Before we had passed the doorway Eloise left her wagon and stood beside my horse.

“Gail, let us stop here with Father Josef while the others go down to Felix Narveo’s.  It always seems so peaceful here.”

“You are always welcome here, my children,” Father Josef said, graciously, as I leaped from my horse and stuck its lariat pin down beside the doorway.

Inside there were the same soft lights from the high windows, the same rare old paintings about the altar, the same seat beside the door.

The priest spoke to us in low tones befitting sanctuary stillness.  “You have come on a long journey, but it is one of mercy.  I only pray you do not come too late,” he said.

“Tell us about it, Father,” Eloise urged.  “The men will get the story from Felix Narveo, but Gail and I seem to belong up here.”  She smiled up at me with the words.

I could have almost hoped anew just then, but for the thought of Beverly.

“Let us pray first,” the holy man replied.

Beverly and I had been confirmed in the Episcopalian faith once long ago, but the plains were hard on the religion of a high-church man.  And yet, all sacred forms are beautiful to me, and I always knew what reverence means.

“You may not know,” Father Josef said, “that I have Indian blood in my veins—­a Hopi strain from some French ancestors.  Po-a-be, our Little Blue Flower, is my heathen cousin, descended from the same chief’s daughter.  The Hopi’s faith is a part of him, like his hand or eye, and I have never gained much with the tribe save through blood-ties.  But because of that I have their confidence.”

“You have all men’s confidence, Father Josef,” I said, warmly.

“Thank you, my son,” the priest replied.  “When Santan, the Apache, came back from a long raid eastward, he told Little Blue Flower that Beverly had spared his life beside a poisoned spring in the Cimarron valley, urging him to go back and marry her; life had other interests now to white men who must forget all about Indian girls, he declared, and with Apache adroitness he pressed his claims upon her.  But Santan had slain Sister Anita beside the San Christobal Arroyo.  A murderer is abhorrent to a Hopi, who never takes life, save in self-defense or in legitimate warfare—­if warfare ever is legitimate,” he added, gravely.

“My little cousin was heart-broken, for all the years since her rescue at Pawnee Rock she had cherished one face in memory; and maybe Beverly in his happy, careless way had given her cause to do so.”

“We understand, I think,” Eloise said, turning inquiringly to me.

I nodded, and Father Josef went on.  “She knew her love was foolish, but few of us are always wise in love.  So Santan’s suit seemed promising for a time.  But the Hopi type ran true in her, and she put off the Apache year after year.  It is a strange case in Indian romance, but romance everywhere is strange enough.  The Apache type also ran true to dogged purpose.  Besides being an Apache, Santan has some Ramero blood in his veins, to be accounted for in the persistence of an evil will.  He was as determined to win Po-a-be as she that he should fail.  And he was cunning in his schemes.”