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!