The evening shadows were lengthening and the peaks of the Sangre-de-Christo range were taking on the scarlet stains of sunset when we raced into town at last.  Rex Krane went at once to find Uncle Esmond, and Beverly and I hurried to the hotel to tell Mat of all that we had seen.

Her gray eyes were glowing when she met us at the door and led us into a corner where we could talk by ourselves.

“Uncle Esmond has sold everything to that Mexican merchant, Felix Narveo, and we are going to start home just as soon as he can find that little girl.”

“Oh, we’ve found her!  We’ve found her!” Beverly burst out.  But Mat hushed him at once.

“Don’t yell it to the sides, Beverly Clarenden.  Now listen!” Mat dropped her voice almost to a whisper.  “He’s going to take that little girl back with us as far as Fort Leavenworth, and then send her on to St. Louis where she has some folks, I guess.”

“Isn’t he a clipper, though,” Beverly exclaimed.

“But what if the Indians should get us?” I asked, anxiously.  “I heard the colonel at Fort Leavenworth just give it to Uncle Esmond one night for bringing us.”

“You are safe or you are not safe everywhere.  And if we got in here I reckon we can get out,” Mat reasoned, philosophically.  “And Uncle Esmond isn’t afraid and he’s set on doing it.  We aren’t going to take any goods back, so we can travel lots faster, and everything will be put in the wagons so we can grab out what’s worth most in a hurry if we have to.”

So we talked matters over now as we had done on that April day out on the parade-ground at Fort Leavenworth.  But now we knew something of what might be before us on that homeward journey.  Thrilling hours those were.  It is no wonder that, schooled by their events, young as we were, we put away childish things.

That night while we slept things happened of which we knew nothing for many years.  There was no moon and the glaring yellow daytime plain was full of gray-edged shadows, under the far stars of a midnight blue sky, as Esmond Clarenden took the same trail that we had followed in the afternoon.  On to the village of Agua Fria, black and silent, he rode until he came to the church door.  Here he dismounted, and, quickly securing his horse, he entered the building.  The chill midnight wind swept in through the open door behind him, threatening to blot out the flickering candles about the altar.  Father Josef came slowly down the aisle to meet him, while a tall man, crouching like a beast about to spring, rather than a penitent at prayer, shrank down in the shadowy corner inside the doorway.

The merchant, solid and square-built and fearless, stood before the young priest baring his head as he spoke.

“I come on a grave errand, good Father.  This afternoon my two nephews and a young man from New England came in here and saw a child asleep under protection of this holy sanctuary.  That child’s name is Eloise St. Vrain.  I had hoped to find her mother able to care for her.  She—­cannot do it, as you know.  I must do it for her now.  I come here to claim what it is my duty to protect.”