t grin, showing all his perfect
teeth as he caught sight of Beverly and me.

We laid no claims to manly beauty, but we were stalwart young fellows,
with the easy strength of good health, good habits, clear conscience,
and the frank faces of boys reared on the frontier, and accustomed to
its dangers by men who defied the very devil to do them harm. But even
in our best clothes, saved for the display at the end of the trail, we
were uncouth compared to this young gentleman, and our tanned faces and
hard brown hands bespoke the rough bull-whacker of the plains.

As our train halted, the young man lighted a cigar and puffed the smoke
toward us, as if to ignore our presence.

"Its mamma has dressed it up to go and play in the park, but it mustn't
speak to little boys, nor soil its pinafore, nor listen to any naughty
words. And it couldn't hold its own against a kitten. Nice little
clothes-horse to hang white goods on!"

Beverly had turned his back to the Plaza and was speaking in a low tone,
with the serious face and far-away air of one who referred to a thing of
the past.

"Bev, you are a mind-reader, a character-sketcher--" I began, but
stopped short to stare into the Plaza beyond him.

The young man had sprung to his feet and stood there with flashing eyes
and hands clenched. Behind him was the same young Indian who had passed
us on the trail. He was lithe, with every muscle trained to strength and
swiftness and endurance.

He had muttered a word into the young white man's ear that made him
spring up. And while the face of the Indian was expressionless, the
other's face was full of surprise and anger; and I recognized both faces
in an instant.

"Beverly Clarenden, there are two auld-lang-syners behind you right now.
One is Marcos Ramero, and the other is Santan of Bent's Fort," I said,
softly.

Beverly turned quickly, something in his fearless face making the two
men drop their eyes. When we looked again they had left the Plaza by
different ways.

After dinner that evening Jondo and Bill Banney hurried away for a
business conference with Felix Narveo. Rex and Beverly also disappeared
and I was alone.

The last clear light of a long summer day was lingering over the valley
of the Rio Grande, and the cool evening breeze was rippling in from the
mountains, when I started out along the narrow street that made the
terminal of the old Santa Fe Trail. I was hardly conscious of any
purpose of direction until I came