Zulime's. I had no
right to demand such devotion from her. Like thousands of other men of
my age I was snared in circumstances--forced to do that which appeared
unfilial and neglectful.

In the midst of these perplexities I was confronted by a new and
surprising problem--I had money to invest! For the serial use of _The
Eagle's Heart_ and _Her Mountain Lover_ I had received thirty-five
hundred dollars, and as each of these books had also brought in an
additional five hundred dollars advance royalty, I was for the moment
embarrassed with cash.

In this extremity I turned, naturally, toward Oklahoma. I recalled the
beautiful prairies I had crossed on my way to the Washitay. "Another
visit to Darlington will not only furnish new material for my book of
Indian stories, but enable me to survey and purchase a half-section of
land," I explained to my father. "Like Henry George we both understand
the value of unearned increment."

In this plan he agreed and two days after making this decision I was at
Colony, Oklahoma, where I spent nearly the entire month of May, and when
I returned I was the owner of three hundred and twenty acres of land.

My return to the Homestead found Zulime deep in the rush of the berry
season. As mistress of a garden her interest in its produce was almost
comical. She thought less of art, she neither modeled nor painted. She
cared less and less for the Camp at Eagle's Nest, exulting more and more
in the spacious rooms of her home, and in the abundance of her soil. Her
love of the Homestead delighted me, but I was a little disappointed by
the coolness with which she received my gift of a deed to a quarter
section of Oklahoma land. She smiled and handed it back to me as if it
were a make-believe deed.

It chanced that July came in unusually dry and hot, and in the midst of
a dreadful week, she fell ill, so ill that she was confined to her bed
for nearly three weeks, and as I watched beside her during those
cloudless days and sultry nights, my mind turned with keenest longing
toward the snow-lined crests of the Colorado mountains, and especially
to the glorious forests of the White River Plateau. The roar of snowy
Uncompagre, the rush of the deep-flowing Gunnison, and the serrate line
of The Needle Peaks, called us both, and when at last, she was strong
enough to travel, we packed our trunks and fled the low country,
hurrying in almost desperate desire to reach the high, cool valleys of
Colorado.