And to think that Bill Banney, in no way
touching any of our lives, should have been martyred by the crimes of
Fred and this Apache! But that's the old, old story of the trail. Poor
Bill! I hope his sleep will be sweet out in this desolate land. We'll
meet him later somewhere."
The winds must have carried the tale of poisoned water across the
Cimarron country, for the Comanches' trail left ours from that day.
Through threescore and ten miles to the Arkansas River we came, and
there was not a well nor spring nor sign of water in all that distance.
What water we had we carried with us from the Cimarron fountains. But
the sturdy endurance of the days was not without its help to me. And the
wide, wind-swept prairies of Kansas taught me many things. In the
lonely, beautiful land, through long bright days and starlit nights, I
began to see things bigger than my own selfish measure had reckoned. I
thought of Esmond Clarenden and his large scheme of business; Felix
Narveo, the true-hearted friend; and of Father Josef and his life of
devotion. And I lived with Jondo every day. I could not forget the hour
in the little ruined chapel in the San Christobal Valley, and how he
himself had made no effort to clear his own name.
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