be."
He paused as if to gather venom for his last shaft.
"These two, Theron and Bertrand, were equally guilty, but through
tricks of their own, Theron escaped and Bertrand took the whole
crime on himself. He disappeared and paid the penalty by his
death. His body was recovered from the river and placed in an
unmarked grave. Why go back to that now? Because Bertrand St.
Vrain's clothes alone on some poor drowned unknown man were
buried. Bertrand himself sits here beside his niece, Eloise St.
Vrain. John Doe to the world, the man who lives without a name,
and dares not sign a business document, a walking dead man. I
could even pity him if he were real. But who can pity
nothing?"
A look of defiance came into the man's glittering eyes as he took
one step nearer to the door and continued:
"Esmond Clarenden drove me out of the United States with threats
of implicating me in the death of my father, and I knew his power
and brutal daring to do anything he chose to do. It was but his
wish to have revenge for this nameless thing--"
The scorn of Ramero's eyes and voice as he looked at Jondo were
withering.
"And this thing keeps me here by threats of attacks, even when he
knows that by such attacks he will reveal himself. It has been a
grim game." Something of a grin showed all of the man's fine
teeth. "A grim game, and never played to a finish till now. I
leave it to you, Father Josef, to judge who has been the stronger
and who comes out of it victor. I make restoration--of what? I
leave the St. Vrain money that I have guarded for Eloise, the
daughter of the man who killed, or helped to kill, my father. You
can control it now, among you: Clarenden, already rich; your
Church, notorious in its robbery of the poor by enriching its
coffers; or this uncle here, who is dead and buried in an unknown
grave. That is all the restoration I can make. Repentance, I do
not know what that word means. Keep it for the poor devils you
will gather in to-morrow night to be shriven. They need it. I do
not."
He turned and strode out of the church and, mounting his horse,
rode like a madman up the yellow valley of the San Christobal. In
after years I could find no term to so well describe that last
act as the words of Beverly Clarenden, who came to the chapel
just in time to hear Ferdinand Ramero's closing declaration, and
to see his black scowl and scornful air, as, in a royal madness,
he defied the power of man and denounced the all-pitying love
that is big enough for the most sinful.
"It was Paradise lost," Beverly declared, "and Satan falling
clear to hell before the Archangel's flaming sword. Only he went
east and the real Satan dropped down to his place. But they will
meet up somewhere, Ramero and the real one, and not be able to
tell each other apart."
And Jondo. My boyhood idol, brave, gentle, unselfish, able
everywhere! Jondo, who had kept my toddling feet from stumbling,
who had taught me to ride and swim and shoot, who had made me
wise in plains lore, and manly and clean among the rough and
vulgar things of the Missouri frontier. Jondo, whose big, cool
hand had touched my feverish face, whose deep blue eyes had
looked love into my eyes when I lay dying on Pawnee Rock! A man
without a name! A murderer who had by a trick escaped the law,
and must walk evermore unknown among his fellow-men! Something
went out of my life as I looked at him. The boy in me was burned
and seared away, and only the man-to-be, was left.
He offered no word of defense from the accusation against him,
nor made a plea of innocence, but sat looking straight at Father
Josef, who looked at him as if expecting nothing. And as they
gazed into each other's eyes, a something strong and beautiful
swept the face of each. I could not understand it, and I was
young. My lifetime hero had turned to nothingness before my eyes.
The world was full of evil. I hated it and all that in it was, my
trusting, foolish, short-sighted self most of all.
But Eloise--the heart of woman is past understanding--Eloise
turned to the man beside her and, putting both arms around his
neck, she pressed one fair cheek against his brown bearded one,
and kissed him gently on the forehead. Then turning to Father
Josef, no longer the dependent, clinging maiden, but the loving
woman, strong and sure of will, she said:
"I must go to my mother. So long as she lives I will never leave
her again."
She did not even look at me, nor speak a word of farewell, as if
I were the murderer instead of that man, Jondo, whom she had
kissed.
I saw her ride away, with Little Blue Flower beside her. I saw
the green mesa, the red cliffs above the growing things, the
glitter of the San Christobal water on yellow sands, the level
plain where the narrow white trail crept far away toward Gloria
Narveo's lonely ranch-house, strong as a fort built a hundred
years ago, in a little cañon of the valley. I saw a young,
graceful figure on horseback, and the glint of sunlight on golden
hair. But the rider did not turn her head and I could not get one
glance of those beautiful dark eyes. A great mass of rock hid the
line of the trail, and the two, Eloise and Little Blue Flower,
rounded the angle and rode on out of my sight.
I helped to dig open the curly mesquite and to shovel out the
sand. I heard the burial service, and saw a rudely coffined form
lowered into an open grave. I saw Rex Krane at the head, and
Jondo at the foot, and Beverly's bleeding hands as he scraped the
loose earth back and heaped it over that which had been called
Sister Anita; I heard Father Josef's voice of music repeating the
"Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust." And then we turned away and
left the spot, as men turn every day to the common affairs of
life.
Four days later Little Blue Flower came to me as I, still numb
and cold and blankly unthinking, sat beside Fort Marcy and looked
out with unseeing eyes at the glory of a New-Mexican sunset.
"I come from Eloise." The sadness of her face and voice even the
Indian's self-control could not conceal.
"She is sad, but brave, and her mother loves her and calls her
'Little One.' She will never grow up to her mother. But"--Little
Blue Flower's voice faltered and she gazed out at the far Sandia
peaks wrapped in the rich purple folds of twilight, with the
scarlet of the afterglow beyond them--"Eloise loves Beverly. She
will always love him. Heaven meant him for her." There were some
other broken sentences, but I did not grasp them clearly
then.
The world was full of gray shadows. The finishing touches had
been put on life for me. I looked out at the dying glow in the
west, and wondered vaguely if the sun would ever cross the
Gloriettas again, or ever the Sangre-de-Christo grow radiant with
the scarlet stain of that ineffable beauty that uplifts and
purifies the soul of him who looks on it.
Trust me, it is something to be cast
Face to face with one's self at last,
To be taken out of the fuss and strife,
The endless clatter of plate and knife,
The bore of books, and the bores of the street,
And to be set down on one's own two feet
So nigh to the great warm heart of God,
You almost seem to feel it beat
Down from the sunshine, and up from the sod.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
My hair is very white now, and my fingers hold a pen more easily
than they could hold the ox-goad or the rifle, and mine to-day is
all the backward look. Which look is evermore a satisfying thing
because it takes in all of life behind in its true proportion,
where the forward look of youth sees only what comes next and
nothing more. And looking back to-day it seems that, of the many
times I walked the long miles of that old Santa Fe Trail, no
journey over it stands out quite so clear-cut in my memory as the
home trip after I had watched the going away of Eloise, and
witnessed the flight of Ferdinand Ramero, and listened to the
story of Jondo's life.
When Little Blue Flower left me sitting beside Fort Marcy's wall
my mind went back in swift review over the flight of days since
Beverly Clarenden and I had come from Cincinnati. I recalled the
first meeting of Eloise with my cousin. How easily they had
renewed acquaintance. I had been surprised and embarrassed and
awkward when I found her and Little Blue Flower down by the Flat
Rock below St. Ann's, in the Moon of the Peach Blossom. I
remembered how I had monopolized all of her time in the days that
followed, leaving good-natured Bev to look after the little
Indian girl who never really seemed like an Indian to him. And
keen-piercing as an arrow came now the memory of that midnight
hour when I had seen the two in the little side porch of the
Clarenden home, and again I heard the sorrowful words:
"Oh, Beverly, it breaks my heart."
Eloise had just seen Beverly kiss Little Blue Flower in the
shadows of the porch. And all the while, good-hearted, generous
boy that he was, he had never tried to push his suit with her,
had made her love him more, no doubt, by letting me have full
command of all of her time, while he forgot himself in showing
courtesy to the Indian girl, because Bev was first of all a
gentleman. I thought of that dear hour in the church of San
Miguel. Of course, Eloise was glad to find me there--poor,
hunted, frightened child! She would have been as glad, no doubt,
to have found big Bill Banney or Rex Krane, and I had thought her
eyes held something just for me that night. She had not seen
Beverly at the chapel beside the San Christobal River, and to me
she had not given even a parting glance when she went away. If
she had cared for me at all she would not have left me so. And I
had climbed the tortuous trail with her and stood beside her in
the zone of sanctuary safety that Father Josef had thrown about
us two.
These things were clear enough to me, but when I tried to think
again of all that Little Blue Flower had said an hour ago my mind
went numb:
"Her mother knew her, but only as the little Eloise long lost and
never missed till now. The mother, too, was very beautiful, and
young in face, and child-like in her helplessness. The lonely
ranch-house, old, and strong as a fort, girt round by tall
cañon walls, nestled in a grassy open place; and not a
comfort had been denied the woman there. For Gloria Ramero,
Ferdinand's wife, had governed that. And Eloise had entered there
to stay. This much was clear enough. But that which followed
seemed to twist and writhe about in my mind with only one thing
sure--Eloise loved Beverly, would always love him. And he could
not love any one else. He could be kind to any girl, but he would
not be happy. Some day when he was older--a real man--then he
would long for the girl of his heart and his own choice, and he
would find her and love her, too, and she would love him and
those who stood between them they both would hate. And Eloise
loved Beverly. She could not send Gail any words herself, but he
would understand."
So came the Indian girl's interpretation of the case, but the
conclusion was the message meant for me. I wondered vaguely, as I
sat there, if the vision had come to Beverly years ago as it had
come to me: three men--the soldier on his cavalry mount, Jondo,
the plainsman, on his big black horse, and between the two,
Esmond Clarenden, neither mounted nor on foot, but going forward
somehow, steady and sure. And beyond these three, this side of
misty mountain peaks, the cloud of golden hair, the sweet face,
with dark eyes looking into mine. I had not been a dreamer, I had
been a fool.
Through Beverly I learned the next day that Ferdinand Ramero had
come into Santa Fé late at night and had left early the
next morning. Marcos Ramero, faultlessly dressed, lounged about
the gambling-halls, and strolled through the sunny Plaza, idly
and insolently, as was his custom. But Gloria Ramero, to whom
Marcos long ago ceased to be more than coldly courteous, had left
the city at once for the San Christobal Valley, to devote herself
to the care of the beautiful woman whom her brother Felix Narveo
in his college days had admired so much.
As for Jondo, years ago when we had met Father Josef out by the
sandy arroyo, he had left us to follow the good man somewhere,
and had not come back to the Exchange Hotel until nightfall.
Something had come into his face that day that never left it
again. And now that something had deepened in the glance of his
eye and the firm-set mouth. It was through that meeting with
Father Josef that he had first heard of the supposed death of
Mary Marchland St. Vrain, and it was through the priest in the
chapel he had heard that she was still alive.
Neither Beverly nor Bill Banney nor Rex Krane knew what I had
heard in the church concerning Jondo's early career, and I never
spoke of it to them. But to all of us, outside of that
intensified something indefinable in his face, he was unchanged.
He met my eye with the open, frank glance with which he met the
gaze of all men. His smile was no less engaging and his manner
remained the same--fearless, unsuspicious, definite in serious
affairs, good-natured and companionable in everything. I could
not read him now, by one little line, but back of everything lay
that withering, grievous thought--he was a murderer. Heaven pity
the boy when his idol falls, and if he be a dreaming idealist the
hurt is tenfold deeper.
And yet--the trail was waiting there to teach me many things, and
Jondo's words rang through the aisles of my brain:
"If you ever have a real cross, Gail, thank the Lord for the open
plains and the green prairies, and the danger stimulus of the old
Santa Fé Trail. They will seal up your wounds, and soften
your hard, rebellious heart, and make you see things big, and
despise the little crooks in your path."
Our Conestoga wagons, with their mule-teams, and the few ponies
for scout service, followed the old trail out of the valley of
the Rio Grande to the tablelands eastward, up the steep sidling
way into the passes of the Glorietta Mountains, down through
lone, wind-swept cañons, and on between wild, scarred
hills, coming, at last, beyond the picturesque ridges,
snow-crowned and mesa-guarded, into the long, gray, waterless
lands of the Cimmarron country. Here we journeyed along
monotonous levels that rose and fell unnoted because of lack of
landmarks to measure by, only the broad, beaten Santa Fé
Trail stretched on unbending, unchanging, uneffaceable.
As the distance from spring to spring decreased, every drop of
water grew precious, and we pushed on, eager to reach the richer
prairies of the Arkansas Valley. Suddenly in the monotony of the
way, and the increasing calls of thirst, there came a sense of
danger, the plains-old danger of the Comanche on the Cimarron
Trail. Bill Banney caught it first--just a faint sign of one
hostile track. All the next day Jondo scouted far, coming into
camp at nightfall with a grave report.
"The water-supply is failing," he told us, "and there is
something wrong out there. The Comanches are hovering near,
that's certain, and there is a single trail that doesn't look
Comanche to me that I can't account for. All we can do is to
'hold fast,'" he added, with his cheery smile that never failed
him.
That night I could not sleep, and the stars and I stared long at
each other. They were so golden and so far away. And one, as I
looked, slipped from its place and trailed wide across the sky
until it vanished, leaving a stream of golden light that lingered
before my eyes. I thought of the trail in the San Christobal
Valley, and again I saw the sunlight on golden hair as Eloise
with Little Blue Flower passed out of sight around the shoulder
of a great rock beside the way. At last came sleep, and in my
dreams Eloise was beside me as she had been in the church of San
Miguel, her dark eyes looking up into mine. I knew, in my dream,
that I was dreaming and I did not want to waken. For, "Eloise
loved Beverly, would always love him." Little Blue Flower had
said it. The face was far away, this side of misty mountain
peaks, and farther still. I could see only the eyes looking at
me. I wakened to see only the stars looking at me. I slept again
deeply and dreamlessly, and wakened suddenly. We were far and
away from the Apache country, but there, for just one instant, a
face came close to mine--the face of Santan--the Apache. It
vanished instantly as it had come. The night guard passed by me
and crossed the camp. The stars held firm above me. I had had
another dream. But after that I did not sleep till dawn.
The day was very hot, with the scorching breeze of the plains
that sears the very eyeballs dry. Through the dust and glare we
pressed on over long, white, monotonous miles. Hovering near us
somewhere were the Comanches--waiting; with us was burning
thirst; ahead of us ran the taunting mirage--cool, sparkling
water rippling between green banks--receding as we approached,
maddening us by the suggestion of its refreshing picture, the
while we knew it was only a picture. For it is Satan's own
painting on the desert to let men know that Dante's dream is mild
compared to the real art of torment. Men and animals began to
give way under the day's burden, and we moved slowly. In times
like these Jondo stayed with the train, sending Bill Banney and
Beverly scouting ahead. That was the longest day that I ever
lived on the Santa Fé Trail, although I followed its miles
many times in the best of its freighting years.
The weary hours dragged at last toward evening, and a dozen signs
in plains lore told us that water must be near. As we topped a
low swell at the bottom of whose long slide lay the little oasis
we were seeking, we came upon Bill Banney's pony lying dead
across the trail. And near it Bill himself, with bloated face and
bleared eyes, muttering half-coherently:
"Water-hole! Poison! Don't drink!"
And then he babbled of the muddy Missouri, and the Kentucky blue
grass, and cold mountain springs in the passes of the Gloriettas,
warning us thickly of "death down there."
"Down there," beside the little spring shelved in by shale at the
lower edge of the swell, we found a tiny cairn built of clumps of
sod and bits of shale. Fastened on it was a scrap from Bill's
note-book with the words
Spring poisoned. Bev gone for water not very far on.--BILL.
So Bill had drunk the poisoned water and had tried to reach
us. But for fear he might not do it, he had scrawled this warning
and left it here. Brave Bill! How madly he had staggered round
the place and threshed the ground in agony when he tried to mount
his poisoned pony, and his first thought was for us. The plains
made men see big. Jondo had told me they could do it. Poor Bill,
moaning for water now and tossing in agony in Jondo's wagon! The
Comanches had been cunning in their malice. How we hated them as
we stood looking at the waters of that poisoned spring!
Rex Krane's big, gentle hands were holding Bill's. Rex always had
a mother's heart; while Jondo read the ground with searching
glance.
"We will wait here a little while. Bev will report soon, I hope.
Come, Gail," he said to me. "Here is something we will follow
now."
A single trail led far away from the beaten road toward a stretch
of coarse dry yucca and loco-weeds that hid a little steep-sided
draw across the plains. At the bottom of it a man lay face
downward beside a dead pony. We scrambled down, shattering the
dry earth after us as we went. Jondo gently lifted the body and
turned it face upward. It was Ferdinand Ramero.
