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.