ved on this way. There
is no telling how it got here, since it keeps still itself about the
matter. Losing and finding and losing again is the law of events on the
plains."

"But why should it find us right here to-night, like it had been led
back?" I insisted.

"That's the miracle of it, Gail. It is always the strange thing that
really happens here. In years to come, if you ever tell the truth about
this trip, it will not be believed. When this isn't the frontier any
longer, the story of the trail will be accounted impossible."

Everything seemed impossible to me as I sat there staring at the dying
fire. Presently I remembered what I had seen while my uncle was away.

"Little Blue Flower has run away," I said, "and I saw the Mexican that
came to Fort Leavenworth the day before I twisted my ankle. He slipped
by here just a minute ago. I know, for I saw his face when the logs
flared up."

Esmond Clarenden gave a start. "Gail, you have the most remarkable
memory for faces of any child I ever knew," he said.

"Did he follow us, too, like the pony, or did he ride the pony after
us?" I asked. "He's just everywhere we go, somehow. Did I ever see him
before he came to the fort, or did I dream it?"

"You are a little dreamer, Gail," my uncle said, kindly. "But dreams
don't hurt, if you do your part whenever you are needed."

"Bev and Bill Banney make fun of dreams," I said.

"Yes, they don't have 'em; but Bev and Bill are ready when it comes to
doing things. They are a good deal alike, daring, and a bit reckless
sometimes, with good hard sense enough to keep them level."

"Don't I do, too?" I inquired.

"Yes, you do and dream, both. That's all the better. But you mustn't
forget, too, that sometimes the things we long for in our dreams we must
fight for, and even die for, maybe, that those who come after us may be
the better for our having them. What was it you said about Little Blue
Flower?" Uncle Esmond had forgotten her for the moment.

"She's gone to Santa Fe, I reckon. Is she bad, Uncle Esmond? Tell me all
about things," I urged.

"We are all here spying out the land, Mexican, Indian, trader,
freighter, adventurer, invalid," Uncle Esmond replied. "I don't know
what started the little Indian girl off, unless she just felt Indian, as
Jondo would say; but I may as well tell you, Gail, that it may have been
the Mexican who got our pony for us. He is a strange fellow, walks like
a cat, has ears like a timber wolf