The big plainsman did not cry out, nor drop his hold, but his
face turned gray, and only the dying man saw the look in the blue
eyes gazing into his. Ramero tried to draw away, fear, and hate,
and the old dominant will that ruled his life, strong still in
death. As he lay at the feet of the man whose life hopes he had
blasted, he expected no mercy and asked for none.
"You have me at last. I didn't put the poison in that spring. I
would not have drunk it if I had. It was the one below I fixed
for you. And I'm in your power now. Be quick about it."
For one long minute Jondo looked down at his enemy. Then he
lifted his eyes to mine with the victory of "him that overcometh"
shining in their blue depths.
"If I could make you live, I'd do it, Fred. If you have any word
to say, be quick about it now. Your time is short."
The sweetness of that gentle voice I hear sometimes to-day in the
low notes of song-birds, and the gentle swish of refreshing
summer showers.
Ferdinand Ramero lifted his cold blue eyes and looked at the man
bending over him.
"Leave me here--forgotten--"
"Not of God. His Mercy endureth forever," Jondo replied.
But there was no repentance, no softening of the hard, imperious
heart.
We left him there, pulling down the loose earth from the steep
sides of the draw to cover him from all the frowning elements of
the plains. And when we went back to the waiting train Jondo
reported, grimly:
"No enemy in sight."
We laid Bill Banney beside the poisoned spring, from whose bitter
waters he had saved our lives. So martyrs filled the unknown
graves that made the milestones of the way in the days of
commerce-building on the old Santa Fé Trail.
The next spring was not far ahead, as Bill's note had said, but
the stars were thick above us and the desolate land was full of
shadows before we reached it--a thirst-mad, heart-sore crowd
trailing slowly on through the gloom of the night.
Beverly was waiting for us and the refreshing moisture of the air
above a spring seemed about him.
"I thought you'd never come. Where's Bill? There's water here. I
made the spring myself," he shouted, as we came near.
The spring that he had digged for us was in the sandy bed of a
dry stream, with low, earth-banks on either side. It was full of
water, hardly clear, but plentiful, and slowly washing out a
bigger pool for itself as it seeped forth.
"There is poison in the real spring down there." Beverly pointed
toward the diminished fountain we had expected to find. "I've
worked since noon at this."
We drank, and life came back to us. We pitched camp, and then
listened to Beverly's story of the sweet and bitter waters of the
trail that day. And all the while it seemed as if Bill Banney was
just out of sight and might come galloping in at any moment.
"You know what happened up the trail," my cousin said, sadly.
"Bill was ahead of me and he drank first, and galloped back to
warn me and beg me to come on for water. I thought I could get
down here and take some water back to Bill in time. It's all
shale up there. No place to dig above, nor below, even if one
dared to dig below that poison. But I found a dead coyote that
had just left here, and all springs began to look Comanche to me.
I lariated my pony and crept down under the bank there to think
and rest. Everything went poison-spotted before my eyes."
"Where's your pony now, Bev?" Jondo asked.
"I don't know sure, but I expect he is about going over the Raton
Pass by this time," Beverly replied. "Down there things seemed to
swim around me like water everywhere and I knew I'd got to stir.
Just then an Indian came slipping up from somewhere to the spring
to drink. He didn't look right to me at all, but I couldn't sit
still and see him kill himself. If he needed killing I could have
done it for him, for he never saw me. Just as he stooped I saw
his face. It was that Apache--Santan--the wander-foot, for I
never heard of an Apache getting so far from the mountains. I
ought to have kept still, Jondo"--Beverly's ready smile came to
his face--"but I'd made that fellow swear he'd let me eternally
alone when we had our little fracas up by the San Christobal
Arroyo, so something like conscience, mean as the stomach-ache,
made me call out:
"'Don't drink there; it's poison.'
"He stopped and stared at me a minute, or ten minutes--I didn't
count time on him--and then he said, slow-like:
"'It's the spring west that is poisoned. I put it there for you.
You will not see your men again. They will drink and die. Who put
this poison here?'
"'Lord knows. I didn't,' I told him. 'Two of you carrying poison
are two too many for the Cimarron country.'
"And I hadn't any more conscience after that, but I was faint and
slow, and my aim was bad for eels. He could have fixed me right
then, but for some reason he didn't."
Beverly's face grew sad.
"He made six jumps six ways, and caught my pony's lariat. I can
hear his yell still as he tore a hole in the horizon and jumped
right through. Then I began on that spring. 'Dig or die. Dig or
die.' I said over and over, and we are all here but Bill. I wish
I'd got that Apache, though."
Jondo and I looked at each other.
"The thing is clear now," he said, aside to me. "That single
trail I found back yonder day before yesterday was Santan's
running on ahead of us to poison the water for us and then steal
a horse and make his way back to the mountains. An Apache can
live on this cactus-covered sand the same as a rattlesnake. He
fixed the upper spring and came down here to drink. Only
Beverly's conscience saved him here. Heaven knows how Fred Ramer
got out here. He may have come with some Mexicans on ahead of us
and left them here to drop his poison in this lower spring. Then
he turned back toward Santa Fé and found his doom up there
at Santan's spring.
"I'm like Bev. I wish he had gotten the Apache, now. I don't know
yet how I was fooled in him, for he has always been Fred Ramer's
tool, and Father Josef never trusted him. And to think that Bill
Banney, in no way touching any of our lives, should have been
martyred by the crimes of Fred and this Apache! But that's the
old, old story of the trail. Poor Bill! I hope his sleep will be
sweet out in this desolate land. We'll meet him later
somewhere."
The winds must have carried the tale of poisoned water across the
Cimarron country, for the Comanches' trail left ours from that
day. Through threescore and ten miles to the Arkansas River we
came, and there was not a well nor spring nor sign of water in
all that distance. What water we had we carried with us from the
Cimarron fountains. But the sturdy endurance of the days was not
without its help to me. And the wide, wind-swept prairies of
Kansas taught me many things. In the lonely, beautiful land,
through long bright days and starlit nights, I began to see
things bigger than my own selfish measure had reckoned. I thought
of Esmond Clarenden and his large scheme of business; Felix
Narveo, the true-hearted friend; and of Father Josef and his life
of devotion. And I lived with Jondo every day. I could not forget
the hour in the little ruined chapel in the San Christobal
Valley, and how he himself had made no effort to clear his own
name. But I remembered, too, that Father Josef, mercilessly just
to Ferdinand Ramero, had not even asked Jondo to defend himself
from the black charge against him.
The sunny Kansas prairies, the far open plains, and the wild
mountain trails beyond, had brought their blessing to Jondo,
whose life had known so much of tragedy. And my cross was just my
love for a girl who could not love me. That was all. Jondo had
never forgotten nor ceased to love the mother of Eloise St.
Vrain. I should be like Jondo in this. But the world is wide.
Life is full of big things. Henceforth, while I would not forget,
I, too, would be big and strong, and maybe, some time, just as
sunny-faced as my big Jondo.
The trail life, day by day, did bring its blessing to me. The
clear, open land, the far-sweeping winds, the solitude for
thought, the bravery and gentleness of the rough men who walked
the miles with me, the splendor of the day-dawn, the beauty of
the sunset, the peace of the still starlit night, sealed up my
wounds, and I began to live for others and to forget myself; to
dream less often, and to work more gladly; to measure men, not by
what had been, but by how they met what was to be done.
From all the frontier life, rough-hewn and coarse, the elements
came that helped to make the big brave West to-day, and I know
now that not the least of source and growth of power for these
came out of the strength and strife of the things known only to
the men who followed the Santa Fé Trail.
The mind hath a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one.
--BOURDILLON.
Busy years, each one a dramatic era all its own, made up the
annals of the Middle West as the nation began to feel the thrill
for expansion in its pulse-beat. The territorial days of Kansas
were big with the tragic events of border warfare, and her birth
into statehood marked the commencement of the four years of civil
strife whose record played a mighty part in shaping human
destiny.
Meanwhile the sunny Kansas prairies lay waiting for the
hearthstone and the plow. And young men, trained in camp and
battle-field, looked westward for adventure, fortune, future
homes and fame. But the tribes, whose hunting-grounds had been
the green and grassy plains, yielded slowly, foot by foot, their
stubborn claim, marking in human blood the price of each acre of
the prairie sod. The lonely homesteads were the prey of savage
bands, and the old Santa Fé Trail, always a way of danger,
became doubly perilous now to the men who drove the vans of
commerce along its broad, defenseless miles. The frontier forts
increased: Hays and Harker, Larned and Zarah, and Lyon and Dodge
became outposts of power in the wilderness, whose half-forgotten
sites to-day lie buried under broad pasture-lands and fields of
waving grain.
One June day, as the train rolled through the Missouri woodlands
along rugged river bluffs, Beverly Clarenden and I looked eagerly
out of the car window, watching for signs of home. It was two
years after the close of the Civil War. We had just finished six
years of Federal service and were coming back to Kansas City. We
were young men still, with all the unsettled spirit that follows
the laying aside of active military life for the wholesome but
uneventful life of peace.
The time of our arrival had been uncertain, and the Clarenden
household had been taken by surprise at our coming.
"I wonder how it will seem to settle down in a store, Bev, after
toting shooting-irons for six years," I said to my cousin, as the
train neared Kansas City.
"I don't know," Beverly replied, with a yawn, "but I'm thinking
that after we see all the folks, and play with Mat's little boys
awhile, and eat Aunty Boone's good stuff till we begin to get
flabby-cheeked and soft-muscled, and our jaws crack from smiling
so much when we just naturally want to get out and cuss
somebody--about that time I'll be ready to run away, if I have to
turn Dog Indian to do it."
"There's a new Clarenden store at a place called Burlingame out
in Kansas now, somewhere on the old trail. Maybe it will be far
enough away to let you get tamed gradually to civil life there,
if Uncle Esmond thinks you are worth it," I suggested.
"Rex Krane is to take charge of that as soon as we get home.
Yonder are the spires and minarets and domes of Kansas City. Put
on your company grin, Gail," Beverly replied, as we began to run
by the huts and cabins forming the outworks of the little city at
the Kaw's mouth.
Six years had made many changes in the place, but the same old
welcome awaited us, and we became happy-hearted boys again as we
climbed the steep road up the bluff to the Clarenden house. On
the wide veranda overlooking the river everybody except one--Bill
Banney, sleeping under the wind-caressed sod beside the Cimarron
spring--was waiting to greet us. There were Esmond Clarenden and
Jondo, in the prime of middle life, the one a little bald, and
more than a little stout; the other's heavy hair was streaked
with gray, but the erect form and tremendous physical strength
told how well the plains life had fortified the man of fifty for
the years before him. The prairies had long since become his
home; but whether in scout service for the Government, or as
wagon-master for a Clarenden train on the trail, he was the same
big, brave, loyal Jondo.
And there was Rex Krane, tall, easy-going old Rex, with his wife
beside him. Mat was a fair-faced young matron now, with something
Madonna-like in her calm poise and kindly spirit. Two little
boys, Esmond, and Rex, Junior, clinging to her gown, smiled a shy
welcome at us.
In the background loomed the shining face and huge form of Aunty
Boone. She had never seemed bigger to me, even in my little-boy
days, when I considered her a giant. Her eyes grew dull as she
looked at us.
"Clean faces and finger-nails now. Got to stain 'em up 'bout once
more 'fore you are through. Hungry as ever, I'll bet. I'll get
your supper right away. Whoo-ee!"
As she turned away, Mat said:
"There is somebody else here, boys, that you will be glad to
meet. She has just come and doesn't even know that you are
expected. It is 'Little Lees.'"
A rustle of silken skirts, a faint odor of blossoms, a footfall,
a presence, and Eloise St. Vrain stood before us. Eloise, with
her golden hair, the girlish roundness of her fair face, her big
dark eyes and their heavy lashes and clear-penciled brows, her
dainty coloring, and beyond all these the beauty of womanly
strength written in her countenance.
Her dress was a sort of pale heliotrope, with trimmings of a
deeper shade, and in her hands she carried a big bunch of June
roses. She stopped short, and the pink cheeks grew pale, but in
an instant the rich bloom came back to them again.
"I tried to find you, Eloise. The boys have just come in almost
unannounced," Mat said.
"You didn't mean to hide from us, of course," Beverly broke in,
as he took the girl's hand, his face beaming with genuine joy at
meeting her again.
Eloise met him with the same frank delight with which she always
greeted him. Everything seemed so simple and easy for these two
when they came together. Little Blue Flower was right about them.
They seemed to fit each other.
But when she turned to me her eyes were downcast, save for just
one glance. I feel it yet, and the soft touch of her hand as it
lay in mine a moment.
I think we chatted all together for a while. I had a wound at
Malvern Hill that used to make me dizzy. That, or an older wound,
made my pulse frantic now. I know that it was a rare June day,
and the breeze off the river came pouring caressingly over the
bluff. I remember later that Uncle Esmond and Jondo and Rex Krane
went to the Clarenden store, and that Mat was helping Aunty Boone
inside, while Beverly let the two little Kranes take him down the
slope to see some baby squirrels or something. And Eloise and I
were left alone beneath the trees, where once we had sat together
long ago in the "Moon of the Peach Blossom." For me, all the
strength of the years wherein I had built a wall around my
longing love, all my manly loyalty to my cousin's claims, were
swept away, as I have seen the big Missouri floods, joined by the
lesser Kaw, sweep out bridges, snapping like sticks before their
power.
"Eloise, it seems a hundred years since I saw you and Little Blue
Flower ride away up the San Christobal River trail out of my
sight," I said.
"It has been a long time, but we are not yet old. You seem the
same. And as for me, I feel as if the clock had stopped awhile
and had suddenly started to ticking anew."
It was wonderful to sit beside her and hear her voice again. I
did not dare to ask about her mother, but I am sure she read my
thoughts, for she went on:
"My mother is gone now. She was as happy as a child and never had
a sorrow on her mind after her dreadful fever, although the
doctors say she might have been restored if I had only been with
her then. But it is all ended now."
Eloise paused with saddened face, and looked out toward the
Missouri River, boiling with June rains and melted snows.
"It is all right now," she went on, bravely. "Sister Gloria--you
know who she was--stayed with me to the last. And I have a real
mound of earth in the cemetery beside my father." The last two
words were spoken softly. "Sister Gloria is in the convent now.
Marcos is a common gambler. His father disappeared and left him
penniless. Esmond Clarenden says that his father died out on the
plains somewhere."
"And Father Josef?" I inquired.
"Is still the same strong friend to everybody. He spends much
time among the Hopi people. I don't know why, for they are
hopelessly heathen. Their own religion has so many beautiful
things to offset our faith that they are hard to convert."
"And Little Blue Flower--what became of her?" I asked. "Is she a
squaw in some hogan or pueblo, after all that the Sisterhood of
St. Ann's did for her?"
A shadow fell on the bright face beside me.
"Let's not talk of her to-day." There was a pleading note in
Eloise's voice. "Life has its tragedies everywhere, but I
sometimes think that none of them--American, English, Spanish,
French, Mexican, nor any others of our pale-faced people, have
quite such bitter acts as the Indian tragedy among a gentle race
like the people of Hopi-land."
"I hope you will stay with us now."
I didn't know what I really did hope for. I was no longer a boy,
but a young man in the very best of young manhood's years. I had
seen this girl ride away from me without one good-by word or
glance. I had heard her message to me through Little Blue Flower.
I had suffered and outgrown all but the scar. And now one touch
of her hand, one smile, one look from her beautiful eyes, and all
the barrier of the years fell down. I wondered vaguely now about
Beverly's wish to turn Dog Indian if things became too
monotonous. I wondered about many things, but I could not think
anything.
"I have no present plans. Father Josef and Esmond Clarenden
thought it would be well for me to come up to Kansas and look at
green prairies instead of red mesas for a while; to rest my eyes,
and get my strength again--which I have never lost," Eloise said,
with a smile. "And Jondo says--"
She did not tell me what Jondo had said, for Beverly and Mat and
the two rollicking boys joined us just then and we talked of many
things of the earlier years.
