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 Fe Trail.  I was hardly conscious of any purpose of direction until I came to the half-dry Santa Fe 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: