248 WALL STREET AND THE WILDS 



of my leg, and my heavy army revolver had ham- 

 mered my hip to a jelly. I couldn't swallow the 

 dry bread that scratched my parched throat, but 

 I was happy, supremely happy. 



The realization of my boyhood dreams was 

 around me. The Spirit of the prairies possessed 

 my soul and shucked off the metropolitan husk 

 that was smothering it. 



Jack Stillwell, my companion, though yet a 

 boy in years, was the best scout in the Indian 

 country, and five years before at the Alamo of 

 the plains, Beecher's Island, had saved For- 

 sythe's command, by a deed as daring as was ever 

 performed by a human being. 



As we lay side by side on the prairie that night 

 beneath the stars, in a silence broken at times by 

 the far-off howl of a great gray wolf, the nearby 

 cry of a yelping coyote, the rustling of heavy 

 wings as unseen birds flew over us, and the occa- 

 sional stamp of a restless pony, Jack told the 

 wonderful story. In words that burned and 

 tones, the memory of which thrill me to-day, he 

 described the terrible charge of the Cheyennes, 



