wagons over the famous old Santa Fe trail.

Junction City was then the terminal point of a railway system which
extended its track westward across the great American plains, over
the virgin prairie, the native haunt of the buffalo and fleet-footed
antelope, the iron horse trespassing on the hunting ground of the
Arapahoe and Comanche Indian tribes. As a mercantile supply depot for
New Mexico and Colorado, Junction City was the port from whence a
numerous fleet of prairie schooners sailed, laden with the
necessities and luxuries of an advancing civilization. But not every
sailor reached his destined port, for many were they who were sent by
the pirates of the plains over unknown trails, to the shores of the
great Beyond, their scalpless bodies left on the prairie, a prey to
vultures and coyotes.

If the plans of my relatives had developed according to program, this
story would probably not have been told. Indians on the warpath
attacked the wagon train which I was presumed to have joined, a short
distance out from Junction City. They killed and scalped several
teamsters and also a young German traveler; stampeded and drove off a
number of mules and burned up several wagons. This was done while
fording the Arkansas River, near Fort Dodge. I was delayed near
Kansas City under circumstances which preclude the supposition of
chance and indicate a subtle and Inexorably fatal power at work for
the preservation of my life--a force which with the giant tread of
the earthquake devastates countries and lays cities in ruins; that
awful power which on wings of the cyclone slays the innocent babe in
its cradle and harms not the villain, or vice versa; that inscrutable
spirit which creates and lovingly shelters the sparrow over night and
then at dawn hands it to the owl to serve him for his breakfast. Safe