* * * * *
A sound of horses’ hoofs on the rocky slope 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 Fé 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 tenderly up the steep wooded slope and out into the sweet sunlight of its crest, where we laid them down beside that wondrous rift with its shimmering mist and velvet shadows, and colorings of splendor, folded all in the magnificence of its immensity and its eternal silence.
We knew that Jondo’s wound was mortal, and Father Josef and Eloise and Rex Krane sat beside him, as the brave eyes looked out across the sublimity of earthly beauty toward the far land no eye hath seen, facing, unafraid, the outward-leading trail.
But Beverly was in the prime of young manhood, and we felt sure of him, as Esmond Clarenden and Sister Gloria; and I ministered to his wants.
“It’s no use, Gail.” My cousin lifted a pleading face to mine a moment, as on that day, years ago on the parade-ground at Fort Leavenworth. Then the bright smile came back to stay.
“Why, Bev, you have a life before you, and you aren’t the only Eighteenth Kansas man who deserted. We can pull you through somehow—and people will forget. Even General Sheridan was willing to send a squad with us, on the possibility of a mistake somewhere.”
“Deserted!” Beverly’s voice was too strong for a dying man’s. “Uncle Esmond, Jondo, Eloise—all of you—Gail calls me a deserter. Me! Knock him over that precipice, won’t some of you?”
We listened eagerly as he went on:
“Why, don’t you know that Charlie Bent and his renegade dogs crawled into camp like snakes and carried me out by force. They had a time of it, too, but never mind. Bent told me he left a note for you. I supposed he would say I was dead. And when Gail stirred, half awake, he went pacing around the camp, looking so near like me I thought it was myself and I was Charlie Bent. I was roped and gagged then, but I could see. Deserter! I’m glad I got that white horse of his on the Prairie Dog Creek, anyhow.”
Beverly’s face paled suddenly and he lay still a little while.
“I’d better hurry.” The smile was winsome. “They didn’t give me a ghost of a chance to escape, but they didn’t harm a hair. They kept me for a meaner purpose, and, well, I was landed, finally, at Santan’s door-step in the Apache-land. Santan offered to let me go free if I’d persuade Little Blue Flower—dead down there—to marry him. He had her come to me on pretense of my sending for her. She hated the brute, and she was a woman, if she was an Indian. I told him I’d see him in hell first, and I told her never to give in. Poor girl! It was a cruel test, but Santan knew how to be cruel. He said he’d fix me, and I guess he has done it.”
“Oh no, Bev. You are good for a century,” I declared, affectionately, holding his head on my knee.
“Little Blue Flower managed, somehow, to fool the Apache dog, and we escaped and got away to her people,” Beverly continued, speaking more slowly, “then she sent word to Father Josef. But the Hopi folks were scared about the Apaches coming against them on account of harboring me, like a Jonah, among ’em; and they were going to make it hard for Little Blue Flower. I don’t know heathen ethics in such things, but a handful of us had to cut for it. I’m no deserter, though. Don’t forget that. As soon as I could be sure the little Indian woman’s life was safe I was going to get away and come home. I could not leave her to be sacrificed after she had saved me from Santan’s scalping-knife.”
Beverly paused and looked at us. His voice seemed weaker when he spoke again:
“I thought, sometimes, that even if I wasn’t to blame for it, I ought to take Little Blue Flower with me when I got away. Dear little girl! she gave me one smile and whispered ‘Lolomi’ before she went just now. I told her long ago I was just everybody’s friend. I never meant to spoil anybody’s life, and I can meet her down at the end of the trail and never fear.”
Just then a half-wailing, half-purring cry came from Aunty Boone, who was standing beside a gnarled cypress-tree.
