“Where is Frank?”
“He’s not here!”
Merriwell was gone, but his blanket was rolled in the corner where he had been sleeping.
By this time the boys began to realize where they were.
“We are at the Pueblo,” said Hodge. “We arrived here last night, and it must be morning. That sound is the beating of a drum, which means the exercises of the day have begun.”
Then there was a hustling, and every one, with the exception of Browning, moved in a hurry. Browning would not have hurried if the adobe hut had been falling down about his ears.
The blanket which served as a door was flung back, and it was seen that the sun was just peeping over the eastern mountains, shooting lances of golden light toward the zenith.
Already the world at the Pueblo of Taos was astir and mass was being said in the little whitewashed chapel, at the door of which stood an idiot boy, who, now and then, pounded spasmodically on a drum. This drumming was answered in a similar manner by another drummer, who stood on the highest terrace of the higher of the two community buildings.
These buildings were made of sundried mud, from a distance looking like two great pyramids. On a nearer approach, it could be seen they were built in terraces, like steps for a mountain-tall giant, each terrace being a story. One was six stories in height, and the other was four.
There were no doors, and the entrances were through the tops of the terraces, which were reached by ladders.