I cannot tell how that June slipped by, nor how Eloise, in the
full bloom of her young womanhood, with the burdens lifted from
her heart and hands, was no more the clinging, crushed Eloise who
had sat beside me in the church of San Miguel, but a self-reliant
and deliciously companionable girl-woman. With Beverly she was
always gay, matching him, mood for mood; and if sometimes I
caught the fleeting edge of a shadow in her eyes, it was gone too
soon to measure. I did not seek her company alone, because I knew
that I could not trust myself. Over and over, Jondo's words, when
he had told me the story of Mary Marchland, came back to me:
"And although they loved each other always, they never saw each
other again."
Nobody, outside of those touched by it, knew Jondo's story,
except myself. He was Theron St. Vrain's brother, yet Eloise
never called him uncle, and, except for the one mention of her
father's grave, she did not speak of him. He was not even a
memory to her. And both men's names were forever stained with the
black charge against them.
One evening in late June, Uncle Esmond called me into
council.
"Gail, Rex leaves to-morrow for the new store at Burlingame,
Kansas. It is two days out on the Santa Fé Trail. Bev will
go with him and stay for a while. I want you to drive through
with Mat and the children and Eloise a day or two later."
"Eloise?" I looked up in surprise.
"Yes; she will visit with Mat for a while. She has had some
trying years that have taxed her heavily. The best medicine for
such is the song of the prairie winds," Uncle Esmond replied.
"And after that?" I insisted.
"We will wait for 'after that' till it gets here," my uncle
smiled as he spoke. "There are more serious things on hand than
where out Little Lees will eat her meals. She seems able to take
care of herself anywhere. Wonderfully beautiful and charming
young woman she is, and her troubles have strengthened her
character without robbing her of her youth and happy
spirits."
Esmond Clarenden spoke reminiscently, and I stared at him in
surprise until suddenly I remembered that Jondo had said, "We
were all in love with Mary Marchland." Eloise must seem to him
and Jondo like the Mary Marchland they had known in their young
manhood. But my uncle's mood passed quickly, and his face was
very grave as he said:
"The conditions out on the frontier are serious in every way
right now. The Indians are on the war-path, leaving destruction
wherever they set foot. Something must be done to protect the
wagon-trains on the Santa Fé Trail. I have already lost
part of two valuable loads this season, and Narveo has lost
three. But the appalling loss of property is nothing compared to
the terror and torture to human life. The settlers on the
frontier claims are being massacred daily. The Governor of Kansas
is doing all he can to get some action from the army leaders at
Washington. But you haven't been in military service for six
years without finding out that some army leaders are flesh and
blood, and some are only wood--plain wooden wood. Meantime, the
story of one butchery doesn't get to the Missouri River before
the story of another catches up with it. It's bad enough when
it's ruinous to just my own commercial business--but in cases
like this, humanity is my business."
What a man he was--that Esmond Clarenden! They still say of him
in Kansas City that no sounder financier and no bigger-hearted
humanitarian ever walked the streets of that "Gateway to the
Southwest" than the brave little merchant-plainsman who builded
for the generations that should follow him.
"What will be the outcome, Uncle Esmond? Are we to lose all we
have gained out here?" I asked.
"Not if we are real Westerners. It's got to be stopped. The
question is, how soon," my uncle replied.
That night in a half-waking dream I remembered Aunty Boone's
prophetic greeting a few days before, and how her eyes had
narrowed and grown dull as she said, "One more stainin' of your
hands 'fore you are through."
I had given six good years to army service--the years which young
men give to college and to establishing themselves in their
life-work. But the vision of the three men whom I had seen under
the elm-tree at Fort Leavenworth came back to me, and only
one--the cavalry man--moved westward now. I knew that I was
dreaming, but I did not want to waken till the vision of a fair
face whose eyes looked into mine should come to make my dream
sweet and restful.
But in my waking hours, in spite of the gravity of conditions
that troubled Esmond Clarenden, in spite of the terrible tidings
of daily killings on the unprotected plains, I forgot everything
except the girl beside me as I went with her and Mat and the
children to the new home in the village of Burlingame beside the
Santa Fé Trail.
Eloise St. Vrain had come up to Kansas to let the green prairies
shut out the memory of tall red mesas. About the little town of
Burlingame the prairies were waiting for her eyes to see. It
nestled beside a deep creek under the shelter of forest trees,
with the green prairie lapping up to its edges on every side. The
trail wound round the shoulder of a low hill, and, crossing the
stream, it made the main street of the town, then wandered on
westward to where a rim of ground shut the view of its way from
the settlement under the trees by the creek. A stanch little
settlement it was, and, like many Kansas towns of the '60's, with
big, but never-to-be realized, ambition to become a city. Into
its life and up-building Rex Krane was to throw his good-natured
Yankee shrewdness, and Mat her calm, generous spirit; vanguards
they were, among the home-makers of a great State.
My stay in the place was brief, and I saw little of Eloise until
the evening before I was to return to Kansas City. I had meant to
go away, as she had left me in the San Christobal Valley, without
one backward look, but I couldn't do it; and at the close of my
last day I went to the Krane home, where I found her alone. It
was the long after-sunset hour, with the refreshing evening
breezes pouring in from all the green levels about us.
"Rex is at the store, and the others are all gone fishing,"
Eloise said, in answer to my inquiry for the family.
"Mat and Bev always did go fishing on every occasion that I can
remember, and they will make fishermen of little Esmond and Rex
now. Would you like to go up to the west side of town and look
into New Mexico?" I asked, wondering why Beverly should go
fishing with Mat when Eloise was waiting for his smile.
But I was desperately lonely to-night, and I might not see Eloise
again until after she and Beverly--I could not go farther. She
smiled and said, lightly:
"I'm just honin' for a walk, as Aunty Boone would say, but I'm
not quite ready to see New Mexico yet."
"Oh, it's only a thing made of evening mists rising from the
meadows, and bits of sunset lights left over when the day was
finished," I assured her.
So we left the shadow of the tall elms and strolled up the main
street toward the west.
Where the one cross-street cut the trail in the center of the
village there was a public well. The ground around it was
trampled into mud by many hoofs. A Mexican train had just come in
and was grouped about this well, drinking eagerly.
"What news of the plains?" I asked their leader as we passed.
"I cannot tell you with the lady here," he replied, bowing
courteously. "It is too awful. A spear hung with a scalp of
pretty baby hair like hers. I see it yet. The plains are all
alive--alive with hostile red men; and the worst one of
all--he that had the golden scalp--is but a half-breed Cheyenne
Dog. Never the Apaches were so bad as he."
The cattle horned about the well, with their drivers shouting and
struggling to direct them, as we went wide to avoid the mud, then
passed up to the rise beyond which lay the old trail's westward
route.
The mists were rising from the lowlands; along the creek the
sunset sky was all a flaming glory, under whose deep splendor the
June prairies lay tenderly green and still; down in the village
the sounds of the Mexicans settling into camp; the shouting of
children, romping late; and out across the levels, the mooing
call of milking-time from some far-away settler's barn-yard; a
robin singing a twilight song in the elms; crickets chirping in
the long grass; and the gentle evening breeze sweet and cool out
of the west--such was the setting for us two. We paused on the
crest of the ridge and sat down to watch the afterglow of a
prairie twilight. We did not speak for a long time, but when our
eyes met I knew the hour had been made for me. In such an hour we
had sat beside the glistening Flat Rock down in the Neosho
Valley. I was a whole-hearted boy when I went down there, full of
eagerness for the life of adventure on the trail, and she a girl
just leaving boarding-school. And now--life sweetens so with
years.
"I think I can understand why your uncle thought it would be well
for me to come to Kansas," Eloise said at last. "There is an
inspiration and soothing restfulness in a thing like this. Our
mountains are so huge and tragical; and even their silences are
not always gentle. And our plains are dry and gray. And yet I
love the valley of the Santa Fé, and the old Ortiz and
Sandia peaks, and the red sunset's stain on the
Sangre-de-Christo. Many a time I have lifted up my eyes to them
for help, as the shepherd did to his Judean hills when he sang
his psalms of hope and victory."
"Yes, Nature is kind to us if we will let her be. Jondo told me
that long ago, and I've proved it since. But I have always loved
the prairies. And this ridge here belongs to me," I replied.
Eloise looked up inquiringly.
"I'll tell you why. When I was a little boy, years ago, a
day-dreaming, eager-hearted little boy, we camped here one night.
That was my first trip over the trail to Santa Fé. You
haven't forgotten it and what a big brown bob-cat I looked like
when I got there. I grew like weeds in a Kansas corn-field on
that trip."
"Oh, I remember you. Go on," Eloise said, laughingly.
"That night after supper, everybody had left camp--Mat and Bev
were fishing--and I was alone and lonely, so I came up here to
find what I could see of the next day's trail. It was such an
hour as this. And as I watched the twilight color deepen, my own
horizon widened, and I think the soul of a man began, in that
hour, to look out through the little boy's eyes; and a new
mile-stone was set here to make a landmark in my life-trail. The
boy who went back slowly to the camp that night was not the same
little boy that had run up here to spy out the way of the next
day's journey."
The afterglow was deepening to purple; the pink cloud-flecks were
turning gray in the east, and a kaleidoscope of softest rose and
tender green and misty lavender filled the lengthening shadows of
the twilight prairie.
"Eloise, I had a longing that night, still unfulfilled. I wish I
dared to tell you what it was."
I turned to look at the fair girl-woman beside me. In the
twilight her eyes were always like stars; and the golden hair and
the pink bloom of her cheeks seemed richer in their shadowy
setting. To-night her gown was white--like the Greek dress she
had worn at Mat's wedding, on the night when she met Beverly in
the little side porch at midnight. Why did I recall that
here?
"What was your wish, Gail?" The voice was low and sweet.
I took her hand in mine and she did not draw away from me.
"That I might some day have a real home all my own down there
among the trees. I was a little homesick boy that night, and I
came up here to watch the sunset and see the open level lands
that I have always loved. Eloise, Jondo told me once of three
young college men who loved your beautiful mother, and because of
that love they never married anybody, but they lived useful,
happy lives. I can understand now why they should love her, and
why, because they could not have her love, they would not marry
anybody else. One was my uncle Esmond, and one was Father
Josef."
"And the third?" The voice was very low and a tremor shook the
hand I held.
"He did not tell me. And I speak of it now only to show you that
in what I want to say I am not altogether selfish and unkind. I
love you, Eloise. I have loved you since the day, long ago, when
your face came before me on the parade-ground at Fort
Leavenworth. I told you of that once down on the bluff by the
Clarenden home at Kansas City. I shall love you, as the Bedouin
melody runs,
Til the sun grows cold,
And the stars are old,
And the leaves of the judgment
Book unfold!
"But I know that it will end as Uncle Esmond's and Father
Josef's loving did, in my living my life alone."
Eloise quickly withdrew her hand, and the pain in her white face
haunts me still.
"I do not want to hurt you, oh, Eloise. I know I do wrong to
speak, but to-night will be the last time. I thought that night
in the church at San Miguel, and that next day when we rode for
our lives together, that you cared for me who would have walked
through fire for you. But in that hour in the little chapel a
barrier came between us. You rode away without one word or
glance. And I turned back feeling that my soul was falling into
ruins like that half-ruined little pile of stone that some holy
padre had built his heart into years and years ago. Then Little
Blue Flower brought your message to me and I knew as I sat beside
Fort Marcy's wall that night, and saw the sun go down, that the
light of my life was going out with it."
"But, Gail," Eloise exclaimed, "I said I could not send you any
word, but you would understand. I--I couldn't say any more than
that." Her voice was full of tears and she turned away from me
and looked at the last radiant tints edging the little
cloud-flecks above the horizon.
"Of course I understand you, Eloise, and I do not blame you. I
never could blame you for anything." I sprang to my feet. "You'll
hate me if I say another word," I said, savagely.
She rose up, too, and put her hand on my arm. Oh, she was
beautiful as she stood beside me. So many times I have pictured
her face, I will not try to picture it as it looked now in this
sweet, sacred moment of our lives.
"Gail, I could never hate you. You do not understand me. I cannot
help what is past now. I hoped you might forget. And yet--" She
paused.
All men are humanly alike. In spite of my strong love for Beverly
and my sense of right, the presence of the woman whose image for
so many years had been in the sacredest shrine of my heart,
Eloise, in all her beauty and her womanly strength and purity,
standing beside me, her hand still on my arm--all overpowered
me.
I put my arms about her and held her close to me, kissing her
forehead, her cheek, her lips. The world for one long moment was
rose-hued like the sunset's afterglow; and sky and prairie,
lowlands along the winding creek, and tall elm-trees above the
deepening shadows, were all engulfed in a mist of golden glory,
shot through with amethyst and sapphire, the dainty coraline pink
of summer dawns, and the iridescent shimmer of
mother-of-pearl.
Heaven opens to us here and there such moments on the way of
life. And the memory of them lingers like perfume through all the
days that follow.
We turned our faces toward the darkening village street and the
tall elms above the gathering shadows, and neither spoke a word
until we reached the door where I must say good night.
"I cannot ask you to forgive me, Little Lees, because you let me
have a bit of heaven up there. I shall go away a better man. And,
remember, that no blessing in your life can be greater than I
would wish for you to have."
The brave white face was before my eyes and the low voice was in
my ears long after I had left her door.
"Gail, I cannot help what has been, but I do not blame you. I
should almost wish myself shut in again by the tall red mesas;
but maybe, after all, the prairies are best for me. I am glad I
have known you. Good night."
"Goodnight," I said, and turned away.
And that was all. The last light of day had gone from the sky,
and the stars overhead were hidden by the thick leafage of the
Burlingame elms.
Don't you guess that the things we're seeing now will haunt us
through the years;
Heaven and hell rolled into one, glory and blood and tears;
Life's pattern picked with a scarlet thread, where once we wove
with a gray,
To remind us all how we played our part in the shock of an epic
day?
--ROBERT W. SERVICE.
However darkly the sun may go down on hope and love, the real sun
shines on, day after day, with its inexorable call to duty. In
less than a week after I had left Eloise and the vague hope of a
home of my own under the big elm-trees of Burlingame, Governor
Crawford of Kansas sent forth a call for a battalion of four
companies of soldiers, and I heard the call and answered it.
It was to be known as the Eighteenth Kansas Cavalry, with Col.
Horace L. Moore, a veteran soldier of tried mettle, at the head.
We were to go at once to Fort Harker, in the valley of the Smoky
Hill River, to begin a campaign against the Indians, who were
laying waste the frontier settlements and attacking wagon-trains
on the Sante Fé Trail.
On the evening before I left home I sat on the veranda of the
Clarenden house, waiting for Uncle Esmond to join me, when
suddenly Beverly Clarenden strode over the edge of the hill. The
sunny smile and the merry twinkle of his eye were Bev's own, and
there wasn't a line on his face to show whether it belonged to
the happy lover or the rejected suitor. I thought I could always
read his moods when he had any. He had none to-night.
"I just got in from Burlingame. At what hour do you leave
to-morrow? I'm going along to chaperon you, as usual," he
declared.
"Why, Beverly Clarenden, I thought you were fixed at Burlingame,
selling molasses and calico by the gallon," I exclaimed, but my
real thought was not given to words.
"And let the Cheyennes, and Kiowas, and Arapahoes, and other
desperadoes of the plains gnaw clear into the heart of us? Not
your uncle Esmond Clarenden's nephew. And, Gail, this won't be
anything like we have had since those six Kiowas staked you out
on Pawnee Rock once. The thoroughbred Indians are bad enough, but
there is a half-breed leader of a band of Dog Indians that's
worst of all. He's of the yellow kind, with wolf's fangs. A
Mexican on the trail told me that this half-breed ties up with
the worst of every tribe from the Coast Range mountains to
Tecumseh, Kansas," Beverly declared.
"I remember that Mexican. I saw him at the well in Burlingame," I
replied, turning to look at the Kaw winding far away, for the
memory of everything in Burlingame was painful to me.
Aunty Boone's huge form appearing around the corner of the house
shut off my view of the river just then. Her face was glistening,
but her eyes were dull as she looked us over.
"You stainin' your hands again," she purred. "Yes, Aunty. We are
going to lick the redskins into ribbons," Beverly replied.
"You never get that done. Lickin' never settles nobody. You just
hold 'em down till they strong enough to boost you off their
heads again, and up they come. Whoo-ee!"
The black woman gave a chuckle.
"Well, I'd rather sit on their heads than have them sitting on
mine, or yours, Aunty Boone," Beverly returned, laughingly.
Aunty Boone's eyes narrowed and there was a strange light in them
as she looked at us, saying:
"You get into trouble, Mr. Bev, you see me comin', hot streaks,
to help you out. Whoo-ee!"
She breathed her weird, African whoop and turned away.
