The last light of day was lost over the western ridge.  The moon was beginning to swell big and yellow through the trees.  Twilight was darkening into night.  Bill Banney and Rex Krane had joined us now, for every hour we were learning to keep closer together.  Jondo threw more wood on the fire, and we nestled about it in snug, homey fashion as if we were to listen to a fairy-tale—­three children slipping fast out of childhood into the stern, hard plains life that tried men’s souls.  As we listened, the older men told of the perils as well as the fascinating adventures of trail life, that we might understand what lay before us in the unknown days.  And then they told us stories of the plains, and of the quaint historic things of Santa Fe; of El Palacio, home of all the Governors of New Mexico; an Indian pueblo first, it may have been standing there when William the Norman conquered Harold of the Saxon dynasty of England; or further back when Charlemagne was hanging heathen by the great great gross to make good Christians of them; or even when old Julius Caesar came and saw and conquered, on either side of the Rubicon, this same old structure may have sheltered rulers in a world unknown.  They told us of the old, old church of San Miguel, a citadel for safety from the savage foes of Spain, a sanctuary ever for the sinful and sorrowing ones.  And of the Plaza—­sacred ground whereon by ceremonial form had been established deeds that should change the destinies of tribes and shape the trend of national pride and power in a new continent.  And of La Garita, place of execution, facing whose blind wall the victims of the Spanish rule made their last stand, and, helpless, fell pierced by the bullets of the Spanish soldiery.

And we children looked into the dying camp-fire and builded there our own castles in Spain, and hoped that that old flag to which we had thrown good-by kisses such a little while ago would one day really wave above old Santa Fe and make it ours to keep.  For, young as we were, the flag already symbolized to us the protecting power of a nation strong and gentle and generous.

“The first and last law of the trail is to ‘hold fast,’” Jondo said, as we broke up the circle about the camp-fire.

“If you can keep that law we will take you into full partnership to-night,” Esmond Clarenden added, and we knew that he meant what he said.

IV

THE MAN IN THE DARK

  A stone’s throw from either hand,
  From that well-ordered road we tread,
  And all the world is wide and strange. 
                              —­KIPLING

“We shall come to the parting of the ways to night if we make good time, Krane,” Esmond Clarenden said to the young Bostonian, as we rested at noon beside the trait.  “To-night we camp at Council Grove and from there on there is no turning back.  I had hoped to find a big crowd waiting to start off from that place.  But everybody we have met coming in says that there are no freighters going west now.  Usually there is no risk in coming alone from Council Grove to the Missouri River, and there is always opportunity for company at this end of the trail.”