us, riding with the ease of that born-to-the-horseback race.

"Beverly, do you remember that Indian boy that we saw out at Agua Fria?"
I asked.

"The day we found Little Lees asleep in the church?" Beverly broke in,
eagerly.

In our whole journey he had hardly spoken of Eloise, and, knowing
Beverly as I did, I had felt sure for that reason that she had not been
on his mind. Now twice in five minutes he had called her name. But why
should he not remember her here, as well as I?

"Yes, I remember there was an Indian boy, sort of sneaky like, and deaf
and dumb, that followed us until I turned and stared him out of it.
That's the way to get rid of 'em, Gail, same as a savage dog," Beverly
said, lightly.

"What if there are six of them all staring at you?" I asked.

"Oh, Gail, for the Lord's sake forget that!"

Beverly cried, affectionately. "When you've got an arrow wound rotting
your arm off and six hundred and twenty degrees of fever in your blood,
and the son of your old age is gone for three days and nights, and you
don't dare to think where, you'll know why a fellow doesn't want to
remember." There were real tears in the boy's eyes. Beverly was deeper
than I had thought.

"Well, to change gradually, I wonder if that centaur who just passed us
might be that same Indian of Agua Fria of long ago."

"He couldn't be," Beverly declared, confidently. "That boy got one
square look at my eagle eye and he never stopped running till he jumped
into the Pacific Ocean. 'I shall see him again over there.'" Half
chanting the last words, Beverly, boy-hearted and daring and happy,
cracked his whip, and our mule-team began to prance off in mule style
the journey's latter end.

Oh, Beverly! Beverly! Why did that day on the parade-ground at Fort
Leavenworth and a boy's pleading face lifted to mine, come back to me at
that moment? Strange are the lines of life. I shall never clearly read
them all.

Down in the Plaza a tall, slender young man was sitting in the shade,
idly digging at the sod with an open pocket-knife. There was something
magnetic about him, the presence that even in a crowd demands a second
look.

He was dressed in spotless white linen, and with his handsome mustache,
his well-groomed black hair, and sparkling black eyes, he was a true
type of the leisure son of the Spanish-Mexican grandee. He stared at
our travel-stained caravan as it rolled down the Plaza's edge, but his
careless smile changed to an insolen