We would have called to her, but Rex Krane evidently did not hear her, for he neither halted nor turned his head.  So, remembering our command to be quiet, we passed on.

“I guess we are about to the end of this ‘pure water’ resort.  It’s gettin’ late.  Let’s go back home now,” our leader said, dispiritedly.  So we turned back toward Santa Fe.

At the narrow opening where we had seen Little Blue Flower the young Indian boy stood upright and motionless, and again he gave no sign of seeing us.

“Let’s just run over to that church a minute while we are here.  Looks interestin’ over there,” Rex suggested.

I wondered if he could have heard Little Blue Flower, and thought her suggestion was a good one, or if this was a mere whim of his.

The church, a crude mission structure, stood some distance from the trail.  As we entered a priest came forward to meet us.

“Can I serve you?” he asked.

The voice was clear and sweet—­the same voice that we had heard out beyond the arroyo southeast of town, the same face, too, that we had seen, with the big dark eyes full of fire.  Involuntarily I recalled how his hand had pointed to the west when he had pronounced a blessing that day.

“Thank you, Father—­” Rex began.

“Josef,” the holy man said.

“Yes, thank you, Father Josef.  We are just looking at things.  No wish to be rude, you know.”

Rex lifted his cap and stood bareheaded in the priestly presence.

Father Josef smiled.

“Look here, then.”

He led us up the aisle to where, cuddled down on a crude seat, a little girl lay asleep.  Her golden hair fell like a cloud about her face, flowing over the edge of the seat almost to the floor.  Her cheeks were pink and warm, and her dimpled white hands were clasped together.  I had caught Mat Nivers napping many a time, but never in my life had I seen anything half so sweet as this sleeping girl in the beauty of her innocence.  And I knew at a glance that this was the same girl whom I had seen before at the door of the old Church of San Miguel.

“Same as grown-ups when the sermon is dull.  Thank you, Father Josef.  It’s a pretty picture.  We must be goin’ now.”  Rex Krane dropped some silver in the priest’s hand and we left the church.

At the door we passed the Indian boy again, and a third time he gave no sign of seeing us.  I was the only one who was troubled, however, for Rex and Beverly did not seem to notice him.  As we left the village I caught sight of him again following behind us.

“Look there, Bev,” I said, in a low voice.  Beverly glanced back, then turned and stared defiantly at the boy.

“Maybe Rex knows about Indians,” he said, lightly.  “That’s three times I found him fooling around in less than an hour, but my scalp is still hanging over one ear.”

He pushed back his cap and pulled at his bright brown locks.  Happy Bev!  How headstrong, brave, and care-free he walked the plains that day.