“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 Fe 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: