“Is he our friend?” I asked, eagerly.

“Listen, boy.  He came to Fort Leavenworth on purpose to bring me an important message, and he waited at Independence to see us off.  Do you remember the two spies Krane talked about at Council Grove?  I think he followed the Mexican spy across the river to our camp and sent him on east.  Then he went back and got the crowd all mixed up by his report, while their own man scouted the trail out there for miles all night.  He is the man who put you through town and decoyed the ruffians to one side.  He located us after we had crossed the river, and then broke up their meeting and put the fellows off to wait till the next night.  That is the way I worked out that Council Grove puzzle.  He has a wide range, and there are big things ahead for him in New Mexico.

“Sooner or later however,” my uncle went on, “we will have to reckon with that Kiowa tribe for stealing their captive.  They meant to return her for a big ransom price....  Great Heavens, Gail!  You seem like a man to me to-night instead of my little boy back at the fort.  The plains bring years to us instead of months, with just one crossing.  I am counting on you not to tell all you’ve been told and all you’ve seen.  I can be sure of you if you can keep things to yourself.  You’d better get to sleep now.  There will be plenty to see over in Santa Fe.  And there is always danger afoot.  But remember, it is the coward who finds the most trouble in this world.  Do your part with a gentleman’s heart and a hero’s hand, and you’ll get to the end of every trail safely.  Now go to bed.”

Where I lay that night I could see a wide space of star-gemmed sky, the blue night-sky of the Southwest, and I wondered, as I looked up into the starry deeps, how God could keep so many bright bodies afield up there, and yet take time to guard all the wandering children of men.

With the day-dawn the strange events of the night seemed as unreal as the vanishing night-shadows.  The bluest skies of a blue-sky land curved in fathomless majesty over the yellow valley of the Santa Fe.  Against its borders loomed the silent mountain ranges—­purple-shaddowed, silver-topped Ortiz and Jemez, Sandia and Sangre-de-Christo.  Dusty and deserted lay the trail, save that here and there a group of dark-faced carriers of firewood prodded on their fagot-laden burros toward the distant town.  As our wagons halted at the sandy borders of an arroyo the brown-clad form of a priest rose up from the shade of a group of scrubby pinon-trees beside the trail.

Esmond Clarenden lifted his hat in greeting.

“Are you going our way?  We can give you a ride,” he paused to say.

The man’s face was very dark, but it was a young, strong face, and his large, dark eyes were full of the fire of life.  When he spoke his voice was low and musical.

“I thank you.  I go toward the mountains.  You stay here long?”

“Only to dispose of my goods.  My business is brief,” Esmond Clarenden declared.