The faint rose hue of early dawn was touching the highest peaks of the Sandia and Jemez mountain ranges, while the valley of the Rio Grande still lay asleep under dull night shadows, when five ponies and their riders left the door of San Miguel church and rode southward in the slowly paling gloom.  In the stillness of the hour the ponies’ feet, muffled in the sand of the way, seemed to clatter noisily, and their trappings creaked loudly in the dead silence of the place.  Little Blue Flower, no longer in her Mexican dress, led the line.  Behind her Beverly and the white-faced nun of St. Ann’s rode side by side; and behind these came Eloise St. Vrain and myself.  From the church door Jondo had watched us until we melted into the misty shadows of the trail.

“Go carefully and fearlessly and ride hard if you must.  But the struggle will be here with me to-day, not where you are,” he assured us, when we started away.

As he turned to leave the church, an Indian rose from the shadows beyond it and stepped before him.

“You remember me, Santan, the Apache, at Fort Bent?” he questioned.

Jondo looked keenly to be sure that his memory fitted the man before him.

“Yes, you are Santan.  You brought me a message from Father Josef once.”

The Indian’s face did not change by the twitch of an eyelash as he replied.

“I would bring another message from him.  He would see you an hour later than you planned.  The young riders, where shall I tell him they have gone?”

“To the old ranch-house on the San Christobal Arroyo,” Jondo replied.

The Indian smiled, and turning quickly, he disappeared up the dark street.  A sudden thrill shook Jondo.

“Father Josef said I could trust that boy entirely.  Surely old Dick Verra, part Indian himself, couldn’t be mistaken.  But that Apache lied to me.  I know it now; and I told him where our boys are taking Eloise.  I never made a blunder like that before.  Damned fool that I am!”

He ground his teeth in anger and disgust, as he sat down in the doorway of the church to await the coming of Ferdinand Ramero and his son, Marcos.

Out on the trail our ponies beat off the miles with steady gait.  As the way narrowed, we struck into single file, moving silently forward under the guidance of Little Blue Flower, now plunging into dark canons, where the trail was rocky and perilous, now climbing the steep sidling paths above the open plain.  Morning came swiftly over the Gloriettas.  Darkness turned to gray; shapeless masses took on distinctness; the night chill softened to the crisp breeze of dawn.  Then came the rare June day in whose bright opening hour the crystal skies of New Mexico hung above us, and about us lay a landscape with radiant lights on the rich green of the mesa slopes, and gray levels atint with mother-of-pearl and gold.