"I'll depend on you." Beverly's face was bright, and there was no
shadow in his eyes, as he called after her retreating form.
We chatted long together, and I hoped--and feared--to have him
tell me the story of his suit with Eloise, and why in such a day,
of all the days of his life, he should choose to run away to the
warfare of the frontier. He could not have failed, I thought.
Never a disappointed lover wore a smile like this. But Beverly
had no story to tell me that night.
The mid-July sun was shining down on a treeless landscape, across
which the yellow, foam-flecked Smoky Hill River wound its sinuous
way. Beside this stream was old Fort Harker, a low quadrangle of
quarters, for military man and beast, grouped about a
parade-ground for companionship rather than for protection. The
frontier fort had little need for defensive strength. About its
walls the Indian crawled submissively, fearful of munitions and
authority. It was not here, but out on lonely trails, in sudden
ambush, or in overwhelming numbers, or where long miles, cut off
from water, or exhausting distance banished safe retreat, that
the savage struck in all his fury.
Eastward from Harker the scattered frontier homesteads crouched,
defenseless, in the river valleys. Far to the northwest spread
the desolate lengths of a silent land where the white man's foot
had hardly yet been set. Miles away to the southwest the Santa
Fé Trail wound among the Arkansas sand-hills, never, in
all its history, less safe for freighters than in that summer of
1867.
In this vast demesne the raiding Cheyenne, the cruel Kiowa, the
blood-thirsty Arapahoe, with bands of Dog Indians and outlaws
from every tribe, contested, foot by foot, for supremacy against
the out-reaching civilization of the dominant Anglo-American. The
lonely trails were measured off by white men's graves. The
vagrant winds that bear the odor of alfalfa, and of orchard bloom
to-day, were laden often with the smoke of burning homes, and
often, too, they bore that sickening smell of human flesh, once
caught, never to be forgotten. The story of that struggle for
supremacy is a tragic drama of heroism and endurance. In it the
Eighteenth Kansas Cavalry played a stirring part.
It seems but yesterday to me now, that July day so many years
ago, when our four companies, numbering fewer than four hundred
men, detrained from the Union Pacific train at Fort Harker on the
Smoky Hill. And the faces of the men who were to lead us are
clear in memory. Our commander, Colonel Moore, always brave and
able; and our captains, Henry Lindsay, and Edgar Barker, and
George Jenness, and David Payne, with the shrewd, courageous
scout, Allison Pliley, and the undaunted, clear-thinking, young
lieutenant, Frank Stahl. Ours was not to be a record of unfading
glory, as national military annals show, yet it may count
mightily when the Great Records are opened for final estimates.
Those men who marched two thousand miles, back and forth, upon
the trackless plains in that four months' campaign, have been
forgotten in the debris of uneventful years. Our long-faded
trails lie buried under wide alfalfa-fields and the paved streets
of western Kansas towns. From the far springs that quenched our
burning thirst comes water, trickling through a nickel faucet
into a marble basin, now. Where the fierce sun seared our
eyeballs, in a treeless, barren waste, green groves, atune with
song-birds, cast long swaths of shade on verdant sod. The perils
and the hardships of the Eighteenth Kansas Cavalry are now but as
a tale that is told.
And yet of all the heroes whose life-trails cut my own, I account
among the greatest those men under whose command, and with whose
comradeship, I went out to serve the needs of my generation among
the vanguards of the plains. And if in a sunset hour on the west
ridge beyond the little town of Burlingame I had left a hopeless
love behind me, I put a man's best energy into the thing before
me.
The battle-field alone is not the soldier's greatest test. I had
kept step with men who charge an enemy on an open plain or storm
a high defense in the face of sure defeat. I had been ordered
with my company to take redoubts against the flaming throats of
bellowing cannon in the life-and-death grip before Richmond. I
had felt the awful thrill of carnage as my division surged back
and forth across the blood-soaked lengths of Gettysburg, and I
never once fell behind my comrades. The battle-field breeds
courage, and self-forgetfulness, and exaltation, from the sense
of duty squarely met.
There were no battle-fields in 1867, where Greek met Greek in
splendid gallantry, out on the Kansas plains. Over Fort Harker
hung the pall of death, and in the July heat the great black
plague of Asiatic cholera stalked abroad and scourged the land.
Men were dying like rats, lacking everything that helps to drive
death back. The volunteer who had offered himself to save the
settlers from the scalping-knife had come here only to look into
an open grave, and then, in agony, to drop into it. Such things
test soldiers more than battle-fields. And our men turned back in
fear, preferring the deserter's shame to quick, inglorious
martyrdom by Asiatic cholera. I had a battle of my own the first
night at Fort Harker. There was a growing moon and the night
breeze was cool after the heat of the day. Beverly Clarenden and
I went down to the river, whose tawny waters hardly hid the tawny
sands beneath them. The plains were silent, but from all the
hospital tents about the fort came the sharp, agonized cries of
pain that forerun the last collapse of the plague-stricken
sufferers. To get away from the sound of it all we wandered down
the stream to where the banks of soft, caving earth on the
farther side were higher than a man's head, and their shadow hid
the current. We sat down and stared silently at the waters,
scarcely whispering as they rolled along, and at the still shade
of the farther bank upon them. The shadows thickened and moved a
little, then grew still. We also grew still. Then they moved
again just opposite us, and fell into three parts, as three men
glided silently along under the bank's protecting gloom. We
waited until they had reached the edge of the moonlight, and saw
three soldiers pass swiftly out across the unprotected sands to
other shadowy places further on.
"Deserters!" Beverly said, half aloud. "You can stay here if you
want to, Gail. I'd rather go up and listen to those poor wretches
groan than stick down here and listen to the fiend inside of me
to-night."
He rose and stalked away, and I sat listening to myself. I could
join those three men easily enough. The world is wide. I had no
bond to hold me to one single place in it. I was young and
strong, and life is sweet. Why let the black plague snuff me out
of it? I had come here to serve the State. I should not serve it
in a plague-marked grave. I rose to follow down the stream, to go
to where the Smoky Hill joins the big Republican to make the Kaw,
and on to where the Kaw reaches to the Missouri. But I would not
stop there. I'd go until I reached the ocean somewhere.
Would I?
The memory of Jondo's eyes when they looked into mine on Pawnee
Rock came unbidden across my mind. Jondo had lived a nameless
man. How strong and helpful all his years had been! How starved
had been my life without his love! I would be another Jondo,
somewhere on earth.
I stared after three faintly moving shadows down the stream.
'Twas well I waited, for Esmond Clarenden came to me now,
clean-cut, honest, everybody's friend. How firm his life had
been; and he had built into me a hatred of deceit and lies. And
Jondo was another Uncle Esmond. In spite of the black shadow on
his name, he walked the prairies like a prince always. I could
not be like him if I were a deserter. Up-stream death was waiting
for me; down-stream, disgrace. I turned and followed up the
river's course, but the strength that forced me to it was greater
than that which made me brave on battle-fields. And ever since
that night beside the Smoky Hill I have felt gentler toward the
man who falls.
We were not idle long for Fort Harker had just been informed of
an assault on a wagon-train on the Santa Fé Trail and our
cavalry squadron hurried away at once to overtake and punish the
assailants.
We came into camp on the bank of Walnut Creek, at the close of a
long summer day of blazing light and heat over the barren trails
where there was no water; a day of long hours in the saddle; a
day of nerve-wearing watchfulness. But we believed that we had
left the plague-cursed region behind us, so we were light-hearted
and good-natured; and we ate, and drank, and took our lot
cheerfully.
Among the men at mess that night I saw a new face which was
nothing remarkable, except that something in it told me that I
had already seen that face somewhere, some time. It is my gift
never to forget a face, once seen, no matter how many years may
pass before I see it twice. This soldier was a pleasant fellow,
too, and, in a story he was telling, clever at imitating
others.
"Who is that man, Bev? The third one over there?" I asked my
cousin.
"Stranger to me. I don't believe I ever saw him before. Who is
the fellow with the smile, Captain?" Beverly asked the officer
beside him.
"I don't know. He's not in my company. I'm finding new faces
every day," the captain replied.
As twilight fell I saw the man again at the edge of the camp. He
smiled pleasantly as he passed me, turning to look at Beverly,
who did not see him, and in a minute he was cantering down to the
creek beside our camp. I saw him cross it and ride quickly out of
sight. But that smile brought to the face the thing that had
escaped me.
"I know that fellow now," I said to Beverly and the officer who
came up just then. "He's Charlie Bent, the son of Colonel Bent.
Don't you remember the little sinner at old Fort Bent, Bev?"
"I do, and what a vicious little reptile he was," Beverly
replied. "But Uncle Esmond told me that his father took him away
early and had him schooled like a gentleman in the best Saint
Louis had to give. I wonder whose company he is in."
The officer stared at us.
"You mean to say you know that cavalryman to be Charlie Bent?" he
fairly gasped.
"Of course it's Charlie. I never missed a face in all my life.
That's his own," I replied.
"The worst Indian on the plains!" the captain declared. "He stirs
up more fiendishness than a whole regiment of thoroughbred
Cheyennes could ever think of. He's led in every killing here
since March."
"Not Colonel Bent's son!" I exclaimed.
"Yes, he's the half-breed devil that we'll have to fight, and
here he comes and eats with us and rides away."
"He must be the fellow that the Mexican told us about back at
Burlingame, Gail. I remember now he did say the brute's name was
Bent, but I didn't rope him up with our Fort Bent chum. Gail
would have run him down in half a minute if he had heard the
name. I never could remember anything," Beverly said, in disgust.
But the smile was peeping back of his frown, and he forgot the
boy he was soon to have cause enough to remember.
"We must run that rascal down to-night," the Captain declared, as
he hurried away to consult with the other officers.
But Charlie Bent was not run down that night. Before we had time
to get over our surprise a scream of pain rang through the camp.
Another followed, and another, and when an hour had passed a
third of our forces was writhing in the clutches of the
cholera.
I shall never forget the long hours of that night beside the
Walnut, nor Beverly Clarenden's face as he bent over the
suffering men. For all of us who were well worked mightily to
save our plague-stricken comrades, whose couches were of prairie
grass and whose hospital roof was the starlit sky. However
forgetful Beverly might be of names and faces, his strong hand
had that soothing firmness that eased the agony of cramping
limbs. Dear Bev! He comforted the sick, and caught the dying
words, and straightened the relaxed bodies of the dead, and
smiled next day, and forgot that he had done it.
At last the night of horror passed, and day came, wan and hot and
weary out of the east. But five of our comrades would see no
earthly day again; and three dozen strong men of the day before
lay stretched upon the ground, pulseless and shrunken and purple,
with wrinkled skin and wide, unseeing eyes.
Before the sun had risen our dead, coffined only by their army
blankets, lay in unmarked graves. Our helpless living were placed
in commissary wagons, and we took the trail slowly and painfully
toward the Arkansas River.
If Charley Bent had gathered up his band to strike that night
there would have been a different chapter in the annals of the
plains.
I cannot follow with my pen the long marches of that campaign,
and there was no honorable nor glorious warfare in it. It is a
story of skirmishes, not of battles; of attack and repulse; of
ambush and pursuit and retreat. It is a story of long days under
burning skies, by whose fierce glare our brains seemed shriveling
up and the world went black before our heat-bleared eyes. A story
of hard night-rides, when weary bodies fought with watchful minds
the grim struggle that drowsiness can wage, though sleep, we
knew, meant death. It is a story of fevered limbs and bursting
pulse in hospitals whose walls were prairie distances. A story of
hunger, and exhausted rations; of choking thirst, with only
alkali water mocking at us. And never could the story all be
told. There is no rest for cavalrymen in the field. We did not
suffer heavy loss, but here and there our comrades fell, by ones,
and twos, at duty's post; and where they fell they lie, in
wayside graves, waiting for glorious mention until the last
reveille shall sound above the battlements of heaven.
And I was one among these vanguards of the plains, making the old
Santa Fé Trail safe for the feet of trade; and the wide
Kansas prairies safe for homes, and happiness, and hope, and
power. I lived the life, and toughened in its grind. But in my
dreams sometimes my other life returned to me, and a sweet face,
with a cloud of golden hair, and dark eyes looking into mine,
came like a benediction to me. Another face came sometimes
now--black, big, and glistening, with eyes of strange, far vision
looking at me, and I heard, over and over, the words of Esmond
Clarenden's cook:
"If you get into trouble, Mr. Bev, I'll come, hot streaks, to
help you."
But trouble never stuck to "Mr. Bev," because he failed to know
it when it came.
Mid-August found us at Fort Hays on the Smoky Hill, beyond whose
protecting guns the wilderness ruled. A wilderness checkered by
faint trails of lawless feet, a wilderness set with bloody claws
and poison stings and cruel fangs, and slow, agonizing death. And
with all a wilderness of weird, fascinating distances and danger,
charm and beauty. The thrill of the explorer of new lands
possessed us as we looked far into the heart of it. Here in these
August days the Cheyenne and Arapahoe and Kiowa bands were riding
trails blood-stained by victims dragged from lonely homesteads,
and butchered, here and there, to make an Indian holiday. The
scenes along the valleys of the Sappa and the Beaver and the
Prairie Dog creeks were far too brutal and revolting to belong to
modern life. Against these our Eighteenth Kansas, with a small
body of United States cavalry, struck northward from Fort Hays.
We rested through the long, hot days and marched by night. The
moon was growing toward the full, and in its clear, white
splendor the prairies lay revealed for miles about us. Our
command was small and meagerly equipped, and we were moving on to
meet a foe of overwhelming numbers. Men took strange odds with
Fate upon the plains.
Beyond the open, level lands lay a rugged region hemming in the
valley of the Prairie Dog Creek. Here picturesque cliffs and
deep, earth-walled cañons split the hills, affording easy
ambush for a regiment of red men. And here, in a triangle of a
few miles area, a new Thermopylae, with no Leonidas but Kansas
plainsmen, was staged through two long August days and nights.
One hundred and fifty of us against fifteen hundred fighting
braves.
In the early morning of a long, hot August day, we came to an
open plain beyond the Prairie Dog Creek. Our supply-wagons and
pack-mules were separated from us somewhere among the bluffs. We
had had no food since the night before, and our canteens were
empty--all on account of the blundering mismanagement of the
United States officer who cammanded us. I was only a
private, and a private's business is not to question, but to
obey. And that major over us, cashiered for cowardice later, was
not a Kansas man. Thank heaven for that!
A score of us, including my cousin and myself, under a sergeant,
and with good Scout Pliley, were suddenly ordered back among the
hills.
"Where do we go, and why?" Beverly asked me as we rode along.
"I don't know," I replied. "But Captain Jenness and a file of men
were lost out here somewhere last night. And Indian tracks step
over one another all around here. I guess we are out to find
what's lost, maybe. It isn't a twenty minutes' job, I know
that."
"And all our canteens empty, too! Why cut off all visible means
of support in a time like this? Look at these bluffs and
hiding-places, will you! A handful of Indians could scoop our
whole body up and pitch us into the Prairie Dog Creek, and not be
missed from a set in a war-dance," Beverly insisted. "Keep it
strictly in the Clarenden family, Gail, but our honorable
commander is a fool and a coward, if he is a United States
major."
"You speak as one expecting a promotion, Bev," I suggested.
"I'd know how to use it if I got it," he smiled brightly at me as
we quickened our pace not to fall behind.
Every day of that campaign Beverly grew dearer to me. I am glad
our lives ran on together for so many years.
The cañons deepened and the whole region was bewildering,
but still we struggled on, lost men searching for lost men. The
sun blazed hotly, and the soft yellow bluffs of bone-dry earth
reached down to the dry beds of one-time streams.
High noon, and still no food, no water, and no lost men
discovered. We had pushed out to a little opening, ridged in on
either side by high, brown bluffs, when a whoop came from the
head of the line.
"Yonder they are! Yonder they are!"
Half a dozen men, led by Captain Jenness, were riding swiftly to
join us and we shouted in our joy. For some among us that was the
last joyous shout. At that moment a yell from savage throats
filled the air, and the thunder of hoofs shook the ground. Over
the west ridge, half a mile away, five hundred Indians came
swooping like a hurricane down upon us. And we numbered,
altogether, twenty-nine. I can see that charge to-day: the
blinding, yellow sky, the ridge melting into a cloud of tawny
dust, the surge of ponies with their riders bending low above
them; fronting them, our little group of cavalrymen formed into a
hollow square, on foot, about our mounts; the Indians riding, in
a wide circle around us, with blankets flapping, and
streamer-decked lances waving high. And as I see, I hear again
that wild, unearthly shriek and taunting yell and fiendish
laughter. From every point the riflle-balls poured in upon
us, while out of buffalo wallow and from behind each prairie-dog
hillock a surge of arrows from unmounted Indians swept up against
us. I had been on battle-fields before, but this was a circle out
of hell set 'round us there. And every man of of knew, as we sent
back ball for ball, what capture here would mean for us before
the merciful hand of death would seal our eyes.
