The old days are gone. The house dog
sits on the hill where yesterday the coyote sang. There are
fenced fields and in them stand sleek round beasts, deep in crops
such as their ancestors never saw. In a little town nearby is the
hurry and bustle of modern life. This town is far out upon what
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.
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