was called the frontier, long after the frontier has really gone.
Guarding its ghost here stood a little army post, once one of the
pillars, now one of the monuments of the West.

Out from the tiny settlement in the dusk of evening, always
facing toward where the sun is sinking, might be seen riding, not
so long ago, a figure we should know. He would thread the little
lane among the fences, following the guidance of hands other than
his own, a thing he would once have scorned to do. He would ride
as lightly and as easily as ever, sitting erect and jaunty in the
saddle, his reins held high and loose in the hand whose fingers
turn up gracefully, his whole body free yet firm in the saddle
with the seat of the perfect horseman. At the boom of the cannon,
when the flag dropped fluttering down to sleep, he would rise in
his stirrups and wave his hat to the flag. Then, toward the edge,
out into the evening, he would ride on. The dust of his riding
would mingle with the dusk of night. We could not see which was
the one or the other. We could only hear the hoofbeats passing,
boldly and steadily still, but growing fainter, fainter, and more
faint.*

* For permission to use in this chapter material from the
author's "The Story of the Cowboy," acknowledgment is made to D.
Appleton & Co.



Chapter V. The Mines

If the influence of the cattle industry was paramount in the