Avon Burnet, at the age of eighteen, was one of the finest horsemen that ever over the plains of Western Texas, on his matchless mustang Thunderbolt.  
He was a native of the Star State, where, until he was thirteen years old, he attended the common school, held in a log cabin within three miles of his home, after which he went to live with his uncle, Captain Dohm Shirril, with whom the son of his sister had been a favorite from .
 
Avon was bright, alert, unusually active, and exceedingly fond of horses from the time he was able to walk. His uncle had served through the Civil War in the Confederate 2army, returning to Texas at the close of , “reconstructed,” and only anxious to recover his fortunes, which had been to the four winds of heaven during the long, bitter struggle.
 
The captain had no children of his own, and it was natural, therefore, that he and his wife should feel the strongest for the boy who was placed in their care, and who, should his life be spared, would inherit whatever his new parents might be able to leave behind them when called to depart.
 
Avon had reached the age named, when to his delight he was told that he was to accompany the large of cattle which was to be driven , through upper Texas, the Indian Nation, and Kansas over the Great Cattle Trail, along which hundreds of thousands of have tramped during the years preceding and following the War for the union.
 
Young as was our hero, he had served his at the cattle business, and was an expert at the round-up, in branding, in cutting 3out, in , and all the requirements of a cowboy’s life. It was understood, therefore, that he was to be rated as a full hand among the eight men who, under his uncle, were to have charge of two thousand cattle about to start on the long tramp northward.
 
“It’s the hardest kind of work,” said the captain to his nephew, as the two sat in the low, flat structure where the veteran made his home, with his wife and one colored servant, “but I haven’t any fear that you will not pull through all right.”
 
“If I am not able to do so now, I never shall be,” replied Avon, with a smile, as he sat on the rough, home-made stool, slowly a piece of wood, while his aunt, looking up from her sewing, remarked in her quiet way:
 
“It will be lonesome without Avon.”
 
“But not so bad as when uncle was off to the war,” ventured the youth, gazing affectionately at the lady.
 
The captain was sitting with his legs crossed, slowly smoking the old briarwood which he had carried through many a fierce 4campaign, and seemingly sunk in deep thought. Like his nephew, he was clad in the strong serviceable costume of the Texan cowboy, his broad sombrero resting with a number of blankets on in the wall.
 
It was evening, with a cold, piercing wind almost like one of the cutting northers blowing around the structure. The herd were gathered at a point about five miles to the northward, whence the real start was to be made at an early hour on the morrow. This arrangement permitted the captain and his young friend to spend their last night at home.
 
“No,” replied Mrs. Shirril, referring to the last remark of her nephew, “there never can be any worse days than those, when I did not know whether your uncle had not been dead for weeks or possibly months.”
 
“You must have had pretty tough times, aunt.”
 
“Well, they might have been improved, but Dinah and I managed to get along a great deal better than some of our neighbors. Here in Texas we were so far from the war 5that I may say I never heard a hostile shot fired, except by the Indians who came down this way now and then.”
 
“They were the same, I suppose, that still trouble us.”
 
“I believe so, mostly Comanches and sometimes Kioways, with perhaps others that we didn’t know. They did much to prevent our life from becoming dull,” added the brave little lady, with another smile.
 
“The women in those days had to know how to shoot the rifle, ride horses, and do the work of the absent men.”
 
“I don’t know how we could have got along if we hadn’t learned all those things. For years I never knew the taste of coffee, and only rarely was able to obtain a pinch of coarse brown sugar; but we did not suffer for meat, and, with the help of Dinah, we could get a few things out of the earth, so that, on the whole, I think I had much easier times than my husband.”
 
“I am not so sure of that,” remarked Captain Shirril, rousing himself; “we had rough days and nights, beyond all doubt, but after 6all, there was something about it which had its charm. There was an excitement in battle, a thrill in the desperate ride when on a , a glory in victory, and even a grim satisfaction in defeat, caused by the belief that we were not conquered, or that, if we were driven back, it was by Americans, and not by foreigners.”
 
“That’s an odd way of putting it,” remarked the wife, “but was it not the high health, which you all felt because of your rough outdoor life? You know when a person is strong and , he can stand almost anything, and find comfort in that which at any other time brings only wretchedness and suffering.”
 
“I suppose that had a good deal to do with it, and that, too, may have had much to do with sustaining you and Dinah in your loneliness.”
 
The captain raised his eyes and looked at two old-fashioned muzzle-loading rifles, suspended on a couple of deer’s antlers over the fireplace, and smiling through his shaggy whiskers, said:
 
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“You found them handy in those days, Edna?”
 
“We never could have got along without them. They served to bring down a , or one of our own cattle, when we were nearly starving, and sometimes they helped drive off the Indians.”
 
Captain Shirril shifted his position, as though uneasy over something. His wife, who was familiar with all his moods, looked inquiringly at him.
 
“What troubles you, Dohm?”
 
“If I hadn’t promised Avon that he should go with me northward, I would make him stay at home.”
 
Wife and nephew stared wonderingly at him.
 
“The Comanches have been edging down this way for more than a week past; I believe they mean to make trouble.”
 
It would be supposed that such an announcement as this caused dismay, but it did not. Even Dinah, who was busy about her household duties, and who heard the remark, paused only a moment to turn up her nose and say scornfully:
 
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“If dey’ve done forgot how we allers sarve de likes ob dem, jes’ let ’em try it agin. Dat’s all.”
 
She was a tall, muscular negress, whom an ordinary man might hesitate to make angry. She passed to another part of the room, after muttering the words, and seemed to feel no further interest in a subject which ought to have made her blood with excitement.
 
“If the Comanches are anywhere in the neighborhood,” said Mrs. Shirril in her gentle way, “it is in the hope of running off some of the cattle; you have them all and under such careful care that this cannot be done. When the Indians find you have started northward with them, they will follow or go to their hunting grounds; surely they will not stay here.”
 
“I wish I could believe as you do.”
 
“And why can’t you, husband?”
 
“Because Indian nature is what it is; you understand that as well as I. Finding that they cannot steal any of our cattle, they will try to revenge themselves by 9burning my home and my wife and servant.”
 
“But they have tried that before.”
 
“True, but their failures are no ground to believe they will fail again.”
 
“It is the best ground we can have for such belief.”