And then I looked to the eastward and hope sprang to life within me.  A wagon-train was crawling slowly toward Pawnee Rock.  Tears drenched my eyes until I could hardly count the wagons—­twenty, thirty, forty.  It must be far in the afternoon now, and they might encamp here.  But they seemed to be hurrying.  I could not see for pain, but I knew they were near the headland now.  I could hear the rattle of the wagon-chains and the tramp of feet and shouts of the bull-whackers.  I tugged masterfully at my bonds.  It was a useless effort.  I tried to shout, but only low moans came forth from my parched lips.  I strove and raged and prayed.  The wagons hurried on and on, a long time, for there were many of them.  Then the rattling grew fainter, the voices were far off, the thud of hoof-beats ceased.  The train had passed the Rock, never dreaming that a man lay dying in sight of the succor they would so gladly have given.

The sun began to strike in level rays across the land, and the air was cooler, but I gave no heed to things about me.  Death was waiting—­slow, taunting death.  The stars would be kind again to-night as they had been last night, but death crouching between me and the starlight, was slowly crawling up Pawnee Rock.  Oh, so slowly, yet so surely creeping on.  The sun was gone and a tender pink illumined the sky.  The light was soft now.  If death would only steal in before the glare burst forth.  I forgot that night must come first.  Pity, God of heaven, pity me!

And then the Presence came, and a sweet, low voice—­I hear it still sometimes, when sunsets soften to twilight, “My presence shall go with thee, and I will give thee rest." I felt a thrill of triumph pulse through my being.  Unconquered, strong, and glad is he who trusts.

“I shall not die.  I shall live, and in God’s good time I shall be saved.”  I tried to speak the words, but I could not hear my voice.  My pains were gone and I lay staring at the evening sky all mother-of-pearl and gold above my head.  And on my lips a smile.

And so they found me at twilight, as a tired child about to fall asleep.  They did not cry out, nor fall on my neck, nor weep.  But Bill Banney’s strong arms carried me tenderly away.  Water, food, unbound swollen limbs, bathed in the warm Arkansas flow, soft grass for a bed, and the eyes of the big plainsman, my childhood idol, gentle as a girl’s, looking unutterable things into my eyes.

I’ve never known a mother’s love, but for that loss the Lord gave me—­Jondo.

XIII

IN THE SHELTER OF SAN MIGUEL

Fear not, dear love, thy trial hour shall be
The dearest bond between my heart and thee. 
—­ALL THE YEAR ROUND.

When we reached the end of the trail and entered a second time into Santa Fe 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.