I remember a quick snatching of precious things in boxes placed for such a moment as this, a quick snapping of halter ropes around the ponies’ necks, a gleaming of gun-barrels in the hot sunlight; a solid cloud of dust rolling up behind us, bigger and nearer every second; and the urgent voice of Jondo:  “Ride for your lives!”

And the race began.  On the trail somewhere before us was Bent’s Fort.  We could only hope to reach it soon.  We did not even look behind as we tore down that dusty wilderness way.

At the first motion Aunty Boone had seized Eloise St. Vrain with one hand and the big dun mule’s neck-strap with the other.

“Go to the devil, you tigers and cannibals!” She roared with the growl of a desert lioness, shaking her big black fist at the band of Mexicans pouring out of the hills.

And dun mule and black woman and white-faced, terror-stricken child became only a dust-cloud far in front of us.  Mat and Beverly and I leaped to the ponies and followed the lead of the African woman.  Nearest to us was Rex Krane, always a shield for the younger and less able.  And behind him, as defense for the rear and protection for the van, came Esmond Clarenden and Bill Banney, with Jondo nearest the enemy, where danger was greatest.

I tell it calmly, but I lived it in a blind whirl.  The swift hoof-beat, the wild Indian yells, the whirl of arrows and whiz of bullets, the onrush to outrun the Mexicans who were trying to cut us off from the trail in front.  Lived it!  I lived ages in it.  And then an arrow cut my pony’s flank, making him lurch from the trail, a false step, the pony staggering, falling.  A sharp pain in my shoulder, the smell of fire, a shriek from demon throats, the glaring sunlight on the rocking plain, searing my eyes in a mad whirlpool of blinding light, the fading sounds—­and then—­all was black and still.

* * * * *

When I opened my eyes again I was lying on a cot.  Bare adobe walls were around me, and a high plastered roof resting on cedar poles sheltered that awful glare from my eyes.  Through the open door I could see the rain falling on the bare ground of the court, filling the shallow places with puddles.

I tried to lift myself to see more as shrieks of childish laughter caught my ear, but there was a sickish heat in my dry skin, an evil taste in my throat, and a sharp pain in my left shoulder; and I fell back again.

Another shriek, and Eloise St. Vrain came before my doorway, pattering with bare white feet out into the center of the patio puddles and laughing at the dashing summer shower.  Her damp hair, twisted into a knot on top of her head, was curling tightly about her temples and neck, her eyes were shining; her wet clothes slapping at her bare white knees—­a picture of the delicious happiness of childhood.  A little child of three or four years was toddling after her.  He was brown as a berry, and at first I thought he was a little Indian.  I could hear Mat and Beverly splashing about safe and joyous somewhere, and I forgot my fever and pain and the dread of that awful glare coming again to sear my burning eyeballs as I watched and listened.  A louder shriek as the little child ran behind Eloise and gave her a vigorous shove for one so small.