et him in, but they were afraid and refused to open the door, for by
that time the men were shooting at him.

The poor man ran across the street, leaving a trail of blood that
streamed from his wounds, and was brutally killed under our window.
Early the next morning, when we crossed the street to go to the cars,
the darky's mule was lying on the ground, dead, near the corner of the
hotel, and stuck on one long ear was the murdered man's hat. Soon after
we reached Granada a telegram was received giving an account of the
affair, and saying also that in less than one half hour after the train
had passed through, Dodge City was surrounded by troops of United States
cavalry from Fort Dodge, that the entire town was searched for the
murderers, but that not even a trace of one had been discovered.

When I got inside a car the morning after that awful, awful night, it
was with a feeling that I was leaving behind me all such things and that
by evening I would be back once more at our old army home and away
from hostile Indians, and hostile desperadoes too. But when I saw that
servant girl with the pale, emaciated face and flushed cheeks, so ill
she could barely sit up, my heart went down like lead and Indians seemed
small trials in comparison to what I saw ahead of me.

Well, she will go in a few days, and then I can give the house some
attention. The new furniture and china are all here, but nothing has
been done in the way of getting settled. The whole coming back has been
cruelly disappointing, and I am so tired and nervous I am afraid of my
own shadow. So after a while I think I will go East for a few weeks,
which I know you will be glad to hear.

FORT LYON, COLORADO TERRITORY, August, 1873.

WE have just come in from a drive to the Purgatoire with Colonel Knight
behind his handsome horses. It makes me sad, always, to go over that
familiar road and to scenes that are so closely associated with my
learning to ride and shoot when we were here before. The small tree that
was my target is dead but still standing, and on it are several little
pieces of the white paper bull's eyes that Faye and Lieutenant Baldwin
tacked on it for me.

We often see poor Tom. The post trader bought him after Lieutenant
Baldwin's death, so the dear horse would always have good care and not
be made to bring and carry for a cruel master. He wanders about as he
chooses and is fat, but the coat that was once so silky and glossy is
now dull and fade