No ripple in the even tenor of our days, however, had given any hint of the coming of this sudden tense oppression on our young souls, and we were stunned by what we could neither express nor understand.

“Whatever comes or doesn’t come,” Beverly said at last, stretching himself at full length, stomach downward, on the bare ground, “whatever happens to us, we three will stand by each other always and always, won’t we, Mat?”

He lifted his face to the girl’s.  Oh, Beverly!  I saw him again one day down the years, stretched out on the ground like this, lifting again a pleading face.  But that belongs—­down the years.

“Yes, always and always,” Mat replied, and then because she had a Spartan spirit, she added:  “But let’s don’t say any more that way.  Let’s think of what you are going to see—­the plains, the Santa Fe Trail, the mountains, and maybe bad Indians.  And even old Santa Fe town itself.  You are in for ‘the big shift,’ as Aunty Boone says, and you’ve got to be little men and take whatever comes.  It will come fast enough, you can bet on that.”

Yesterday I might have sobbed on her shoulder.  I did not know then that out on the bluff an hour ago I had come to the first turn in my life-trail, and that I could not look back now.  I did know that I wanted to go with Uncle Esmond. I looked away from Mat’s gray eyes, and Beverly’s head dropped on his arms, face downward—­looked at nothing but blue sky, and a graceful drooping flag; nothing but a half-sleepy, half-active fort; nothing but the yellow April floods far up-stream, between wooded banks tenderly gray-green in the spring sunshine.  But I did not see any of these things then.  Before my eyes there stretched a vast level prairie, with dim mountain heights beyond them.  And marching toward them westward, westward, past lurking danger, Indians here and wild beasts there, went three men:  the officer on his cavalry mount; Jondo on his big black horse; Esmond Clarenden, neither mounted nor on foot, it seemed, but going forward somehow.  And between these three and the misty mountain peaks there was a face—­not Mat Nivers’s, for the first time in all my day-dreams—­a sweet face with dark eyes looking straight into mine.  And plainly then, just as plainly as I have heard it many times since then, came a call—­the first clear bugle-note of the child-soul—­a call to service, to patriotism, and to love.

All that afternoon while Mat Nivers sang about her tasks Beverly and I tried to play together among the elm and cottonwood trees about our little home, but evening found us wide awake and moping.  Instead of the two tired little sleepy-heads that could barely finish supper, awake, when night came, we lay in our trundle-bed, whispering softly to each other and staring at the dark with tear-wet eyes—­our spiritual barometers warning us of a coming change.  Something must have happened to us that night which only the retrospect of years revealed.  In that hour Beverly Clarenden lost a year of his life and I gained one.  From that time we were no longer little and big to each other—­we were comrades.