“I knowed the morning we picked up Little Blue Flower, back at Pawnee Rock, we was pickin’ up trouble for the rest of the trail. I see it then. You can trust a nigger ’cause they never no ’count, but you don’t know what you gettin’ when you trust an Indian. But, Cla’nden, that Apache Indian, Santan, ain’t goin’ to trouble you no more. When the world ain’t no fit place for folks they needs helpin’ out of it, and I sees to it they gets it, too. Whoo-ee!” She paused and leaned against the crooked cypress. Half turning her face toward us, she continued in a clear, soft voice:
“That man they call Ramero down in Santy Fee—I knowed him when he was just Fred Ramer back in the rice-fields country. His father, old man Ramer, tried to kill me once, ’cause he said I knowed too much. I helped him into kingdom come right then and saved a lot of misery. They blamed some other folks, I guess, but they never hunted me up at all. Good-by, Clan’den, and you, too, Felix, and Dick Verra. I’ve knowed you all these years, but nobody takes no ’count of niggers’ knowin’s. Good-by, Little Lees, and all you boys. I’ll see you again pretty soon, I’m goin’ back to my desset now. It’s over yonder just a little way. Jondo—but you won’t be John Doe then. Whoo-ee!”
Aunty Boone slowly settled down beside the cypress, with her face toward her beloved “desset,” and when we went to her a little later, her eyes, still looking eastward, saw nothing earthly any more forever.
Jondo’s face seemed glorified as he caught Aunty Boone’s last words, and his voice was sweet and clear as he looked up at Eloise bending over him.
“Thank God! It is all made right at last. Eloise, the charge of murder against your father’s name would have broken the heart of the woman that I always loved—your mother. One of us had to bear the shame. I took the guilt on myself for her sake—and for yours. I have walked the trails of my life a nameless man, but I have kept my soul clean in God’s sight, and I know His name will soon be written on my forehead over there.”
He gazed out toward the glorious beauty of the view beyond him, then closed his eyes, and, bravely as he had lived, so bravely he went forth on the Long Trail, leaving a name sweet with the perfume of self-sacrifice and love.
We did not speak of him to Beverly, for our boy had suddenly grown restless, and his blood was threshing furiously in his veins, and he was in pain, but only briefly.
Presently he said, “Let us be alone a little.” The others drew away.
“Lean down, Gail. I want to tell you something.” He smiled sweetly upon me as I bent over him.
“I tried to tell you back on the Smoky Hill, but I’d promised not to. And honor was something to me still. But I’m going pretty soon. So listen! I loved Eloise always—always. But she never cared for me. She was only my good chum. I’ve been too happy-hearted all my days, though, Gail, to make a cross of anything that would break me down. Men differ so, you know, and I never was a dreamer like you. Turn me a little, won’t you, so that I can see that awful beauty down there.”
I lifted his shoulders gently and placed him where his eyes could rest on the majestic scene spread out before him.
“Eloise loves you, but she thinks you would not marry her because they say her father was a murderer. I don’t believe that, Gail. I told her that you didn’t, either, not one little minute. You care for her, I know, and losing her will break your heart. I tried to tell you long ago, but Little Lees made me promise not to say a word that night at Burlingame when you had gone away and I thought maybe I had a half-chance with her. Tell me you’ll make her happy, Gail.”
“Oh, Beverly, I’ll do my best,” I murmured, softly.
“Come closer, Gail. Look at those colors there. Is it so far across, or only seeming so? And see the soft white clouds drop purple shadows down. Is that the way the trail runs? How beautiful it must be farther on. Good-by, old boy of my heart’s heart, and don’t forget, however long the years, and wide away your feet may go, to keep the old trail law. ‘Hold fast.’”
We laid them away in the deep pine forest—Aunty Boone, of strange, prophetic vision; Santan, the cruel Indian; the loyal Hopi maiden; Jondo and Beverly. God made them all and in His heaven they will be rightly placed.
Beside the cañon’s rim, in the soft twilight hour of that October day, Eloise St. Vrain and I plighted our troth, till death us do part—for just a little while. Plighted it not in happy, selfish affection, such as youth and maiden give, sometimes, each to each; but in the deep, marvelous love of man and woman pledged where, in sacred moments on that day, we had seen the mortal put on immortality. To us there could be no grander, richer, lovelier setting for life’s best and holiest hour than here, where, upon things finite, there rests the beneficent uplifting beauty that shadows forth the Infinite.