below us, a weird Indian
call, and a great shout from our calverymen drew us to earth
again. The Hopis were coming. Father Josef knew the signal. Our Indian
runner had found them in the night and sent them toward us. We dashed
into the forest, keeping close together; and here, a mile away, under
green pines, surrounded by a little group of a desert Hopi clan, was
Beverly Clarenden--big, strong, unhurt and joyful. And Little Blue
Flower.

The years since that far night when I had seen two maidens in Grecian
robes beside the Flat Rock in the "Moon of the Peach Blossom," had left
no trace on Eloise St. Vrain, save to imprint the graces of womanliness
on her girlish face. But the picturesque Indian maiden of that night
looked aged and sorrowful in the pine forest of her native land, bent,
as she was, with the dull existence of her own people; she, who had
known and loved a different form of life. Only the big, luminous eyes
held their old charm.

We came together in a little open space with pine-trees all about us.
The minutes went swiftly then--and I must hurry to what came hurrying
on, for much of it is lost in mist and wonder.

In the moment of glad reunion Aunty Boone suddenly gave a whoop the
like of which I had never heard before, and, dashing wildly toward
Eloise and Sister Gloria, she drove them in a fierce charge straight
back into the shelter of the pine-trees.

At the same time a sudden rain of bullets, like a swift hail-storm, and
a yell--the Apache cry of vengeance--filled the air. Long afterward we
learned that our Indian runner had met this band and tried to turn it
back--and failed. He would have saved us if he could.

It was over soon--that encounter in the forest where each tree was a
shield. The cavalrymen and maybe, too, we who had been plainsmen, knew
how to drive back a villianous handful of Apaches. In any other
moment since we had ridden out of Sante Fe we would have laughed
at such a struggle. They took us in the most unguarded instant of that
fortnight's journey.

The Hopis fled wildly out of sight. Here and there, from the defeated,
scattered band, an Apache warrior sprang back and lost himself quickly
in the shadows. But Santan, plunging into our very midst, seized Little
Blue Flower in his iron grip, and the bullet from a cavalry carbine,
meant for him, struck her.

He laughed and threw her back and, whirling, dashed--into the arms of
Aunty Boone--and stopped.

We carried our wounded