, and the cunning of a fox."

"Is he our friend?" I asked, eagerly.

"Listen, boy. He came to Fort Leavenworth on purpose to bring me an
important message, and he waited at Independence to see us off. Do you
remember the two spies Krane talked about at Council Grove? I think he
followed the Mexican spy across the river to our camp and sent him on
east. Then he went back and got the crowd all mixed up by his report,
while their own man scouted the trail out there for miles all night. He
is the man who put you through town and decoyed the ruffians to one
side. He located us after we had crossed the river, and then broke up
their meeting and put the fellows off to wait till the next night. That
is the way I worked out that Council Grove puzzle. He has a wide range,
and there are big things ahead for him in New Mexico.

"Sooner or later however," my uncle went on, "we will have to reckon
with that Kiowa tribe for stealing their captive. They meant to return
her for a big ransom price.... Great Heavens, Gail! You seem like a man
to me to-night instead of my little boy back at the fort. The plains
bring years to us instead of months, with just one crossing. I am
counting on you not to tell all you've been told and all you've seen. I
can be sure of you if you can keep things to yourself. You'd better get
to sleep now. There will be plenty to see over in Santa Fe. And there is
always danger afoot. But remember, it is the coward who finds the most
trouble in this world. Do your part with a gentleman's heart and a
hero's hand, and you'll get to the end of every trail safely. Now go to
bed."

Where I lay that night I could see a wide space of star-gemmed sky, the
blue night-sky of the Southwest, and I wondered, as I looked up into
the starry deeps, how God could keep so many bright bodies afield up
there, and yet take time to guard all the wandering children of men.

With the day-dawn the strange events of the night seemed as unreal as
the vanishing night-shadows. The bluest skies of a blue-sky land curved
in fathomless majesty over the yellow valley of the Santa Fe. Against
its borders loomed the silent mountain ranges--purple-shaddowed,
silver-topped Ortiz and Jemez, Sandia and Sangre-de-Christo. Dusty and
deserted lay the trail, save that here and there a group of dark-faced
carriers of firewood prodded on their fagot-laden burros toward the
distant town. As our wagons halted at the sandy borders of an arroyo the
brown-cla