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Updated: June 27, 2025
Little Blue Flower will show you the way. It is a dangerous ride, and you must make it as quickly and as silently as possible. A bullet from some little cañon could find you easily if Ramero should know your trail. Will you go?"
They don't feel sure of the Utes and Apaches." "Good enough!" I exclaimed. "Yes, only they lie when they say it. It's a trap to get us. No Kiowa on the plains will let a Clarenden train through peacefully, because we took their captive, Little Blue Flower. It's a hatred kept alive in the Kiowas by one man in Santa Fé through his Mexican agents with Narveo's train." "And that man is Ramero?"
The impulse to halt, and the duty to press on for the protection of the girl beside me, holding me in doubt. Instantly I saw the dark crew, with Ferdinand Ramero leading fiercely forward, almost upon us, and I heard Beverly Clarenden's voice filling the valley "Run, Gail, run! You can beat 'em up there."
"Uncle Esmond, I saw that man watching us like he knew us, out there on the Plaza to-day. Who is he?" I asked, in a low tone. "His name is Ferdinand Ramero. You will find him watching everywhere. Let that man alone as you would a snake," my uncle warned us. "Is that his boy?" I asked. "What boy?" Uncle Esmond inquired. "Marcos, the boy I pitched endways out of the church.
Louis to your uncle." "I remember that. The steamboat, and the Spanish language, and Felix Narveo's face. I recalled that when I saw him years ago," I exclaimed. "You always were all eyes and ears, remembering names and faces, where Beverly would not recall anything," Jondo declared. "And what became of your Fred Ramer?" I asked. "He is Ferdinand Ramero here. He married Narveo's sister later.
And beyond these three, this side of misty mountain peaks, the cloud of golden hair, the sweet face, with dark eyes looking into mine. I had not been a dreamer, I had been a fool. Through Beverly I learned the next day that Ferdinand Ramero had come into Santa Fé late at night and had left early the next morning.
Ferdinand Ramero rose to his feet and stood in the aisle near the door. His face hardened, and all the suave polish and cool concentration and dominant magnetism fell away. What remained was the man as shaped by the ruling passions of years, from whose control only divine power could bring deliverance. And when he spoke there was a remorseless cruelty and selfishness in his low, even tones.
The girl looked over her shoulder apprehensively, and lowered her voice as she replied: "Marcos Ramero." "He's a liar. I am awfully alive, and Marcos Ramero knows I am, for he saw me and recognized me down in the Plaza this afternoon," I declared. Just then the church door opened and a girl in Mexican dress came out.
I questioned. "That man is Ramero, and his capacity for hate is appalling. Gail, there's only one thing in the world that is stronger than hate, and that is love." Jondo looked out over the moonlit plains, his fine head erect, even in his meditative moods. "When a Mexican says a Kiowa has turned friendly, don't believe him. And when a Kiowa says it himself kill him.
"Since the days of old the Church has had the power to guard all that come within the shelter of the holy sanctuary. And to the Church of God was given also long ago the might to protect, by sanctuary privilege, the needy and the defenseless. Ferdinand Ramero, note that little table of rock where those two stand helpless in your grasp.
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