On the outermost corner of the structure, overlooking the eddying, foaming bend of the San Juan, rose the isolated tower.  It contained a single room, walled with hard-finish and profusely etched with figures in vermilion.  No furniture anywhere, nor utensils, nor relics, excepting bits of pottery, precisely such as is made now by the Moquis, various in color, red, white, grayish, and black, much of it painted inside as well as out, and all adorned with diamond patterns and other geometrical outlines.

“I have seen Casas Grandes in other places,” said Coronado, “but nothing like this.  This is the only one that I ever found entire.  The others are in ruins, the roofs fallen in, the beams charred, etc.”

“This was not taken,” decided the Lieutenant, after a tactical meditation.  “This must have been abandoned by its inhabitants.  Pestilence, or starvation, or migration.”

“We can beat off all the Apaches in New Mexico,” observed Coronado, with something like cheerfulness.

“We can whip everything but our own stomachs,” replied Thurstane.

“We have as much food as those devils.”

“But water?” suggested the forethoughted West Pointer.

It was a horrible doubt, for if there was no water in the enclosure, they were doomed to speedy and cruel death, unless they could beat the Indians in the field and drive them away from the rivulet.

CHAPTER XX.

When Thurstane came out of the Casa Grande he would have given some years of his life to know that there was water in the enclosure.

Yet so well disciplined was the soul of this veteran of twenty-three, and so thoroughly had he acquired the wise soldierly habit of wearing a mask of cheer over trouble, that he met Clara and Mrs. Stanley with a smile and a bit of small talk.

“Ladies, can you keep house?” he said.  “There are sixteen rooms ready for you.  The people who moved out haven’t left any trumpery.  Nothing wanted but a little sweeping and dusting and a stair carpet.”

“We will keep house,” replied Clara with a laugh, the girlish gayety of which delighted him.

Assuming a woman’s rightful empire over household matters, she began to direct concerning storage, lodgment, cooking, etc.  Sharp as the climbing was, she went through all the stories and inspected every room, selecting the chamber in the tower for herself and Mrs. Stanley.

“I never can get up in this world,” declared Aunt Maria, staring in dismay at the rude ladder.  “So this is what Mr. Thurstane meant by talking about a stair carpet!  It was just like him to joke on such a matter.  I tell you I never can go up.”

“Av coorse ye can get up,” broke in little Sweeny impatiently.  “All ye’ve got to do is to put wan fut above another an’ howld on wid yer ten fingers.”

“I should like to see you do it,” returned Aunt Maria, looking indignantly at the interfering Paddy.