On either hand tall
cliffs, huge weather-worn points of rock, and steep slopes, spotted with
evergreen shrubs, bordered the river's course. The silent bigness of
every feature of the landscape and the beauty of the June day in the
June time of our lives, and our sense of security in having escaped the
shadows and strife in Santa Fe, all combined to make us free-spirited.
Only Sister Anita rode, alert and sorrowful-faced, between Beverly and
the gaily-robed Indian girl, and myself with Eloise, the beautiful.
As we rounded a bend in the narrow valley, Little Blue Flower halted us,
and pointing to an old half-ruined rock structure beside the stream, she
said:
"See, yonder is the chapel where Father Josef comes sometimes to pray
for the souls of the Hopi people. The house we go to find is farther up
a canon over there."
"I remember the place," Eloise declared. "Father Josef brought me here
once and left me awhile. I wasn't afraid, although I was alone, for he
told me I was always safe in a church. But I was never allowed to come
back again."
Sister Anita crossed herself and, glancing over her shoulder, gave a
sharp cry of alarm. We turned about to see a group, of horsemen dashing
madly up the trail behind us.
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