Though each day Consuelo awoke with a feeling of great loss, she tried not to weep at the thought of Steven, traveling over the ugly parched plains to Chihuahua, perhaps to death. Perhaps the Indians had already taken him. Against this her heart cried out in disbelief, for youth believes mainly what it wishes most to believe. With her tears prayers were said each day for Steven’s safety, and for his return. She knelt longer and more often before the crucifix and little altar in her room than ever before. Had all her life not been so arrogant, so assured of worship that she could brook no rivalry, no crossing of her will, Consuelo told herself, Estevan should not have departed with no word of appreciation, no sign of love from herself, for this tremendous deed which she had asked of him and upon which he had embarked so unhesitatingly. How could he have done otherwise than he had on the night of their appointed meeting? He could not abandon his countrymen.--Father Filemon prayed with Consuelo that the life of the Americano would be spared and that he might return to Santa Fe. CHAPTER X THE FALSE FRAILE Steven found himself, after parting with Don Tiburcio, in a level valley fertile as an Oriental garden. Fifteen miles of sandy desert lay between the river and the sheer spur of Rockies which they had crossed. This was a desert land, fruitful only where the river flowed, barren save where water touched; but in that rich strip of earth along the river banks were groves of ancient cottonwood. The pink tamarack waved its plumes against the blue sky, and among them nestled many comfortable little ranchos, all Mexican, for the land of the Pueblo Indians had been left far behind along the upper valley of the Rio Grande. There were other Indians westward, an old Mexican told him. All beyond was the land of the Navajo, a country of a great desert and a vast rift in the earth, greater than any canyon man had ever seen. This painted canyon was near the Mission of San Xavier del Bac, near the homes of the Moquis, too. A country for one to adventure in. But Steven’s feet were drawn where his heart lay, and, failing that, homeward. Youth and pride and the hopelessness of first love would not let him turn back to Santa Fe, so down to Vera Cruz, whence one could take ship for New Orleans, and so home, he must go. Of the two hundred silver dollars which had remained to him when he set out across the prairies from Independence there still remained one hundred and fifty. For if life were cheap in this land where mankind was so scattered, living cost nothing at all, hospitality was to be had for the asking.