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Updated: June 9, 2025
And it was Rex who most aided Jondo in finding that the Indian had gone with Ramero's men northward. "That fellow is Santan, of Fort Bent, Rex," Jondo said. "Yes, you thought he was Santa and I took him for Satan then. We missed out on which to knock out of him. Bev won't care nothin' about his name. He will knock hell out of him if he gets in that Clarenden boy's way," Rex had replied.
Here and there, from the defeated, scattered band, an Apache warrior sprang back and lost himself quickly in the shadows. But Santan, plunging into our very midst, seized Little Blue Flower in his iron grip, and the bullet from a cavalry carbine, meant for him, struck her. He laughed and threw her back and, whirling, dashed into the arms of Aunty Boone and stopped.
And his keen eyes had caught sight of Santan crouching in an angle of the wall, watching them. "Indians and Mexes don't mix a lot. And Bev oughtn't mix with either one," Rex commented. "I'll line the boy up for review to-morrow, so Mat won't say I've neglected him." But the Yankee took the precaution to follow the trail to the Indian's possible abiding-place on the outskirts of Santa Fé.
As the struggle raged on, the one grew more furious and the other more self-confident. "Oh, I'll make you eat dust yet!" Beverly cried, as Santan in triumph flung him backward and sprang upon his prostrate form. They clinched again, and with a mighty surge of strength my cousin lifted himself, and the Indian with him, and in the next fall Beverly had his antagonist gripped and helpless.
He's got faith in that redskin and he's going to see that he gets back to New Mexico safely after while." "Rex, that's the same boy that was down in Agua Fria, the one Bev laughed at. He's no good Indian," I declared. "You are too wise, Gail Clarenden," Rex drawled, carelessly. "A boy of your brains had ought to be born in Boston. Jondo and I can't agree about him. His name, he says, is Santan.
She hated the brute, and she was a woman, if she was an Indian. I told him I'd see him in hell first, and I told her never to give in. Poor girl! It was a cruel test, but Santan knew how to be cruel. He said he'd fix me, and I guess he has done it." "Oh no, Bev. You are good for a century," I declared, affectionately, holding his head on my knee.
The two young men, spent with their struggle, their faces stained with dirt and bloody sweat, crossed the river and sought the shadowy place where Little Blue Flower sat beside Sister Anita. Twice Santan tried to escape, and twice Beverly brought him quickly to his place. It must have been here that I caught sight of them from the rock above.
So Santan's suit seemed promising for a time. But the Hopi type ran true in her, and she put off the Apache year after year. It is a strange case in Indian romance, but romance everywhere is strange enough. The Apache type also ran true to dogged purpose. Besides being an Apache, Santan has some Ramero blood in his veins, to be accounted for in the persistence of an evil will.
I found that Santan, dead loaded with jealousy, sneaking after us in the dark to-night when I took Little Blue Flower for a stroll. I took him seriously, and told him exactly where he'd find me next time he was looking for me. That I'd stand him up against La Garita and make a sieve out of him," Beverly said, carelessly. "Beverly Clarenden, you are a fool to get that Apache's ill-will," I cried.
"Will they put Beverly to death?" I asked. "I cannot tell, but see how long the arm of hate can be, my son Santan, the Apache, has been informed of Beverly's coming by Marcos Ramero, gambler and debauchee. And Marcos got it in some way from Charlie Bent, a Cheyenne half-breed, son of old Colonel Bent, a fine old gentleman. Maybe you knew young Bent?"
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