own here
to drink. Only Beverly's conscience saved him here. Heaven knows how
Fred Ramer got out here. He may have come with some Mexicans on ahead of
us and left them here to drop his poison in this lower spring. Then he
turned back toward Santa Fe and found his doom up there at Santan's
spring.

"I'm like Bev. I wish he had gotten the Apache, now. I don't know yet
how I was fooled in him, for he has always been Fred Ramer's tool, and
Father Josef never trusted him. And to think that Bill Banney, in no way
touching any of our lives, should have been martyred by the crimes of
Fred and this Apache! But that's the old, old story of the trail. Poor
Bill! I hope his sleep will be sweet out in this desolate land. We'll
meet him later somewhere."

The winds must have carried the tale of poisoned water across the
Cimarron country, for the Comanches' trail left ours from that day.
Through threescore and ten miles to the Arkansas River we came, and
there was not a well nor spring nor sign of water in all that distance.
What water we had we carried with us from the Cimarron fountains. But
the sturdy endurance of the days was not without its help to me. And the
wide, wind-swept prairies of Kansas taught me many things. In the
lonely, beautiful land, through long bright days and starlit nights, I
began to see things bigger than my own selfish measure had reckoned. I
thought of Esmond Clarenden and his large scheme of business; Felix
Narveo, the true-hearted friend; and of Father Josef and his life of
devotion. And I lived with Jondo every day. I could not forget the hour
in the little ruined chapel in the San Christobal Valley, and how he
himself had made no effort to clear his own name. But I remembered,
too, that Father Josef, mercilessly just to Ferdinand Ramero, had not
even asked Jondo to defend himself from the black charge against him.

The sunny Kansas prairies, the far open plains, and the wild mountain
trails beyond, had brought their blessing to Jondo, whose life had known
so much of tragedy. And my cross was just my love for a girl who could
not love me. That was all. Jondo had never forgotten nor ceased to love
the mother of Eloise St. Vrain. I should be like Jondo in this. But the
world is wide. Life is full of big things. Henceforth, while I would not
forget, I, too, would be big and strong, and maybe, some time, just as
sunny-faced as my big Jondo.

The trail life, day by day, did bring its blessing to me. The c