The  daylight  was  never  so  welcome  before,  and  never
la  grander  sunrise  filled  the  earth  with  its  splendor.  I  was
up  on  the  bluff  patrolling  the  northwest  boundary  when
the  dawn  began  to  purple  the  east.  Oh,  many  a  time
have  I  watched  the  sunrise  beyond  the  Neosho  Valley,  but
on  this  rare  May  morning  every  shaft  of  light,  every  tint
of  roseate  beauty  along  the  horizon,  every  heap  of  feathery
mist  that  decked  the  Plains,  with  the  Neosho,  bank-full,
sweeping  like  molten  silver  below  it  —  all  these  took  on
a  new  loveliness.  Eagerly,  however,  I  scanned  the  south-
west where  the  level  beams  of  day  were  driving  back
the  gray  morning  twilight,  and  the  green  prairie  billows
were  swelling  out  of  the  gloom.  Point  by  point,  I  watched
«very  landmark  take  form,  waiting  to  see  if  each  new
blot  on  the  landscape  might  not  be  the  first  of  the  dreaded
Indian  bands  whose  coming  we  so  feared.
With  daybreak,  came  assurance.  Somehow  I  could  not
believe  that  a  land  so  beautiful  and  a  village  so  peaceful
could  be  threshed  and  stained  and  blackened  by  the  fire
and  massacre  of  a  savage  band  allied  to  a  disloyal,  re-
bellious host.  And  yet,  I  had  lived  these  stormy  years
in  Kansas  and  the  border  strife  has  never  all  been  told.
I  dared  not  relax  my  vigilance,  so  I  watched  the  south  and
west,  trusting  to  the  river  to  take  care  of  the  east.
And  so  it  happened  that,  sentinel  as  I  was,  I  had  not
seen  the  approach  of  a  horseman  from  the  northwest,  until
Father  Le  Claire  came  upon  me  suddenly.  His  horse  was
jaded  with  travel,  and  he  sat  it  wearily.  A  pallor  over-
spread his  brown  cheeks.  His  garments  were  wet  and
mud-splashed.
