fighting,
of long night marches, of swift, merciless raiding, of lonely scouting
within the enemy's lines, of severe wounds, hardship, and suffering,
had left their marks on both body and soul. His father had fallen on the
field at Antietam, and left him utterly alone in the world, but he had
fought on grimly to the end, until the last flag of the Confederacy had
been furled. By that time, upon the collar of his tattered gray jacket
appeared the tarnished insignia of a captain. The quick tears dimmed
his eyes even now as he recalled anew that final parting following
Appomattox, the battle-worn faces of his men, and his own painful
journey homeward, defeated, wounded, and penniless. It was no home
when he got there, only a heap of ashes and a few weed-grown acres. No
familiar face greeted him; not even a slave was left.

He had honestly endeavored to remain there, to face the future and work
it out alone; he persuaded himself to feel that this was his paramount
duty to the State, to the memory of the dead. But those very years
of army life made such a task impossible; the dull, dead monotony of
routine, the loneliness, the slowness of results, became intolerable. As
it came to thousands of his comrades, the call of the West came to him,
and at last he yielded, and drifted toward the frontier. The life there
fascinated him, drawing him deeper and deeper into its swirling vortex.
He became freighter, mail carrier, hunter, government scout, cowboy
foreman. Once he had drifted into the mountains, and took a chance in
the mines, but the wide plains called him back once more to their desert
loneliness. What an utter waste it all seemed, now that he looked back
upon it. Eight years of fighting, hardship, and rough living, and what
had they brought him? The reputation of a hard rider, a daring player
at cards, a quick shot, a scorner of danger, and a bad man to fool
with--that was the whole of a record hardly won. The man's eyes
hardened, his lips set firmly, as this truth came crushing home. A
pretty life story surely, one to be proud of, and with probably no
better ending than an Indian bullet, or the flash of a revolver in some
barroom fight.

The narrow valley along which he was travelling suddenly changed its
direction, compelling him to climb the rise of the ridge. Slightly below
the summit he halted. In front extended the wide expanse of the Arkansas
valley, a scene of splendor under the golden rays of the sun, with viv