Behind him always was his Cheyenne mother, jealously defending him in everything, and in manifold ways making life a burden—­if we would submit to the making, which we seldom did.

And lastly Santan, the young boy who had deserted his Mexican masters for Jondo’s command, contrived, with an Indian’s shrewdness, never to let us out of his sight.  But he gave us no opportunity to approach him.  He lived in his own world, which was a savage one, but he managed that it should overlap our world and silently grasp all that was in it.  Beverly had persistently tried to be friendly for a time, for that was Beverly’s way.  Failing to do it, he had nick-named the boy “Satan” for all time.

“We found Little Blue Flower a sweet little muggins,” Beverly told the Indian early in our stay at the fort.  “We like good Indians like her.  She’s one clipper.”

Santan had merely looked him through as though he were air, and made no reply, nor did he ever by a single word recognize Beverly from that moment.

The evening before we left Fort Bent we children sat together in a corner of the court.  The day had been very hot for the season and the night was warm and balmy, with the moonlight flooding the open space, edging the shadows of the inner portal with silver.  There was much noise and boisterous laughter in the billiard-room where the heads of affairs played together.  Rex Krane had gone to bed early.  Out by the rear gate leading to the fort corral, Aunty Boone was crooning a weird African melody.  Crouching in the deep shadows beside the kitchen entrance, the Indian boy, Santan, listened to all that was said.

To-night we had talked of to-morrow’s journey, and the strength of the military guard who should keep us safe along the way.  Then, as children will, we began to speculate on what should follow for us.

“When I get older I’m going to be a freighter like Jondo, Bill and me.  We’ll kill every Indian who dares to yell along the trail.  I’m going back to Santa Fe and kill that boy that stared at me like he was crazy one day at Agua Fria.”

In the shadows of the porchway, I saw Santan creeping nearer to us as Beverly ran on flippantly: 

“I guess I’ll marry a squaw, Little Blue Flower, maybe, like the Bents do, and live happily ever after.”

“I’m going to have a big fine house and live there all the time,” Mat Nivers declared.  Something in the earnest tone told us what this long journey had meant to the brave-hearted girl.

“I’m going to marry Gail when I grow up,” Eloise said, meditatively.  “He won’t ever let Marcos pull my hair.”  She shook back the curly tresses, gold-gleaming in the moonlight, and squeezed my hand as she sat beside me.

“What will you be, Gail?” Mat asked.

“I’ll go and save Bev’s scalp when he’s gunning too far from home,” I declared.

“Oh, he’ll be ‘Little Lees’s’ husband, and pull that Marcos cuss’s nose if he tries to pull anybody’s curls.  Whoo-ee! as Aunty Boone would say,” Beverly broke in.