uired, if I have seemed to exaggerate in any
of my history's details, I may say that I am not conscious of having set
down more than "a plain, unvarnished tale." Embarrassed with riches of
fact, I have had no thought of fiction. H. C. W.

CODYVIEW, DULUTH, MINNESOTA, February 26, 1899.

LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTS.

CHAPTER I. -- THE OLD HOMESTEAD IN IOWA.

A PLEASANT, roomy farm-house, set in the sunlight against a background
of cool, green wood and mottled meadow--this is the picture that my
earliest memories frame for me. To this home my parents, Isaac and Mary
Cody, had moved soon after their marriage.

The place was known as the Scott farm, and was situated in Scott County,
Iowa, near the historic little town of Le Clair, where, but a few years
before, a village of the Fox Indians had been located; where Black Hawk
and his thousand warriors had assembled for their last war-dance; where
the marquee of General Scott was erected, and the treaty with the Sacs
and Foxes drawn up; and where, in obedience to the Sac chief's terms,
Antoine Le Clair, the famous half-breed Indian scholar and interpreter,
had built his cabin, and given to the place his name. Here, in this
atmosphere of pioneer struggle and Indian warfare--in the farm-house
in the dancing sunshine, with the background of wood and meadow--my
brother, William Frederick Cody, was born, on the 26th day of February,
1846.

Of the good, old-fashioned sort was our family, numbering five daughters
and two sons--Martha, Samuel, Julia, William, Eliza, Helen, and May.
Samuel, a lad of unusual beauty of face and nature, was killed through
an unhappy accident before he was yet fourteen.

He was riding "Betsy Baker," a mare well known among old settlers
in Iowa as one of speed and pedigree, yet displaying at times a most
malevolent temper, accompanied by Will, who, though only seven years
of age, yet sat his pony with the ease and grace that distinguished the
veteran rider of the future. Presently Betsy Baker became fractious, and
sought to throw her rider. In vain did she rear and plunge; he kept his
saddle. Then, seemingly, she gave up the fight, and Samuel cried, in
boyish exultation:

"Ah, Betsy Baker, you didn't quite come it that time!"

His last words! As if she knew her rider was a careless victor off
his guard, the mare reared suddenly and flung herself upon her back,
crushing the daring boy beneath her.

Though to us younger children our brother