68 The Rough Riders 



relate facts, but they said very little about what 

 they dimly felt. Bucky O'Neill, however, the iron- 

 nerved, iron- willed fighter from Arizona, the Sheriff 

 whose name was a byword of terror to every wrong- 

 doer, white or red, the gambler who with unmoved 

 face would stake and lose every dollar he had in the 

 world he, alone among his comrades, was a vision- 

 ary, an articulate emotionalist. He was very quiet 

 about it, never talking unless he was sure of his 

 listener; but at night, when we leaned on the rail- 

 ing to look at the Southern Cross, he was less apt to 

 tell tales of his hard and stormy past than he was to 

 speak of the mysteries which lie behind courage, 

 and fear, and love, behind animal hatred, and ani- 

 mal lust for the pleasures that have tangible shape. 

 He had keenly enjoyed life, and he could breast its 

 turbulent torrent as few men could; he was a prac- 

 tical man, who knew how to wrest personal success 

 from adverse forces, among money-makers, poli- 

 ticians, and desperadoes alike; yet, down at bottom, 

 what seemed to interest him most was the philosophy 

 of life itself, of our understanding of it, and of the 

 limitations set to that understanding. But he was 

 as far as possible from being a mere dreamer of 

 dreams. A stanchly loyal and generous friend, he 

 was also exceedingly ambitious on his own account. 

 If, by risking his life, no matter how great the risk, 

 he could gain high military distinction, he was bent 