Suddenly, as we moved forward, the frantic circle halted and a
hundred braves came dashing in a fierce charge upon us. Their
leader, mounted on a great, white horse, rode daringly ahead,
calling his men to follow him, and taunting us with cowardice. He
spoke good English, and his voice rang clear and strong above the
din of that strange struggle. Straight on he came, without once
looking back, a revolver in each hand, firing as he rode. A
volley from our carbines made his fellows stagger, then waver,
break, and run. Not so the rider of the splendid white horse, who
dared us to strike him down as he dashed full at us.
"Come on, you coward Clarenden boys, and I'll fight you both.
I've waited all these years to do it. I dare you. Oh, I dare
you!"
It was Charlie Bent.
Nine balls from Clarenden carbines flew at him. Beverly and I
were listed among the cleverest shots in Kansas, but not one ball
brought harm to the daring outlaw. A score of bullets sung about
his insolent face, but his seemed a charmed life. Right on he
forged, over our men, and through the square to the Indian's
circle on the other side, his mocking laughter ringing as he
rode. A bloody scalp hung from his spear, and, turning 'round
just out of range of our fire, shaking his trophy high, he
shouted back:
"We got all of the balance of your men. We'll get you yet."
The sun glared fiercely on the bare, brown earth. A burning
thirst began to parch our lips. We had had no food nor drink for
more than twenty hours. Our horses, wounded with many arrows,
were harder to care for than our brave, stricken men.
Night came upon the cañons of the Prairie Dog, and with
the darkness the firing ceased. Somewhere, not far away, there
might be a wagon-train with food for us. And somewhere near there
might be a hundred men or more of our command trying to reach us.
But, whether the force and supplies were safe or the wagons were
captured and all our comrades killed, as Charlie Bent had said,
we could not know. We only knew that we had no food; that one
man, and all but four of our cavalry horses lay dead out in the
valley; that two men in our midst were slowly dying, and a dozen
others suffering from wounds of battle, among these our captain
and Scout Pliley; that we were in a wild, strange land, with
Indians perching, vulture-like, on every hill-top, waiting for
dawn to come to seize their starving prey.
We heard an owl hoot here and there, and farther off an answering
hoot; a coyote's bark, a late bird's note, another coyote, and a
fainter hoot, all as night settled. And we knew that owl and
coyote and twilight song-bird were only imitations--sentinel
signals from point to point, where Indian videttes guarded every
height, watching the trail with shadow-piercing eyes.
The glossy cottonwood leaves, in the faint night breeze, rippled
like pattering rain-drops on dry roofs in summertime, and the
thin, willow boughs swayed gently over us. The full moon swept
grandly up the heavens, pouring a flood of softened light over
the valley of the Prairie Dog, whose steep bluffs were guarded by
a host of blood-lusting savages, and whose cañons locked
in a handful of intrepid men.
If we could only slip out, undiscovered, in the dark we might
find our command somewhere along the creek. It was a perilous
thing to undertake, but to stay there was more perilous.
"Say, Gail," Beverly whispered, when we were in motion, "somebody
said once, 'There have been no great nations without
processions,' but this is the darndest procession I ever saw to
help to make a nation great. Hold on, comrade. There! Rest on my
arm a bit. It makes it softer."
The last words to a wounded soldier for whom Bev's grip eased the
ride.
It was a strange procession, and in that tragic gloom the boy's
light-hearted words were balm to me.
Silently and slowly we moved forward. The underbrush was thick on
either side of the narrow, stony way that wound between sheer
cliffs. We had torn up our blankets and shirts to muffle the
horses' feet, that no sound of hoofs, striking upon the rocky
path, might reach the ears of the Cheyenne and his allies
crouching watchfully above us. At the head marched Captain
Jenness and Scout Pliley, each with his carbine for a crutch and
leaning on each other for support. Followed five soldiers as
front guard through the defile. And then four horses, led by
careful hands, bearing nine suffering, silent men upon their
backs. Two of the horses carried three, and one bore two, and the
last horse, one--a dying boy, whispering into my ear a message
for his mother, as I held his hand. Behind us came the sergeants
with the remainder, for rear-guard. And so we passed, mile after
mile, winding in and out, to find some sheltering spot where,
sinking in exhaustion, we might sleep.
The midnight winds grew chill, and the tense strain of that slow
march was maddening, but not a groan came from the wounded men.
The vanguards of the plains knew how to take perilous trails and
hold their peace.
When the sun rose on the second day the hills about us swarmed
with savages, whose demoniac yells rent the air. Leonidas had his
back against a rock at old Thermopylae, but our Kansas plainsmen
fought in a ring of fire.
At day-dawn, our brave scout, Pliley, slipped away, and, after
long hours among the barren hills, he found the main command.
Men never gave up hope in the plains warfare, but each of us had
saved one bullet for himself, if we must lose this game. The time
for that last bullet had almost come when the sight of cavalrymen
on a distant ridge told us that our scout was on its way to us
again. It took a hero's heart to thread unseen the dangerous
trails and find our comrades with the cavalry major and bring
back aid, but Pliley did it for us--a man's part. May the sod
rest lightly where he sleeps to-day. Meantime, on the day before,
the main force of our cavalry, who had given us up for lost, had
had their own long, fearful struggle. In the early morning,
Lieutenant Stahl, scouting forward in an open plain, rushed back
to give warning of Indians everywhere. And they were
everywhere--a thousand strong against a feeble hundred caught in
their midst. They rode like centaurs, and their aim was deadly
true as they poured down, a murderous avalanche, from every
hillslope. Their ponies' tails, sweeping the ground, lengthened
by long horse-hair braids, with sticks thrust through at
intervals by way of ornament; their waving blankets, and
streamered lances held aloft; the savage roar from ten hundred
throats; the mad impetus of their furious charge through clouds
of dust and rifle smoke--all made the valley of the Prairie Dog
seem but a seething hell bursting with fiendins shouts,
shot through with quivering arrows, shattered by bullets, rocked
with the thunderous beat of horses' hoofs, trampling it into one
great maelstrom of blood and dirt.
All day, with neither food nor water, amid bewildering bluffs and
gorges, alive with savage warriors, the cavalrymen had striven
desperately. Night fell, and in the clear moonlight they forced
their way across the Prairie Dog, and neither man nor horse dared
to stop to drink because an instant's pause meant death.
And the evening and the morning were the first day. And the
second was like unto it, albeit we were no longer a triangle,
made up of wagon-train here and main command there, and our
twenty-nine--less two lost ones--under Captain Jenness, at a
third point. Before noon, our force was all united and we joined
hands for the finish.
Beverly and I rode side by side all day. Everywhere around us the
half-breed, Charlie Bent, dashed boldly on his big, white horse
calling us cowardly dogs and taunting us with lack of
marksmanship.
"I'm getting tired of that fellow, Gail. I'll pick his horse out
from under him pretty soon, see if I don't." My cousin called to
me as Bent's insolent cry burst forth:
"Come out, and let me show you how to shoot."
Beverly leaped out toward the Indian horde surrounding Bent. He
raised his carbine, and with steady aim, fired far across the
field of battle, the cleanest shot I ever saw. Years ago my
cousin had urged Uncle Esmond to let him practise shooting on
horseback. He was a master of the art now. Charlie Bent's
splendid white steed fell headlong, hurling its rider to the
ground and dragging him, face downward, in the dirt.
I cannot paint that day's deeds with my pen, nor ever artist
lived whose brush could reproduce it. If we should lose here, it
meant the turning of the clock from morning back to midnight on
the Kansas plains.
Between this and the safety of the prairies stood fewer than a
hundred and fifty men, against a thousand warriors, led by
cunning half-breeds skilled in the white man's language and the
red man's fiendishness.
If we should lose--We did not go out there to lose. When each man
does a man's part there is no failure possible at last.
As the sun sank toward late afternoon, the savage force massed
for its great, crushing blow that should annihilate us. The
strong center, made up of the flower of every tribe engaged, was
on the crest of a long, westward-reaching slope, a splendid
company of barbaric warriors--strong, eager, vengeful, doggedly
determined to finish now the struggle with the power they
hated.
The air was very clear, and in its crystal distances we could see
every movement and hear each command.
The valley rang with the taunts and jeers and threats and mocking
laughter of our foes, daring us to come out and meet them face to
face, like men. And we went out and met them face to face, like
men.
A little force of soldiery fighting, not for ourselves, but for
the hearthstones of a nobler people, our cavalry swung up that
long, western slope in the face of a murderous fire, into the
very heart of Cheyenne strength, enforced by all the iron of the
allied tribes. I marvel at it now, when, in solid phalanx, our
foes might easily have mowed us down like a thin line of standing
grain; for their numbers seemed unending, while flight on flight
of arrows and fierce sheets of rifle-fire swept our ranks as we
rode on to death or victory. But each man's face among us there
was bright with courage, and with our steady force unchecked we
swept right on to the very crest of the high slope, scattering
the enemy, at last, like wind-blown autumn leaves, until upon our
guidons victory rested and the long day was won.
I wander alone at dead of night,
But ever before me I see a light,
In darkest hours more clear, more bright;
And the hope that I bear fails never.
FREDRICH RÜCKERT.
The waters of the Smoky Hill flowed yellow, flecked with foam,
beside our camp, where, in a little grove of cottonwood trees, we
rested from a long day's march. The heat of a late Kansas summer
day was fanned away at twilight by the cool prairie breeze. There
was an appealing something in the air that evening hour that made
me homesick. So I went down beside the river to fight out my
daily battle and let the wide spaces of the landscape soothe me,
and all the opal tints of sunset skies and the soft radiance of a
prairie twilight bring me their inspiration.
Each day my heart-longing for the girl I must not love grew
stronger. I wondered, as I sat here to-night, what trail would
open for me when Beverly and Eloise should meet again, as lovers
must meet some time. We had not once spoken her name between us,
Bev and I, in all the days and nights since we had been in
service on the plains.
As I sat lonely, musing vaguely of a score of things that all ran
back to one fair face, Beverly dropped down beside me. His face
was grave and his eyes had a gentle, pleading look, something
strange and different from the man whose moods I knew.
"I'm homesick, Gail." He smiled as he spoke, and all the boy of
all the years was in that smile.
"So am I, Bev. It must be in the water here," I replied,
lightly.
But neither one misunderstood the other.
"I'd like to see Little Lees to-night. Wouldn't you?" he asked,
suddenly.
The question startled me. Maybe my cousin wanted to confide in me
here. I would not be selfish with him.
"Yes, I always like to see her. Why to-night, though?" I asked,
encouragingly.
Beverly looked steadily into my face.
"I want to tell you something, Gail. I haven't dared to speak
before, but something tells me I should speak to-night," he said
slowly.
I looked away along the winding valley of the Smoky Hill. I must
hear it some time. Why be a coward now?
"Say on, I'm always ready to hear anything from you,
Beverly."
I tried to speak firmly, and I hoped my voice did not seem
faltering to him. He sat silent a long while. Then he rose and
straightened to his full height--a splendid form of strength and
wholesomeness and grace.
"I'll tell you some time soon, but not to-night. Honor is
something with me yet."
And so he left me.
I dreamed of him that night with Eloise. And all of us were glad.
I wakened suddenly. Beverly was standing near me. He turned and
walked away, his upright form and gait, even in the faint light,
individually Bev's own. I saw him lie down and draw his blanket
about him, then sit up a moment, then nestle down again.
Something went wrong with sleep and me for a long time, and once
I called out, softly:
"Bev, can't you sleep?"
"Oh, shut up! Not if you fidget about me," he replied, with the
old happy-go-lucky toss of the head and careless tone.
It was dim dawn when I wakened. My cousin was sleeping calmly
just a few feet away. An irresistible longing to speak to him
overcame me and I slipped across and gently kicked the slumbering
form. Two cavalry blankets rolled apart. A note pinned to the
edge of one caught my eye. I stooped to read:
DEAR GAIL, Don't hate me. I'm sick of army
life. They will call me a coward and if they get me they will
shoot me for a deserter. I have disgraced the Clarenden name.
You'll never see me again. Good-bye, old boy.
BEV.
Deserter!
The yells of all the tribes in the battle on the Prairie Dog
Creek shrieked not so fiercely in my ears as that word rang now.
And all the valley of the Smoky Hill echoed and re-echoed it.
Deserter!
My Beverly--who never told a lie, nor feared a danger, nor ever,
except in self-defense, hurt a creature God had made. I could
bury Bev, or stand beside him on his wedding-day. But Beverly
disgraced! O, God of mercy toward all cowards, pity him!
I sat down beside the blankets I had kicked apart and looked back
over my cousin's life. It offered me no help. I thought of
Eloise--and his longing to see her on the night before; of his
struggle to tell me something. I knew now what that something
was. Poor boy!
He was not a boy, he was a man--strong, fearless, happy-hearted.
How could the plains make cowards out of such as he? They had
made a man of Jondo, who had all excuse to play the coward. The
mystery of the human mind is a riddle past my reading--and I had
always thought of Beverly's as an open book. The only one to whom
I could turn now was not Eloise, nor my uncle, nor Mat nor Rex,
but Jondo, John Doe, the nameless man, with whom Esmond Clarenden
had walked all these years and for whose sake he had rescued
Eloise St. Vrain. They had "toted together," as Aunty Boone had
said. Oh, Aunty Boone with dull eyes of prophecy! I could hear
her soft voice saying:
"If you get into trouble, Mr. Bev, I come, hot streaks, to help
you."
She could not come "hot streaks" now, for Beverly had deserted.
But there was Jondo.
I wrote at once to him, inclosing the crumpled note, and then, as
one who walks with neither sight nor feeling any more, I rode the
plains and did a man's part in that Eighteenth Cavalry campaign
of '67. The days went slowly by, bringing the long, bright autumn
beauty to the plains and turning all the elms to gold along the
creek at Burlingame. Time took away the sharp edge from our grief
and shame, and left the dull pain that wears deeper and deeper,
unnoticed by us; and all of us who had loved Beverly lived on and
were cheerful for one another's sake.
When Jondo--as only Jondo could--bore the news of my letter to
Esmond Clarenden, he made no reply, but sat like an image of
stone. Rex Krane broke down and sobbed as if his heart would
break. But Mat, calm, poised, and always merciful, merely
said:
"We must wait awhile."
It was many days before she broke the news to Eloise St. Vrain,
who only smiled and said:
"Gail is mistaken. Beverly couldn't desert."
It was when the word came to Aunty Boone that the storm broke.
They told me afterward that her face was terrible to see, and
that her eyes grew dull and narrow. She went out to the bluff's
edge and sat staring up the valley of the Kaw as if to see into
the hidden record of the coming years.
One October day, when the Kranes and Eloise sat with my uncle and
Jondo in the soft afternoon air, looking out at the beauty of the
Missouri bluffs, Aunty Boone loomed up before them suddenly.
"I got somebody's fortune, just come clear before me," she
declared, in her soft voice. "Lemme see you' hand, Little
Lees!"
Eloise put her shapely white hand upon the big, black paw.
Aunty Boone patted it gently, the first and last caress she ever
gave to any of us.
"You' goin' to get a letter from a dark man. You' goin' to take a
long journey. And somebody goin' with you. An' the one tellin'
this is goin' away, jus' one more voyage to desset sands again,
and see Africy and her own kingdom. Whoo-ee!"
Never before, in all the years that we had known her, had she
expressed a wish for her early home across he seas. Her voice
trailed off weirdly, and she gazed at the Kaw Valley for a long
moment. Then she said, in a low tone that thrilled her listeners
with its vibrant power:
"Bev ain't no deserter. He's gone out! Jus' gone out.
Whoo-ee!"
She disappeared around the corner of the house and stood long in
the little side porch where Beverly had kissed Little Blue Flower
one night in the "Moon of the Peach-Blossom," and Eloise had
found them there, and I had unwittingly heard what was said.
