Vanguards of the Plains | Page 3

I saw that the rider's
face was very dark, that his dress, from the sombrero to the spurred
heel, was Mexican, and that he was heavily armed, even for a
plainsman. When he reached the top of the bluff he made straight
across the square toward my uncle Esmond Clarenden's little
storehouse, and I lost sight of him.
Something about him seemed familiar to me, for the gift of
remembering faces was mine, even then. A fleeting childish memory
called up such a face and dress somewhere back in the dim days of
babyhood, with the haunting sound of a low, musical voice, speaking in
the soft Castilian tongue.
But the memory vanished and I sat a long time gazing at the wooded
west that hid the open West of my day-dreams.
Suddenly Jondo came riding up on his big black horse to the very edge
of the bluff.
"You are such a little mite, I nearly forgot to see you," he called,
cheerily. "Your Uncle Esmond wants you right away. Mat Nivers, or
somebody else, sent me to run you down," he added, leaning over to lift
me up to a seat on the horse behind him.
Few handsomer men ever graced a saddle. Big, broad-shouldered,
muscular, yet agile, a head set like a Greek statue, and a face--nobody
could ever make a picture of Jondo's face for me--the curling brown
hair, soft as a girl's, the broad forehead, deep-set blue eyes, heavy dark
brow, cheeks always ruddy through the plain's tan, strong white teeth,
firm square chin, and a smile like sunshine on the gray prairies. Eyes,
lips, teeth--aye, the big heart behind them--all made that smile. No
grander prince of men ever rode the trails or dared the dangers of the
untamed West. I did not know his story for many years. I wish I might
never have known it. But as he began with me, so he ended--brave,
beloved old Jondo!
Down on the parade-ground Beverly Clarenden and Mat Nivers were
sitting with their feet crossed under them, tailor fashion, facing each
other and talking earnestly. Over by the fort, Esmond Clarenden stood
under a big elm-tree. A round little, stout little man he was, whose
sturdy strength and grace of bearing made up for his lack of height.
Like a great green tent the boughs of the elm, just budding into leaf,

drooped over him. A young army officer on a cavalry horse was talking
with him as we came up.
"Run over there to Beverly now. Gail," my uncle said, with a wave of
his hand.
I was always in awe of shoulder-straps, so I scampered away toward
the children. But not until, child-like, I had stared at the three men long
enough to take a child's lasting estimate of things.
I carry still the keen impression of that moment when I took,
unconsciously, the measure of the three: the mounted army man,
commander of the fort, big in his official authority and force; Jondo on
his great black horse, to me the heroic type of chivalric courage; and
between the two, Esmond Clarenden, unmounted, with feet firmly
planted, suggesting nothing heroic, nothing autocratic. And yet, as he
stood there, square-built, solid, certain, he seemed in some dim way to
be the real man of whom the other two were but shadows. It took a
quarter of a century for me to put into words what I learned with one
glance that day in my childhood.
As I came running toward the parade-ground Beverly Clarenden called
out:
"Come here, Gail! Shut your little mouth and open your big ears, and
I'll tell you something. Maybe I'd better not tell you all at once, though.
It might make you dizzy," he added, teasingly.
"And maybe you better had," Mat Nivers said, calmly.
"Maybe you'd better tell him yourself, if you feel that way," Beverly
retorted.
"I guess I'll do that," Mat began, with a twinkle in her big gray eyes;
but my cousin interrupted her.
Beverly loved to tease Mat through me, but he never got far, for I relied
on her to curb him; and she was not one to be ruffled by trifles. Mat
was an orphan and, like ourselves, a ward of Esmond Clarenden, but
there were no ties of kinship between us. She was three years older than
Beverly, and although she was no taller than he, she seemed like a
woman to me, a keen-witted, good-natured child-woman, neat, cleanly,
and contented. I wonder if many women get more out of life in these
days of luxurious comforts than she found in the days of frontier
hardships.
"Well, it's this way, Gail. Mat doesn't know the straight of it," Beverly

began, dramatically. "There's going to be a war, or something, in
Mexico, or