Matt Kelley," "Rob
Raymond" and "Jack Munroe," I knew and loved, and their presence in this
labor war redeemed it from the sordid, uninspired struggle which such
contests usually turn out to be. In my design these three characters
filled heroic place.

Zulime (with no literary problems to distract her) had another easeful,
idyllic summer. The Ehrichs, the Wrays and the Palmers welcomed her as
an old friend, and in their companionship she rode and camped and dined
in easeful leisure, but I was on the move. I visited a ranch on the
plains of Eastern Colorado, joined a round-up in the Sierra Blanca
country, explored the gambling-houses and mines of Cripple Creek and
Victor, and spent two weeks reexploring the White River Plateau, this
time with Walter Wykoff, of Princeton. For a week or two, Wykoff, Miss
Ehrich and Zulime and I camped high on the shoulder of Pike's Peak. Vast
and splendid scenes of storm and sun were printed on my mind, and, while
the actual writing of my novel halted, I felt certain that I was doing
just the right thing. I felt sure of finishing it in the proper spirit
of enthusiasm.

The trip not only enabled me to finish _Hesper_--it suggested several of
the stories which went into _They of the High Trails_ and gave me the
plan of _The Forester's Daughter_. I returned to West Salem, brown as an
Indian and bursting with energy, and for several weeks toiled with
desperate haste to put my impressions, imaginings in form.

Each morning of those peaceful days I took to mother's room, on the
sunward side of the old Homestead, and there wrought into final shape
the materials I had gathered. I had only to shut my eyes to see again
the clouds circling the walls of Shavano. In imagination I rode once
more with Matt Kelley up Bull Hill, or, sitting opposite the chief of
the Miners' Union, reenjoyed his graphic account of the coming of the
Federal troops. The bawling roar of the round-up on the meadow came back
to fill my eyes with pictures of the Sierra Blanca foothills. In truth I
had no need of notes. I was embarrassed with material. I threw my
note-books into a drawer and forgot them.

Letters from my publishers informed me that _The Captain of the Gray
Horse Troop_ was marching on, but that they hoped I was at work on
something to follow it. To this I replied:

"Yes, I am in the midst of a story which I hope will be as good as _The
Captain_, but don't hurry me!"

Whilst I, busied with my fiction, kept t