"Is there no variation in palmistry?" Rex Krane asked. "I never
knew a gypsy in all my life who read a different set of
prophecies. It's always the dark man--I'm light (darn the
luck)--and a journey and a letter. But I thought maybe an African
seer, a sort of Voodo, hoodoo, bugaboo, would have it a light man
and a legacy and company coming, instead of you taking a journey,
Eloise."
Eloise smiled.
"You musn't envy me my good fortune, Rex," she declared. "Aunty
Boone says she is going back to Africa, too. You'll need a new
cook, Uncle Esmond. Let me apply for the place right now."
My uncle smiled affectionately on her.
"I could give you a trial, as I gave her. I remember I told her
if she could cook good meals I'd keep her; if not, she'd leave.
Do you want to take the risk?"
"That's where you'll get your journey of the prophecy, Eloise,"
Jondo suggested.
"Well, you leave out the best part of it all," Mat broke in. "She
added that Beverly isn't a deserter, he's just 'gone out.' Why
don't you believe it all, serious or frivolous?"
A shadow lifted from the faces there as a glimpse of hope came
slowly in.
"And as to letters, Eloise," Uncle Esmond said, "I must beg your
pardon. I have one here for you that I had forgotten. It came
this morning."
"See if it isn't from a dark man, inviting you to take a
journey," Rex suggested.
"It must be, it's from Santa Fé," Eloise said, opening the
letter eagerly.
Aunty Boone had come back again and was standing by the corner of
the veranda, half hidden by vines, watching Eloise with steady
eyes. The girl's face grew pale, then deadly white, and her big,
dark eyes were opened wide as she dropped the letter and looked
at the faces about her.
"It is from Father Josef," she gasped. "He writes of Little Blue
Flower somewhere in Hopi-land. He asks me to go to Santa
Fé at once for her sake. And it says, too--" The voice
faltered and Eloise turned to Esmond Clarenden. "It says that
Beverly is there somewhere and he wants you. Read it, Uncle
Esmond."
As Eloise rose and laid the letter in my uncle's hand, Aunty
Boone, hidden by the vines, muttered in her soft, strange
tone:
"He's jus' gone out. Thank Jupiter! He's jus' gone out. I'm
goin', hot streaks, to help him, too. Then I go to my own desset
where I'm honin' o to be, an' stay there till the judgment Day.
Whoo-ee!"
In the early morning of a rare October day upon the plains I sat
on my cavalry horse beside Fort Hays, waiting for one last word
from my superior officer, Colonel Moore. He was my uncle's
friend, and he had been kind to the Clarenden boys, as military
kindness runs.
"You are honorably discharged," he said. "Take these letters to
Fort Dodge. You will meet your friends there, and have some
safeguard from there on, by order of General Sheridan. God bless
you, Gail. You have ridden well. I wish you a safe journey, and I
hope you'll find your cousin soon. He was a splendid boy until
this happened. He may be cleared some day."
"He is splendid still to me in spite of everything," I
replied.
"Yes, yes," my colonel responded. "Never a Clarenden disgraced
the name before. That is why General Sheridan is granting you a
squad to help you. It is a great thing to have a good name.
Good-by."
"Good-by. I thank you a thousand times," I said, saluting
him.
"And I thank you. A chain, you know, is as strong as its weakest
link. A cavalry troop is as able as its soldiers make it."
He turned his horse about, and I rode off alone across the lonely
plains a hundred miles away toward old Fort Dodge, beside the
Arkansas River. Jondo and Rex were to meet me there for one more
trip on the long Santa Fé Trail.
Late September rains had blessed the valley of the Arkansas. The
level land about Fort Dodge showed vividly green against the
yellow sand-hills across the river, and the brown, barren bluffs
westward, where a little city would one day rise in pretty
picturesqueness. The scene was like the Garden of Eden to my eyes
when I broke through the rough ridges to the north on the last
lap of my long ride thither and hurried down to the fort. I grant
I did not appear like one who had a right to enter Eden, for I
was as brown as a Malayan. Nearly four months of hard riding,
sleeping on the ground, with a sky-cover, eating buffalo meat,
and drinking the dregs of slow-drying pools, had made a plainsman
of me, of the breed that long since disappeared. Golf-sticks and
automobile steering-wheels are held by hands to-day no less
courageous than those that swung the carbine into place, and
flung aside the cavalry bridle-rein in a wild onslaught in our
epic day. Each age grows men, flanked by the coward and the
reckless daredevil.
Rex Krane was first to recognize me when I reached the fort.
"Oh, we are all here but Mat: Clarenden, Jondo, Aunty Boone, and
Little Lees; and a squad of half a dozen cavalry men are ready to
go with us." Rex drawled in his old Yankee fashion, hiding an
aching heart underneath his jovial greeting.
"All of us!" I exclaimed.
"Yes. Here they all come!" Rex retorted.
They all came, but I saw only one, veiling the joy in my eyes as
best I could. For with the face of Eloise before me, I knew the
hardest battle of my life was calling me to colors. I had
forgotten how womanly she was, or else her summer by the blessed
prairies that lap up to the edge of the quiet town of Burlingame
had brought her peace and helped her to put away sad memories of
her mother.
Behind her--a black background for her fair, golden head--was
Aunty Boone.
"Our girl was called to Santa Fé, and Daniel here goes
with her. I couldn't stay behind, of course," my uncle said. "The
Comanches are making trouble all along the Cimarron, and we will
go up the Arkansas by the old trail route. It is farther, but the
soldiers say much safer right now, and maybe just as quick for
us. There is no load of freight to hinder us--two wagons and our
mounts. Besides, the cavalrymen have some matters to look after
near the mountains, or we might not have had their protection
granted us."
The beauty of that early autumn on the plains and mountains
lingers in my memory still, though half a century has passed
since that journey on the old, long trail to Santa Fé.
At the closing of an Indian summer day we pitched our camp
outside the broken walls of old Fort Bent. Every day found me
near Eloise, although the same barrier was between us that had
risen up the day she left me in the ruined chapel by the San
Christobal River. Every day I longed to tell her what Beverly had
said to me the night he--went out. It was due her that she should
know how tenderly he had thought of her.
The night was irresistible, soft and balmy for the time of year,
as that night had been long ago when we children were marooned
inside this stronghold. A thin, growing moon hung in the crystal
heavens and all the shadowy places were softened with gray tones.
Jondo and Uncle Esmond and Rex Krane were talking together. Aunty
Boone was clearing up after the evening meal. The soldiers were
about their tasks or pastimes. Only Eloise and I were left beside
the camp-fire.
"Let's go and find the place where we spent our last evening
here, Little Lees," I said, determined to-night to tell her of
Beverly.
"And just as many other places as we can remember," Eloise
replied.
We clambered over heaps of fallen stone in the wide doorway, and
stood inside the half-roofless ruin that had been a stronghold at
the wilderness crossroads.
The outer walls were broken here and there. The wearing elements
were slowly separating the inner walls and sagging roofs. Heaps
of debris lay scattered about. Over the caving well the
well-sweep stuck awry, marking a place of danger. Everywhere was
desolation and slow destruction.
We sat down on some fallen timbers in the old court and looked
about us.
"It was a pity that Colonel Bent should have blown up this
splendid fortress, and all because the Government wouldn't pay
him his price for it," I declared.
"Destroyed what he had built so carefully, and what was so
useful," Eloise commented. "Sometimes we wreck our lives in the
same way."
I have said the twilight seemed to fit her best, although at all
times she was fair. But to-night she was a picture in her
traveling dress of golden brown, with soft, white folds about her
throat. I wondered if she thought of Beverly as she spoke. It
hurt me so to be harsh with his memory.
"Yes, Charlie Bent blew up all that the Colonel built into him,
of education and the ways of cultured folks--a leader of a Dog
Indian band, he is a piece of manhood wrecked. And by the way," I
went on, "Beverly shot his beautiful white horse on the Prairie
Dog Creek. You should have seen that shot. It was the cleanest
piece of long-range marksmanship I ever saw. He hated Bev for
that."
"Maybe he gloats over our lost Beverly to-day. He is only 'gone
out' to me," Eloise said softly.
"Let me tell you something, Little Lees. Beverly and I never
spoke of you--you can guess why--until that last night beside the
Smoky Hill. He wanted to tell me something that night."
"And did he?" Eloise asked, eagerly.
"No. He said honor was something with him still. I thought he
meant to tell me of himself and you. Forgive me. I do not want
any confidences not freely given. But now I know it was the
struggle in which he went down that night that he wanted to tell
me about. He said first, 'I'm homesick. I'd like to see Little
Lees.' And his eyes were full of sympathy as he looked at
me."
"Did he say anything more?" Eloise's voice was almost a
whisper.
"That was all. I thought that night I should hunt a lonely
trail--when he went home to claim--happiness. But now I feel that
I could live beside him always--to have him safe with us
again."
As I turned to look at Eloise something was in her big, dark
eyes--something that disappeared at once. I caught only a
fleeting glimpse of it, and I could not understand why a thrill
of something near to happiness should sweep through me. It was
but the shadow of what might have been for me and was not.
"Do you recall our prophecies here that night when we were
children?" Eloise asked.
"Yes, every one. Mat wanted a home, Bev to fight the Indians, and
you wanted me to keep Marcos Ramero in his place. I tried to do
it," I replied.
And both of us recalled, but did not speak of, the warm, childish
kiss of Little Lees upon my lips, and how we gripped hands in the
shadows when the moon went cold and grey. Life was so simple
then.
"It may be, if our problems and our tragedies crowd into our
younger years, they clear the way for all the bright, unclouded
years to follow," Eloise said, as we rose to go back to the
camp-fire.
"I hope they will leave us strong to meet the bright, unclouded
years," I answered her.
On the next day the cavalrymen left us for a time, and we went on
alone southward toward our journey's end.
Autumn on the mountain slopes, and in the mesa-girdled valleys of
New Mexico hung rainbow-tinted lights by day, with star-beam
pointed paths trailing across the blue night-sky. And all the
rugged beauty of a picturesque land, basking in lazy warmth,
out-breathing sweet, pure air, made the old trail to Santa
Fé an enchanting highway to me, despite the burden of a
grief that weighed me down. For I could not shut from my mind the
pitiful call of Little Blue Flower that had come to Eloise, nor
all the uncertainty surrounding my cousin somewhere in the
Southwest wanting us.
The little city of adobe walls seemed not to have changed a
hair's turn in the six years since I had seen it last. Out beyond
the sandy arroyo again Father Josef waited for us. The same
strong face and dark eyes, full of fire, the same erect form and
manly bearing were his. Except for a few streaks of gray in his
close-cropped hair the years had wrought no change in him, save
that his countenance betokened the greater benediction of a godly
life upon it. As we rode slowly to the door of San Miguel I fell
behind. The years since that day when the saucy little girl had
called me a big, brown, bob-cat here came back upon my mind, and,
though my hope had vanished, still I loved the old church.
Before we had passed the doorway Eloise left her wagon and stood
beside my horse.
"Gail, let us stop here with Father Josef while the others go
down to Felix Narveo's. It always seems so peaceful here."
"You are always welcome here, my children," Father Josef said,
graciously, as I leaped from my horse and stuck its lariat pin
down beside the doorway.
Inside there were the same soft lights from the high windows, the
same rare old paintings about the altar, the same seat beside the
door.
The priest spoke to us in low tones befitting sanctuary
stillness. "You have come on a long journey, but it is one of
mercy. I only pray you do not come too late," he said.
"Tell us about it, Father," Eloise urged. "The men will get the
story from Felix Narveo, but Gail and I seem to belong up here."
She smiled up at me with the words.
I could have almost hoped anew just then, but for the thought of
Beverly.
"Let us pray first," the holy man replied.
Beverly and I had been confirmed in the Episcopalian faith once
long ago, but the plains were hard on the religion of a
high-church man. And yet, all sacred forms are beautiful to me,
and I always knew what reverence means.
"You may not know," Father Josef said, "that I have Indian blood
in my veins--a Hopi strain from some French ancestors. Po-a-be,
our Little Blue Flower, is my heathen cousin, descended from the
same chief's daughter. The Hopi's faith is a part of him, like
his hand or eye, and I have never gained much with the tribe save
through blood-ties. But because of that I have their
confidence."
"You have all men's confidence, Father Josef," I said,
warmly.
"Thank you, my son," the priest replied. "When Santan, the
Apache, came back from a long raid eastward, he told Little Blue
Flower that Beverly had spared his life beside a poisoned spring
in the Cimarron valley, urging him to go back and marry her; life
had other interests now to white men who must forget all about
Indian girls, he declared, and with Apache adroitness he pressed
his claims upon her. But Santan had slain Sister Anita beside the
San Christobal Arroyo. A murderer is abhorrent to a Hopi, who
never takes life, save in self-defense or in legitimate
warfare--if warfare ever is legitimate," he added, gravely.
"My little cousin was heart-broken, for all the years since her
rescue at Pawnee Rock she had cherished one face in memory; and
maybe Beverly in his happy, careless way had given her cause to
do so."
"We understand, I think," Eloise said, turning inquiringly to
me.
I nodded, and Father Josef went on. "She knew her love was
foolish, but few of us are always wise in love. So Santan's suit
seemed promising for a time. But the Hopi type ran true in her,
and she put off the Apache year after year. It is a strange case
in Indian romance, but romance everywhere is strange enough. The
Apache type also ran true to dogged purpose. Besides being an
Apache, Santan has some Ramero blood in his veins, to be
accounted for in the persistence of an evil will. He was as
determined to win Po-a-be as she that he should fail. And he was
cunning in his schemes."
Father Josef paused and looked at Eloise.
"To make the story short," he began again, "Santan could not make
the Hopi woman hate Beverly, although she knew that her love was
hopeless, as it should be. Pardon me, daughter," Father Josef
said, gently. "She heard you two talking in a little porch one
night at the Clarenden home, and she has believed ever since that
you are lovers. That is why she sent for you to come to help her
now."
"I saw Beverly give Little Blue Flower a brotherly kiss that
night, and I told him, frankly, how it grieved me, because I had
known at St. Ann's about her love for him. I had urged her to go
with me to the Clarendens', hoping that when she saw Beverly
again she would quit dreaming of him."
I looked away, at the paintings and the crucifix above the altar,
and the long shafts of light on gray adobe walls, wondering,
vaguely, what the next act of this drama might reveal.
"Beverly was always lovable," Father Josef said. "But now the
message comes that he is out in the heart of Hopi-land, and
because Little Blue Flower is protecting him her people may turn
against her. For Beverly's sake, and for her sake, too, my
daughter, we must start at once to find her and maybe save his
life. She wants you. It is the call of sisterhood. Sister Gloria
and I will go with you. I have much influence with my Hopi
people."
"Will they put Beverly to death?" I asked.
"I cannot tell, but--see how long the arm of hate can be, my
son--Santan, the Apache, has been informed of Beverly's coming by
Marcos Ramero, gambler and debauchee. And Marcos got it in some
way from Charlie Bent, a Cheyenne half-breed, son of old Colonel
Bent, a fine old gentleman. Maybe you knew young Bent?"
"Yes, he holds a grudge against the Clarenden name because we
made him play square with us at the old fort when we were
children," I told the priest. "He yelled defiance at us in the
battle on the Prairie Dog Creek last August. Bev shot his horse
from under him just to humble the insolent dog! Beverly never was
a coward," I insisted, all my affection for my cousin
overwhelming me.
"This makes it clearer," Father Josef said. "Through Bent to
Ramero and Ramero to Santan, the word went, somehow. The Apache
has gathered up a band of the worst of his breed and they are
moving against the Hopis to get Beverly. You and Jondo and
Clarenden and Krane will join the little squad of cavalry you
left up in the mountains, and turn the Apache back, and all of us
must start at once, or we may be too late. May heaven bless our
hands and make them strong."
We bowed in reverence for a moment. When we hurried from the dim
church into the warm October sunlight, Aunty Boone sat on the
door-step beside my horse.
"'He's jus' gone out,' I told 'em so, back there on the Missouri
River. He's gone out an' I'm goin', hot streaks, to find him,
Little Lees. Whoo-ee!"
And though there's never a grave to tell,
Nor a cross to mark his fall,
Thank God! we know that he "batted well"
In the last great Game of all.
--SERVICE.
We left Santa Fé within an hour, and struck out toward the
unknown land where Beverly Clarenden, in the midst of uncertain
friends, was being hunted down by an Apache band. As our little
company passed out on the trail toward Agua Fria, I recalled the
day when we had gone with Rex Krane to this little village beside
the Santa Fé River. Eloise and Father Josef and Santan and
Little Blue Flower were all there that day; and Jondo, although
we did not know it then. Rex Krane had told Beverly, going out,
that an Indian never forgets. In all the years Santan had not
forgotten.
