them. But to all of us, outside of that intensified something
indefinable in his face, he was unchanged. He met my eye with the open,
frank glance with which he met the gaze of all men. His smile was no
less engaging and his manner remained the same--fearless, unsuspicious,
definite in serious affairs, good-natured and companionable in
everything. I could not read him now, by one little line, but back of
everything lay that withering, grievous thought--he was a murderer.
Heaven pity the boy when his idol falls, and if he be a dreaming
idealist the hurt is tenfold deeper.

And yet--the trail was waiting there to teach me many things, and
Jondo's words rang through the aisles of my brain:

"If you ever have a real cross, Gail, thank the Lord for the open plains
and the green prairies, and the danger stimulus of the old Santa Fe
Trail. They will seal up your wounds, and soften your hard, rebellious
heart, and make you see things big, and despise the little crooks in
your path."

Our Conestoga wagons, with their mule-teams, and the few ponies for
scout service, followed the old trail out of the valley of the Rio
Grande to the tablelands eastward, up the steep sidling way into the
passes of the Glorietta Mountains, down through lone, wind-swept canons,
and on between wild, scarred hills, coming, at last, beyond the
picturesque ridges, snow-crowned and mesa-guarded, into the long, gray,
waterless lands of the Cimmarron country. Here we journeyed along
monotonous levels that rose and fell unnoted because of lack of
landmarks to measure by, only the broad, beaten Santa Fe Trail stretched
on unbending, unchanging, uneffaceable.

As the distance from spring to spring decreased, every drop of water
grew precious, and we pushed on, eager to reach the richer prairies of
the Arkansas Valley. Suddenly in the monotony of the way, and the
increasing calls of thirst, there came a sense of danger, the plains-old
danger of the Comanche on the Cimarron Trail. Bill Banney caught it
first--just a faint sign of one hostile track. All the next day Jondo
scouted far, coming into camp at nightfall with a grave report.

"The water-supply is failing," he told us, "and there is something wrong
out there. The Comanches are hovering near, that's certain, and there is
a single trail that doesn't look Comanche to me that I can't account
for. All we can do is to 'hold fast,'" he added, with his cheery smile
that never failed him.

That night I co