seemed like the glittering eyes and hooked bills of six great
dark birds of prey.

When the last sunset glow was in the west the six rose up and walked
backward, still looking at me, until they passed my range of vision and
I could only feel their eyes upon me. Then I heard the clatter of
ponies' feet on the hard rock, the fainter stroke on the thin, sandy
soil, the thud on the thickening sod. Thump, thump, thump, farther and
farther and farther away. The west grew scarlet, deepened to purple and
melted at last into the dull gray twilight that foreruns the darkness of
night. One ray of pale gold shimmered far along toward the zenith and
lost itself in the upper heavens, and the stars came forth in the
blue-black eastern sky. And I was alone with the Presence whose arm is
never shortened and whose ear grows never heavy.

The trail to the east was only a dull line along the darker earth. I
looked up at the myriad stars coming swiftly out of space to greet me.
The starlit sky above the open prairie speaks the voice of the Infinite
in a grandeur never matched on land or sea.

I thought of Little Blue Flower on that dim-lighted dawning when she had
showed us her bleeding hands and lashed shoulders. And again I heard
Beverly's boyish voice ring out:

"Let's take her and take our chances."

And then I was beside the glistening waters of the Flat Rock, and Little
Blue Flower was there in her white Grecian robe and the wrought-silver
headband with coral pendants. And Eloise. The golden hair, the soft dark
eyes, the dainty peach-bloom cheek. Eloise whom I had loved always and
always. Eloise who loved Beverly--good, big-hearted, sunny-faced
Beverly, who never had visions. Any girl would love him. Most of all,
Little Blue Flower. What a loving message she had left us in the one
word, _Lolomi_. God pity her.

A thousand sharp pains racked my body. I tried to move. I longed for
water. Then a merciful darkness fell upon me--not sleep, but
unconsciousness. And the stars watched over me through that black night,
lying there half dead and utterly alone.

Out to the northwest Jondo and Bill Banney rode long on the trail of the
fleeing Kiowas. A picture for an artist of the West, these two rough men
in the garb and mount and trappings of the plainsman, with eyes alert
and strong faces, riding only as men can ride who go to save a life more
eagerly than they would save their own. Not in rash haste, but with
unchecked speed, losing