To-day we covered the miles rapidly. Jondo and Father Josef rode
ahead, with Esmond Clarenden and Felix Narveo following them;
then came Eloise St. Vrain with Sister Gloria; behind them, Aunty
Boone, with Rex and myself bringing up the rear. Three pack-mules
bearing our equipment went tramping after us with bobbing ears
and sturdy gait.
I looked down the line of our little company ahead. The four men
in the lead were college chums once, and all of them had loved
the mother of the girl behind them. I have said the girl looked
best by twilight. I had not seen her in a coarse-gray
riding-dress when I said that. I had seen her when she needed
protection from her enemies. I had not seen her until to-day,
going out to meet hardship fearlessly, for the sake of one who
wanted her--only an Indian maiden, but a faithful friend. In the
plainest face self-forgetfulness puts a beauty all its own. That
beauty shone resplendent now in the beautiful face of Mary
Marchland's daughter.
The world can change wonderfully in sixty minutes. As we rode out
toward the Rio Grande, the yellow sands, the gray gramma grass,
the purple sage, the tall green cliffs, and, high above, the
gleaming snow-crowned peaks, took on a beauty never worn for me
before. Why should a hope spring up within me that would die as
other hopes had died? But back of all my thought was the longing
to help Beverly, and a faith in Aunty Boone's weird, prophetic
grip on things unseen. He had just "gone out" to her--why not to
all of us? I could not understand Little Blue Flower's part in
this tragedy, so I let it alone.
A day out from Santa Fé we were joined by the little squad
of cavalrymen with whom we had parted company back at the Fort
Bent camping-place. With these we had little cause to dread
personal danger. The Apache band was a small, vicious gang that
could do much harm to the Hopis, but it seemed nothing for us to
fear.
Our care was to reach Beverly before the Hopis should rise up
against Little Blue Flower, or the band led by Santan should fall
upon them. Father Josef had sent a runner on to tell them of our
coming and to warn them of the Apache raid. But runners sometimes
come to grief.
It is easy enough now to sleep most of the hours away across the
and lands that lie between the Rockies and the Coast Range
mountains, where the great "through limiteds," swinging down
their long trail of steel, sweep farther in one day than we crept
in two long, weary weeks in that October fifty years ago. Only
Father Josef's unerring Indian accuracy brought us through.
We crawled up rugged mountain trails and skirted the rims of
dizzy chasms; we wound through cañons, with only narrow
streams for paths, between sheer walls of rock; we pitched our
camp at the bases of great, red sand stone mesas, barren of life;
we followed long, yellow ways over stretches of unending plain;
we wandered in the painted-desert lands, where all the colors God
has made bewilder with their beauty, in the barest, dreariest,
most unlovely bit of unfinished world that our great continent
holds; the lands forgotten, maybe, when, in Creation's busy week,
the evening and the morning were the sixth day, and the Great
Builder looked on His work and called it good.
We found the Hopi trails, but not the Hopi clan that we were
seeking. We found Apache trails behind them, but only dimly
marked, as if they blew one moccasin track full of sand before
they made another.
The October days were dreams of loveliness, and dawn and sunset
on the desert were indescribably beautiful. But the nights were
bitterly cold. Eloise and Sister Gloria were native to the
Southwest and they knew how to dress warmly for it. Aunty Boone
had never felt such chilling night breezes, but not one word of
complaint came from her lips in all that journey.
One night we gathered into camp beneath the shelter of a little
butte. We had overtaken Father Josef's Indian runner an hour
before. He had not found the Hopis yet, and so we held a
council.
"The Hopi is ahead of us northwest," the Indian declared.
"Is the Apache following?" Jondo asked.
The runner nodded. "They have been pursued, but they have slipped
away; the Apache goes north, they turn north-west. They take the
dry lands and the pine forests beyond; their last chance. If they
hold out till the Apache leaves, they will return safely. You
follow them, wait for them, or go back without them. It is your
choice."
We turned toward the three women, one in the bloom of her young
womanhood, one with the patient endurance of the nun, one black
and strong and always unafraid.
"I do not want to leave Little Blue Flower in her hour of peril,"
Eloise said.
"I can go where I am needed," Sister Gloria declared.
"This is my land, I never know Africa was right out here. I
thought they was oceans on both sides of it. I go where Bev's
gone out an then I come here and stay. Whoo-ee!"
We smiled at her mistaken dream of her far African home, and,
cheering one another on, when morning came we moved
northwest.
Jondo rode beside me all that day, and we talked of many
things.
"Gail," he said, "Aunty Boone is right. This is her Africa. I
don't believe she will ever leave it."
"She can't stay here, Jondo," I replied.
"She will, though. You will see. Did she ever fail to have her
way?"
"No. She is a type of her own, never to be reproduced, but like a
great dog in her faithful loyalty," I declared.
"And shrewder than most men," Jondo went on. "She supplied the
lost link with Santan for me last night. Years ago, when Little
Blue Flower brought me a message from Father Josef on the morning
that we took Eloise from Santa Fé, I caught a glimpse of
the Apache across the plaza and read the message--'trust the
bearer anywhere'--to mean that boy. Aunty Boone had just
peered out and scared the little girl away. She told me all about
it last night, when she was bewailing Beverly's hard fate. How
small a thing can open the road to a big tragedy. I trusted that
whelp till that day at San Christobal."
"I hope we will finish this soon," I said. "I don't understand
Beverly at all and I marvel at Little Blue Flower's love for him.
Don't you?"
Jondo looked up with a pathos in his dark-blue eyes.
"Don't hurry, Gail. The trails all end somewhere soon. Life is a
stranger thing from day to day, but the one thing that no man
will ever fully understand is a woman's love for man. There is
only one thing higher, and that is mother-love."
"The kind that you and Uncle Esmond have," I said.
"Oh, I am only a man, but Clarenden has a woman's heart, as you
and Beverly and my sister's child all know."
"Your sister's child?" I gasped.
"Yes. When her parents went with yellow fever, too, I could not
adopt Mat--you know why. Clarenden did it for me. She has always
known that I am her uncle, but Mat was always a self-contained
child."
I loved Mat more than ever from that hour.
The next day our trail ran into pine forests, where tall, shapely
trees point skyward. Not a dense woodland, but a seemingly
endless one. Snows lay in the darker places, and here and there
streams trickled out into the sunlight, whose only sources were
these melting snows. It was a land of silence and loneliness--a
land forgotten or unknown to record. The Hopi trail was stronger
here and we followed it eagerly, but night overtook us early in
the forest.
That evening we gathered about a huge fire of pine boughs beneath
a low stone ridge covered with evergreen trees that sheltered us
warmly from the sharp west winds. We heard the cries of
night-roving beasts, and in the darkness, now and then, a pair of
gleaming eyes, seen for an instant, and then the rush of feet,
told us that some wild creature had looked for the first time on
fire.
"To-morrow night will see our journey's end," Jondo declared.
"The Hopi can't be far away, and I'm sure they are safe yet, and
we shall reach them before the Apache does."
The Indian runner's face did not change its blankness, but I felt
that he doubted Jondo's judgment. That night he slipped away and
we never saw him again.
We were all hopeful that night, and hopeful the next morning when
we broke camp early. A trail we had not seen the night before ran
up the low ridge to the west of us. Eloise and I followed it up a
little way, riding abreast. The ridge really was a narrow, rocky
tableland, and beyond it was another higher slope, up which the
same trail ran. The trees were growing smaller and the sky flowed
broad and blue above their tops. The ground was only rock, with a
thin veneer of soil here and there. Gnarled, stunted cedars and
gray, twisted cypress clung for a roothold to these barren
ledges. The morning breeze swept, sharp and invigorating, out of
a broad open space beyond the edge of this rocky woodland height.
Eloise and I pushed on a little farther, leaving the others still
on the narrow shelf above our camping-place.
Suddenly, as we rode out of the closer timber to where the
scattered growths were hardly higher than our heads, the first
heaven and the first earth seemed to pass away--not in
irreverence I write it--and we stood face to face with a new
heaven and a new earth--where, in the Grand Cañon of the
Colorado River, the sublimity of the Almighty Builder's beauty
and omnipotence was voiced in one stupendous Word, wrought in
enduring color in everlasting stone. Cleaving its way westward to
some far-off sea, a wide abyss, a dozen miles across from lip to
lip, yawned down to the very vitals of the earth. We stood upon
the rim of it--a sheer cliff that dropped a thousand feet of
solid limestone, in one plummet line, to other cliffs below, that
dropped again through furlongs of black gneiss, red sandstone,
and gray granite.
Beyond this mighty chasm great forest trees were, to our eyes,
only as weeds along its rim. Between that rim and ours we could
look down upon high mountain buttes and sloping red tablelands,
and dizzy gorges with pinnacled walls and towers and domes--vast
forms no pen will ever picture--not hurled in wild confusion by
titan fury, but symmetrical and purposeful and calm.
Through slowly crawling millions of patiently wearing years,
while stars grew old and perished from the firmament, with cloud,
and frost, and wind, and water, and sharp cutting sands, these
strata of the old earth's crust were chiseled into gigantic
outlines, and all the worn-down, crumbled atoms of debris were
swept through long, tortuous leagues of distance toward the sea
by a mad river swirling through the lowest depths. A mile
straight down, as the crow never flies here, it rushes, but to us
the river was a mere creek, seen only where the lower gorges open
to the channel.
In the early light of that October morning the weird, vast shapes
that filled, the abyss were bathed in a bewildering opulence of
color. Pale gold along the farther rim, with pink and amber, blue
and gray, and heliotrope and rose--all blending softly, tone on
tone. Deeper, the heart of every rift and chasm that flows into
the one stupendous mother-rift was full of purple shadows. Not
the thin lavender of the upper world where we must live, but
tensely, richly regal, beyond words to paint; with silvery mists
above, soft, filmy veils that draped the jutting rocks and
rounded each harsh edge, melting pink to rose and gray to violet.
Eternal silence brooded over all this symbol, wrought in visible
form, of His Almightiness, to whom a thousand years are as a day,
and in the hollow of whose hand He holds the universe.
Measureless, motionless, voiceless, it seemed as if all the
cañons of all the mountains of our great contienent
might have given to it here their awful depth and height and
rugged strength; their picturesqueness, color, graceful outlines,
dizzy steeps and awe-inspiring lengths and breadths. And fusing
all these into itself, height on height, and breadth on breadth,
entrancing charm on charm, with all the hues that the Great
Alchemist can throw from His vast prism, it seemed to say:
"'Twas only in a vision that St. John saw the four-square city
whose twelve gates are each a single pearl! whose walls are
builded on foundation stones of jasper, sapphire, and chalcedony,
emerald and topaz, chrysolite and amethyst; whose streets are of
pure gold, like unto clear glass; whose light is ever like unto a
stone most precious.
"To you who may not dream the vision beautiful, the Mighty Maker
of all things sublime has given me a token here in finite stone
and earthly coloring of that undreamed sublimity of all things
omnipotent."
My companion and I sat on our horses speechless, gazing down at
this overwhelming marvel below us. We forgot ourselves, each
other, our companions of the journey, its purpose, Beverly, and
his enemy Santan, the desert, the brown plains, green prairies,
rivers, mountains, the earth itself, as we stood there in the
shadow of the Infinite.
At last we turned and looked into each other's eyes for one long
moment. In its space we read the old, old story through, and a
great, up-leaping joy illumined our faces. God, who had let us
know each other, had let us stand by this to feel the
barrier of misunderstanding fall away.
A sound of horses' hoofs on the rocky slope below us, a weird
Indian call, and a great shout from our calverymen drew us
to earth again. The Hopis were coming. Father Josef knew the
signal. Our Indian runner had found them in the night and sent
them toward us. We dashed into the forest, keeping close
together; and here, a mile away, under green pines, surrounded by
a little group of a desert Hopi clan, was Beverly Clarenden--big,
strong, unhurt and joyful. And Little Blue Flower.
The years since that far night when I had seen two maidens in
Grecian robes beside the Flat Rock in the "Moon of the Peach
Blossom," had left no trace on Eloise St. Vrain, save to imprint
the graces of womanliness on her girlish face. But the
picturesque Indian maiden of that night looked aged and sorrowful
in the pine forest of her native land, bent, as she was, with the
dull existence of her own people; she, who had known and loved a
different form of life. Only the big, luminous eyes held their
old charm.
We came together in a little open space with pine-trees all about
us. The minutes went swiftly then--and I must hurry to what came
hurrying on, for much of it is lost in mist and wonder.
In the moment of glad reunion Aunty Boone suddenly gave a whoop
the like of which I had never heard before, and, dashing wildly
toward Eloise and Sister Gloria, she drove them in a fierce
charge straight back into the shelter of the pine-trees.
At the same time a sudden rain of bullets, like a swift
hail-storm, and a yell--the Apache cry of vengeance--filled the
air. Long afterward we learned that our Indian runner had met
this band and tried to turn it back--and failed. He would have
saved us if he could.
It was over soon--that encounter in the forest where each tree
was a shield. The cavalrymen and maybe, too, we who had been
plainsmen, knew how to drive back a villianous handful of
Apaches. In any other moment since we had ridden out of Sante
Fé we would have laughed at such a struggle. They
took us in the most unguarded instant of that fortnight's
journey.
The Hopis fled wildly out of sight. Here and there, from the
defeated, scattered band, an Apache warrior sprang back and lost
himself quickly in the shadows. But Santan, plunging into our
very midst, seized Little Blue Flower in his iron grip, and the
bullet from a cavalry carbine, meant for him, struck her.
He laughed and threw her back and, whirling, dashed--into the
arms of Aunty Boone--and stopped.
We carried our wounded tenderly up the steep wooded slope and out
into the sweet sunlight of its crest, where we laid them down
beside that wondrous rift with its shimmering mist and velvet
shadows, and colorings of splendor, folded all in the
magnificence of its immensity and its eternal silence.
We knew that Jondo's wound was mortal, and Father Josef and
Eloise and Rex Krane sat beside him, as the brave eyes looked out
across the sublimity of earthly beauty toward the far land no eye
hath seen, facing, unafraid, the outward-leading trail.
But Beverly was in the prime of young manhood, and we felt sure
of him, as Esmond Clarenden and Sister Gloria; and I ministered
to his wants.
"It's no use, Gail." My cousin lifted a pleading face to mine a
moment, as on that day, years ago on the parade-ground at Fort
Leavenworth. Then the bright smile came back to stay.
"Why, Bev, you have a life before you, and you aren't the only
Eighteenth Kansas man who deserted. We can pull you through
somehow--and people will forget. Even General Sheridan was
willing to send a squad with us, on the possibility of a mistake
somewhere."
"Deserted!" Beverly's voice was too strong for a dying man's.
"Uncle Esmond, Jondo, Eloise--all of you--Gail calls me a
deserter. Me! Knock him over that precipice, won't some of
you?"
We listened eagerly as he went on:
"Why, don't you know that Charlie Bent and his renegade dogs
crawled into camp like snakes and carried me out by force. They
had a time of it, too, but never mind. Bent told me he left a
note for you. I supposed he would say I was dead. And when Gail
stirred, half awake, he went pacing around the camp, looking so
near like me I thought it was myself and I was Charlie Bent. I
was roped and gagged then, but I could see. Deserter! I'm glad I
got that white horse of his on the Prairie Dog Creek,
anyhow."
Beverly's face paled suddenly and he lay still a little
while.
"I'd better hurry." The smile was winsome. "They didn't give me a
ghost of a chance to escape, but they didn't harm a hair. They
kept me for a meaner purpose, and, well, I was landed, finally,
at Santan's door-step in the Apache-land. Santan offered to let
me go free if I'd persuade Little Blue Flower--dead down
there--to marry him. He had her come to me on pretense of my
sending for her. She hated the brute, and she was a woman, if she
was an Indian. I told him I'd see him in hell first, and I told
her never to give in. Poor girl! It was a cruel test, but Santan
knew how to be cruel. He said he'd fix me, and I guess he has
done it."
"Oh no, Bev. You are good for a century," I declared,
affectionately, holding his head on my knee.
