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.

"Oh, Charlie Bent, see what you've done," Mat cried; and then Beverly
was picking up "Little Lees," sprawling, all mud-smeared and happy, in
the very middle of the court.

The child stood looking at her with shining black eyes full of a wicked
mischief, but he said not a word.

Just then a dull grunt caught my ear, and I half-turned to see a cot
beyond mine. A