As the distance from spring to spring decreased, every drop of water
grew precious, and we pushed on, eager to reach the richer prairies of
the Arkansas Valley. Suddenly in the monotony of the way, and the
increasing calls of thirst, there came a sense of danger, the plains-old
danger of the Comanche on the Cimarron Trail. Bill Banney caught it
first--just a faint sign of one hostile track. All the next day Jondo
scouted far, coming into camp at nightfall with a grave report.
"The water-supply is failing," he told us, "and there is something wrong
out there. The Comanches are hovering near, that's certain, and there is
a single trail that doesn't look Comanche to me that I can't account
for. All we can do is to 'hold fast,'" he added, with his cheery smile
that never failed him.
That night I could not sleep, and the stars and I stared long at each
other. They were so golden and so far away. And one, as I looked,
slipped from its place and trailed wide across the sky until it
vanished, leaving a stream of golden light that lingered before my eyes.
I thought of the trail in the San Christobal Valley, and again I saw the
sunlight on golden hair as Eloise with Little Blue Flower passed out of
sight around the shoulder of a great rock beside the way.
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