It was a beautiful scene. Not a cloud marred the vast blue dome of heaven. Autumn reigned supreme in the Lone Star State, where brave Houston fought, and valiant Bowie fell at the Alamo. Near the Comanche ground on the far north-western border of the State we would bring the reader on this bright, cheerful morning in October.
The prairie which, a month or two before, had presented a beautiful aspect of flowers and green grass, had been literally baked to a rich brown color, and now, moved by the breeze that was blowing the long, dry grass, looked for all the world like the waves of the ocean or an inland sea.
Riding leisurely across the prairie was a young man of about twenty-two or three. He wore a complete suit of fine buck-skin, which, it was plainly apparent, had been made by a “regular” tailor, for it bore none of the marks which almost always distinguish the clothes of the old trapper.
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