Mists of Dawn Read Free

quickening before the threat of rain. One of the men was middle-aged, with prematurely white hair, though still trim and in good condition. The other was younger, a tall, athletic boy of seventeen. Despite the difference in their ages, careful eyes could not have missed the close relationship between the two. There was a similarity of expression on their tanned faces, particularly in their intelligent, perceptive brown eyes, that told more eloquently than words of long association and friendship.
    Ahead of them, frisking up and down the road, a golden-brown cocker spaniel puppy charged imaginary enemies in the dust, barking shrilly with more determination than success, and furiously wagging the stump of his tail in great self-satisfaction.
    Mark Nye smiled and pointed at the dog. “You must have been feeding Fang some atomic-powered dog food,” he told his uncle. “If we don’t do something pretty soon, he’ll tear the road apart.”
    Doctor Robert Nye took a battered pipe out of his hip pocket and filled it with tobacco from a can that had seen better days. “Fang’s quite a dog,” he agreed. “He’s doing his level best to live up to his name.”
    As if to prove the doctor’s point, Fang attacked a clump of grass viciously and yelped a challenge to the world in general. Lightning began to flicker in the mountains, and a distant rumble of thunder rolled down upon them from the hills. There was a faint smell of rain in the air and a cool breeze began to sigh across the valley floor.
    Quite suddenly, two dark figures loomed up ahead of them on the road. Fang took one very short look at them and promptly abandoned his plans to be a great fighter. He dashed back to Mark at full speed and then, considering himself safe, tried a hesitant growl that proved to be magnificently ineffective.
    As they drew nearer, the two figures proved to be Indians. They were of medium height, with straight black hair and dark eyes, and they were dressed in faded jeans and cotton shirts. Mark recognized one of them and waved a greeting.
    “Howdy, Tino,” he said. “Looks like we’re about to get wet.”
    Tino paused. “Soon now,” he agreed. “How does it go with you, Mark?”
    “Fine, thanks—though I think you two scared Fang here half to death.”
    The Apache winked solemnly. “Injun scalpum,” he said, imitating the strange dialect affected by the tourists when they talked to the Indians.
    Doctor Nye and Mark laughed and waved good-by as the two Apaches moved along on their way to the near-by Mescalero reservation. It was almost dark now, and the evening was hushed with the threat of rain.
    “A lot of history just walked by us then/’ Mark said thoughtfully.
    Doctor Nye puffed on his pipe and nodded agreement. “Tino is a member of a proud race,” he said. “The blood that flows in his veins, the blood of the Mescalero Apaches, is the blood that goes back to Gion-na-tah, who finally had to surrender to his friend, Kit Carson —the blood that goes back to the warriors who fought with the great Victorio, back to the wily Nana, who at eighty years of age led fifteen braves against over a thousand soldiers, and back to the most famous Apache of them all—Geronimo.”
    Mark smiled. “We wouldn’t have walked by them quite so easily seventy-five years ago. Not even Fang could have helped us much.”
    “The Indians were old when Rome was young,’* Doctor Nye mused, as the road began to rise into the hills. “There were Indians here in the United States when our ancestors in Europe still lived in caves.”
    When Rome was young. Mark felt his pulse quicken as the phrase fired his imagination. Out of the corner of his eye, he looked at the figure of his uncle walking beside him. He thought of his uncle’s strange dream, a dream shared with him alone—would it ever come true?
    Could they go back?
    Rome, Imperial Rome. Visions of grandeur raced through Mark’s head—visions made more vivid and real than ever by the secret