Few handsomer men ever graced a saddle.  Big, broad-shouldered, muscular, yet agile, a head set like a Greek statue, and a face—­nobody could ever make a picture of Jondo’s face for me—­the curling brown hair, soft as a girl’s, the broad forehead, deep-set blue eyes, heavy dark brow, cheeks always ruddy through the plain’s tan, strong white teeth, firm square chin, and a smile like sunshine on the gray prairies.  Eyes, lips, teeth—­aye, the big heart behind them—­all made that smile.  No grander prince of men ever rode the trails or dared the dangers of the untamed West.  I did not know his story for many years.  I wish I might never have known it.  But as he began with me, so he ended—­brave, beloved old Jondo!

Down on the parade-ground Beverly Clarenden and Mat Nivers were sitting with their feet crossed under them, tailor fashion, facing each other and talking earnestly.  Over by the fort, Esmond Clarenden stood under a big elm-tree.  A round little, stout little man he was, whose sturdy strength and grace of bearing made up for his lack of height.  Like a great green tent the boughs of the elm, just budding into leaf, drooped over him.  A young army officer on a cavalry horse was talking with him as we came up.

“Run over there to Beverly now.  Gail,” my uncle said, with a wave of his hand.

I was always in awe of shoulder-straps, so I scampered away toward the children.  But not until, child-like, I had stared at the three men long enough to take a child’s lasting estimate of things.

I carry still the keen impression of that moment when I took, unconsciously, the measure of the three:  the mounted army man, commander of the fort, big in his official authority and force; Jondo on his great black horse, to me the heroic type of chivalric courage; and between the two, Esmond Clarenden, unmounted, with feet firmly planted, suggesting nothing heroic, nothing autocratic.  And yet, as he stood there, square-built, solid, certain, he seemed in some dim way to be the real man of whom the other two were but shadows.  It took a quarter of a century for me to put into words what I learned with one glance that day in my childhood.

As I came running toward the parade-ground Beverly Clarenden called out: 

“Come here, Gail!  Shut your little mouth and open your big ears, and I’ll tell you something.  Maybe I’d better not tell you all at once, though.  It might make you dizzy,” he added, teasingly.

“And maybe you better had,” Mat Nivers said, calmly.

“Maybe you’d better tell him yourself, if you feel that way,” Beverly retorted.

“I guess I’ll do that,” Mat began, with a twinkle in her big gray eyes; but my cousin interrupted her.

Beverly loved to tease Mat through me, but he never got far, for I relied on her to curb him; and she was not one to be ruffled by trifles.  Mat was an orphan and, like ourselves, a ward of Esmond Clarenden, but there were no ties of kinship between us.  She was three years older than Beverly, and although she was no taller than he, she seemed like a woman to me, a keen-witted, good-natured child-woman, neat, cleanly, and contented.  I wonder if many women get more out of life in these days of luxurious comforts than she found in the days of frontier hardships.