alk to her about herself. And
Beverly and Mat and I, however much we might speculate among ourselves,
never thought of resisting his wishes.

Eloise was gracious with Mat, but evidently the boy Marcos had made her
wary of all boys. She paid no attention to Beverly and me at first. All
her pretty smiles and laughing words were for Uncle Esmond and Jondo.
And she was lovely. Never in all these long and varied years have I seen
another child with such a richness of coloring, nor such a mass of
golden hair rippling around her forehead and falling in big, soft curls
about her neck. Her dark eyes with their long black lashes gave to her
face its picturesque beauty, and her plump, dimpled arms and sturdy
little form bespoke the wholesome promise of future years.

But the life of the trail was not meant for such as she, and I know now
that the assurance of having saved her from some greater misfortune
alone comforted Uncle Esmond and Jondo in this journey. For Aunty Boone
was right when she declared, "They tote together always."

As we grouped together under that shelterless glare, getting what
comfort we could out of the brief rest, Jondo sprang up suddenly, his
eyes aglow with excitement.

"What's the matter? Because if it isn't, this is one hot day to pretend
like it is," Rex Krane asserted.

He was lying on the hot earth beside the trail, his hat pulled over his
face. Beverly and Bill Banney were staring dejectedly across the
landscape, seeing nothing. I sat looking off toward the east, wondering
what lay behind those dun bluffs in the distance.

"Something is wrong back yonder," Jondo declared, making a half-circle
with his hand toward the trail behind us.

My heart seemed to stop mid-beat with a kind of fear I had never known
before. Aunty Boone had always been her own defender. Mat Nivers had
cared for me so much that I never doubted her bigger power. It was for
Eloise, Aunty Boone's "Little Lees," that my fear leaped up.

I can close my eyes to-day and see again the desolate land banded by the
broad white trail. I can see the dusty wagons and our tired mules with
drooping heads. I can see the earnest, anxious faces of Esmond Clarenden
and Jondo; Beverly and Bill Banney hardly grasping Jondo's meaning; Rex
Krane, half asleep on the edge of the trail. I can see Mat Nivers, brown
and strong, and Aunty Boone oozing sweat at every pore. But these are
only the setting for that little girl on the wagon-seat with white