"Little Blue Flower managed, somehow, to fool the Apache dog, and
we escaped and got away to her people," Beverly continued,
speaking more slowly, "then she sent word to Father Josef. But
the Hopi folks were scared about the Apaches coming against them
on account of harboring me, like a Jonah, among 'em; and they
were going to make it hard for Little Blue Flower. I don't know
heathen ethics in such things, but a handful of us had to cut for
it. I'm no deserter, though. Don't forget that. As soon as I
could be sure the little Indian woman's life was safe I was going
to get away and come home. I could not leave her to be sacrificed
after she had saved me from Santan's scalping-knife."
Beverly paused and looked at us. His voice seemed weaker when he
spoke again:
"I thought, sometimes, that even if I wasn't to blame for it, I
ought to take Little Blue Flower with me when I got away. Dear
little girl! she gave me one smile and whispered 'Lolomi'
before she went just now. I told her long ago I was just
everybody's friend. I never meant to spoil anybody's life, and I
can meet her down at the end of the trail and never fear."
Just then a half-wailing, half-purring cry came from Aunty Boone,
who was standing beside a gnarled cypress-tree.
"I knowed the morning we picked up Little Blue Flower, back at
Pawnee Rock, we was pickin' up trouble for the rest of the trail.
I see it then. You can trust a nigger 'cause they never no
'count, but you don't know what you gettin' when you trust an
Indian. But, Cla'nden, that Apache Indian, Santan, ain't goin' to
trouble you no more. When the world ain't no fit place for folks
they needs helpin' out of it, and I sees to it they gets it, too.
Whoo-ee!" She paused and leaned against the crooked cypress. Half
turning her face toward us, she continued in a clear, soft
voice:
"That man they call Ramero down in Santy Fee--I knowed him when
he was just Fred Ramer back in the rice-fields country. His
father, old man Ramer, tried to kill me once, 'cause he said I
knowed too much. I helped him into kingdom come right then and
saved a lot of misery. They blamed some other folks, I guess, but
they never hunted me up at all. Good-by, Clan'den, and you, too,
Felix, and Dick Verra. I've knowed you all these years, but
nobody takes no 'count of niggers' knowin's. Good-by, Little
Lees, and all you boys. I'll see you again pretty soon, I'm goin'
back to my desset now. It's over yonder just a little way.
Jondo--but you won't be John Doe then. Whoo-ee!"
Aunty Boone slowly settled down beside the cypress, with her face
toward her beloved "desset," and when we went to her a little
later, her eyes, still looking eastward, saw nothing earthly any
more forever.
Jondo's face seemed glorified as he caught Aunty Boone's last
words, and his voice was sweet and clear as he looked up at
Eloise bending over him.
"Thank God! It is all made right at last. Eloise, the charge of
murder against your father's name would have broken the heart of
the woman that I always loved--your mother. One of us had to bear
the shame. I took the guilt on myself for her sake--and for
yours. I have walked the trails of my life a nameless man, but I
have kept my soul clean in God's sight, and I know His name will
soon be written on my forehead over there."
He gazed out toward the glorious beauty of the view beyond him,
then closed his eyes, and, bravely as he had lived, so bravely he
went forth on the Long Trail, leaving a name sweet with the
perfume of self-sacrifice and love.
We did not speak of him to Beverly, for our boy had suddenly
grown restless, and his blood was threshing furiously in his
veins, and he was in pain, but only briefly.
Presently he said, "Let us be alone a little." The others drew
away.
"Lean down, Gail. I want to tell you something." He smiled
sweetly upon me as I bent over him.
"I tried to tell you back on the Smoky Hill, but I'd promised not
to. And honor was something to me still. But I'm going pretty
soon. So listen! I loved Eloise always--always. But she never
cared for me. She was only my good chum. I've been too
happy-hearted all my days, though, Gail, to make a cross of
anything that would break me down. Men differ so, you know, and I
never was a dreamer like you. Turn me a little, won't you, so
that I can see that awful beauty down there."
I lifted his shoulders gently and placed him where his eyes could
rest on the majestic scene spread out before him.
"Eloise loves you, but she thinks you would not marry her because
they say her father was a murderer. I don't believe that, Gail. I
told her that you didn't, either, not one little minute. You care
for her, I know, and losing her will break your heart. I tried to
tell you long ago, but Little Lees made me promise not to say a
word that night at Burlingame when you had gone away and I
thought maybe I had a half-chance with her. Tell me you'll make
her happy, Gail."
"Oh, Beverly, I'll do my best," I murmured, softly.
"Come closer, Gail. Look at those colors there. Is it so far
across, or only seeming so? And see the soft white clouds drop
purple shadows down. Is that the way the trail runs? How
beautiful it must be farther on. Good-by, old boy of my heart's
heart, and don't forget, however long the years, and wide away
your feet may go, to keep the old trail law. 'Hold fast.'"
We laid them away in the deep pine forest--Aunty Boone, of
strange, prophetic vision; Santan, the cruel Indian; the loyal
Hopi maiden; Jondo and Beverly. God made them all and in His
heaven they will be rightly placed.
Beside the cañon's rim, in the soft twilight hour of that
October day, Eloise St. Vrain and I plighted our troth, till
death us do part--for just a little while. Plighted it not in
happy, selfish affection, such as youth and maiden give,
sometimes, each to each; but in the deep, marvelous love of man
and woman pledged where, in sacred moments on that day, we had
seen the mortal put on immortality. To us there could be no
grander, richer, lovelier setting for life's best and holiest
hour than here, where, upon things finite, there rests the
beneficent uplifting beauty that shadows forth the Infinite.
The heart that's never old! Oh the heart that's never old!--
'Tis a vision of the lavender, the crimson and the gold
Of an airy, fairy morning, when the sky is all ablaze
With an ever-changing splendor, driving back the gloom and
haze!
'Tis the vision of an orchard in the balmy month of May,
Where the birds are ever singing, and the leaves are ever
gay;
Where the sun is ever shining with a glory never told,
And the trees are ever blooming--for the heart that's never
old!
--JAMES E. HILKEY.
The summers and winters of fifty golden years have brought to the
plains their balmy breezes and blazing heat, their soft,
life-giving showers, and their fierce, blizzard anger. And down
through these fifty years Eloise St. Vrain and I have walked the
love trails of the plains together.
In the early spring of this, our "golden-wedding" year, we sat on
the veranda of our suburban home in Kansas City, above the
picturesque Cliff Drive, rippling with automobiles. The same
drive winds in its course somewhere near the old, rough road that
once led from the Clarenden home, above the valley of the Kaw,
down to the little city of great promise--now fulfilled.
"Eloise, youth may have a charm that is all its own," I said to
my wife, "but I wonder if it really matches the enduring charm of
age when one looks back on busy years of service."
Eloise smiled up at me--the same gracious smile that has lighted
all my days with her.
"You are a dreamer still, Gail. But dreams do so sweeten life and
keep the fires of romance forever burning."
"When did romance begin with you, Little Lees?" I asked.
"I think it was on that day when I came bounding up to the door
of the old San Miguel church," Eloise replied, "and saw you
looking like a big, brown bob-cat, or something else, that might
have slept in the Hondo 'Royo all your life. But withal a boy so
loyal to the helpless that you were willing to fight for me
against an assailant bigger than yourself. You became my prince
in that hour, and all my dreams since then have been of you. When
did romance begin with you, or have you forgotten in the busy
years of a life swallowed up in mercantile pursuits?"
"My life may have been, as you say, swallowed up in building
trade that builds empire, but I have never forgotten the things
that make it fine to me," I answered her. "Romance for me began
one day, long ago, out on the parade-ground at Fort Leavenworth.
I've been a Vanguard of the Plains since then, bull-whacker for
the ox-teams that hauled the commerce of the West; cavalryman in
hard-wearing Indian campaigns that defended the frontier; and
merchant, giving measure for measure always, like that grand man
who taught me the worth of business--Esmond Clarenden."
"On the parade-ground? How there?" Eloise asked.
"It came the day that I first knew we were to go with Uncle
Esmond to Santa Fé--for you. We didn't know that it was
for you then. I think I was born again that day into a daring
plainsman, who had been a sort of baby-boy before. I sat with Mat
and Beverly on the edge of the parade-ground, when I looked up to
see, with a boy's day-dreaming eyes, somewhere this side of misty
mountain peaks, a vision of a cloud of golden hair about a sweet
child face, with dark eyes looking into mine. That vision stayed
with me until, one morning, fifty years ago, on the rim of the
Grand Cañon--you looked into my eyes again and I knew my
life dream had come true."
I rose and, bending over my wife's cloud of beautiful silvery
hair, I kissed her gently on each fair cheek.
"Gail, why not take the old trail for our golden-wedding
anniversary--a long journey, clear to the mountains?" Eloise
suggested.
"There is no trail now; only its ghost haunting the way," I
replied, "but, Little Lees, I don't believe that we who look back
on so many happy years, after the stormy ones of early life,
could find any other path half so dear to us as that long path we
knew in childhood and early youth, and the one we followed
together in our first years of mature womanhood and manhood."
And so we did not celebrate one October day with all of our
children and grandchildren and friends coming to offer us gold
coins, gold-headed canes--which I do not use--and gold-rimmed
glasses for eyes that see farther and clearer than my spectacled
grandsons at the university can see to-day. We made a golden
summer of the thing and followed where, like a will-o'-the-wisp
of memory, the Santa Fé Trail of threescore years ago
reached from the raw frontier at Independence on to the Missouri
bluffs, clear to the sunny valley of the Holy Faith.
Only a headstone at long intervals shows the way now--a stone
that well might read:
Here ran the old Santa Fé Trail. This
stone, set here, is sacred to
the memory of the Vanguards of the Plains who followed it.
They stand, these "markers" now, on hilltops and in deep
valleys; by country crossroads and where main streets cut each
other in the towns and villages. They ornament the city parks,
they show where splendid concrete bridges, re-enforced with
structural steel, span streams that once the ox-teams doubled and
trebled strength to ford. They gleam where corn grows tall and
black on fertile prairies; where seas of wheat have flooded
barren, burning plains, and perfumey alfalfa sweetens the air
above what was once grassless desolation. They whisper of a day
gone by among the silent mountains, where tunnels let the iron
trail run easily under the old trail's dizzy path. They nestle in
the shadows of gray-green cliffs and by red mesa heights; until
the last monument, sacred to the memory of a day forgotten,
speaks at the corner of the old Plaza in the heart of Santa
Fé.
That was a journey long to be remembered--the long,
golden-wedding journey of Gail Clarenden with his wife, Eloise
St. Vrain, and all of it was sweet with memories of other days.
Not in peril and privation and uncertainty did we follow the
trail now. The Pullman has replaced the Conestoga wagon, dainty
viands the coarse food smoke-blackened over camp-fires, and never
fear of Kiowa nor Comanche broke our slumber. The long shriek
that cuts the air of dawn was not from wild marauders on a
daybreak raid down lonely cañons, but from the throats of
splendid, steel-wrought engines swinging forth upon their solid,
certain course.
The prairies still lap up to the edges of the little town of
Burlingame, whose main street is still the old trail's path. The
well has long since disappeared from the center of the place.
Where once the thirsty gathered here to drink, there stands a
monument sacred to the memory of the old trail days. And sacred,
too, to the memory of the one far-visioned woman, Fannie Geiger
Thompson, who first conceived the thought of marking for the
coming generations the course of commerce that built up the West
in years gone by.
We never lived in Burlingame, where once--a heart-hungry little
boy--I longed to have a home. But the Krane children and their
children's children still make it an abiding-place for us.
To Council Grove, and old Pawnee Rock, the Cimarron Crossing of
the Arkansas River, the open plain about the site of old Fort
Bent--where only ghosts of walls and the court remain, and on to
Santa Fé, dreamy and picturesque--hoary with age, and
sweet with sacred memories, we wandered on our golden-wedding
trail.
The name of Narveo in New Mexico still stands for gentleman. The
old church of San Miguel still shelters troubled hearts, and in
the San Christobal valley the Pictured Rocks still build up a
rude stair for feet that still may need the sanctuary rim of
safety set about them. Along the length of the old trail a
marvelous fifty years have enriched a history whose epic days
record the deeds of vanguards, who foreran and builded for the
softer days of golden-wedding years. The last lap of all that
wondrous journey bore us in ease and comfort beyond the
desert--the Africa, of Aunty Boone's weird fancy--to the Grand
Cañon of the Colorado. Here, as of old, the riven crust,
in its eternal silence, and sublimity, and beauty indescribable,
calmly, year by year, reveals its mighty purpose:
To quarry the heart of earth,
Till, in the rock's red rise,
Its age and birth, through an awful girth
Of strata, should show the wonder-worth
Of patience to all eyes.
Amid luxurious surroundings we lived the October days upon the
cañon's rim, where, half a century ago, we had gone in
hardship and looked on tragedy. We crept down all the dizzy
lengths to the very heart of it, and ate and slept in easy
comfort, and gazed upward at the sky-cleaving edges thousands of
feet above us; we stood beside the raging Colorado River, which
no man had explored when we first looked upon it here. In the
serene hours of our sunset years we went back in memory over the
long way our feet had come. Life is easy for us now, made so by
all the splendid, simple forces of those who, in justice,
honesty, and broad human sympathy build enduring empire. Not
empire gained by bomb and liquid fire, defended by sharp
entanglement and cross-trenched to shut out enemies; but empire
builded on the commerce of the land, value for value; empire of
bridged rivers, quick transportation on steel-marked trails that
girdle harvest fields and fruitful pastures; empire of homes and
schools and sacred shrines.
Our fifty golden years have seen such empire rise and grow before
our eyes, made great by thrift and business sense, swayed by the
Golden Rule. An empire rich in love and sweet romance and
thrilling deeds of courage and self-sacrifice. Glad am I to have
been a vanguard of its trails upon the Kansas prairies and the
far Western plains, sure now, as always down the years, that its
old law is still a righteous one: To that which is good--
"HOLD FAST."
THE WORLD FOR SALE THE MONEY MASTER THE JUDGMENT HOUSE THE RIGHT OF WAY THE LADDER OF SWORDS THE WEAVERS THE BATTLE OF THE STRONG WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING NORTHERN LIGHTS PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE AN ADVENTURER OF THE NORTH A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS CUMNER'S SON, AND OTHER SOUTH SEA FOLK |
THE RISING TIDE.
Illustrated AROUND OLD CHESTER. Illustrated THE COMMON WAY. 16mo DR. LAVENDAR'S PEOPLE. Illustrated AN ENCORE. Illustrated GOOD FOR THE SOUL. Illustrated THE HINDS OF ESAU. Illustrated THE AWAKENING OF HELENA RICHIE. Illustrated THE IRON WOMAN. Illustrated OLD CHESTER TILES. Illustrated PARTNERS. Illustrated R.J.'S MOTHER. Illustrated THE VOICE. Illustrated THE WAY TO PEACE. Illustrated WHERE THE LABORERS ARE FEW. Illustrated |
The New Thin-Paper Edition of the greatest living English
novelist is issued in two bindings: Red Limp-Leather and Red
Flexible Cloth, 12mo. Frontispiece in each volume.
DESPERATE REMEDIES FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD A GROUP OF NOBLE DAMES THE HAND OF ETHELBERTA JUDE THE OBSCURE A LAODICEAN LIFE'S LITTLE IRONIES THE MAYOR OF CASTERBRIDGE A PAIR OF BLUE EYES THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES THE TRUMPET MAJOR TWO ON A TOWER UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE THE WELL-BELOVED WESSEX TALES THE WOODLANDERS |
In this book of leisurely wanderings the author journeys among the various holiday resorts of the United States from Maine to Atlantic City, Newport, Bar Harbor, the Massachusetts beaches, Long Island Sound, the Great Lakes, Niagara, ever-young Greenbriar White and other Virginia Springs, Saratoga, White Mountains, the winter resorts of Florida, the Carolinas and California. Illustrated in Color
All those who are on the lookout for an unusual way to spend a vacation will find suggestions here. This book of leisurely travel in New Hampshire and Vermont has been reprinted to meet the demand for a work that has never failed to charm since its first publication more than a decade ago. Illustrated
In this book the author gives a chatty account of his trip along the outskirts of Australian civilization. The big cities were merely passed through, and the journeying was principally by stage-coach, on camel-back, or by small coastal steamers from Western Australia to New Guinea. Illustrated in Tint
The California of to-day and the
California of yesterday with its picturesque story, are set forth
in this book by the one writer who could bring to it the skill
united with that love for the task of a Californian-born,
Gertrude Atherton. This story of California covers the varied
history of the state from its earliest geological beginnings down
to the California of 1915. Illustrated
[Transcriber's note: The spelling irregularities of the original have been preserved in this etext.]