Among the Indians, before a boy gets rated warrior, he goes alone afoot, naked, starvin', thirsty, way off to the back side of the desert. Thar he just waits, suns, weeks, maybe a whole moon, till the Big Spirit happens to catch his eye. Then the Big Spirit shows him a stick, or a stone, or any sort of triflin' common thing, which is to be his medicine, his wampum, the charm which guards him, hunting, or in war. There's the ordeal, too, by torture, done in the medicine lodge, so all the chiefs can see he's fit for bearin' arms. He's given the war-path secret, taking his rank as a man.

Among them Bible Indians you'll remember a feller called Moses, out at the back side of the desert, seen the Big Spirit in a burning bush. Later his tribe set up a medicine lodge, and the hull story's mighty natural.

This Indian life explains a lot to men like me, raised ignorant, never grown-up—or at least not to hurt. I had the ordeal by torture, which done me good, and I been whar Moses went, and the Lord Christ too, seeking the medicine of the Almighty Father.

For as I'd broken ponies for their good till they got peaceful, so I was broke myself. Bein' full of pride an' sin as a young horse, so I was tamed until He reckoned me worth pasturage. Before then I'd work hard—yes, for pride. A bucking horse throws miles, sheer waste into the air, miles better pulled out straight the way you're goin'. I work for service, now.

You know when you've been in trouble, how you swing back thinking of edged words which would have cut, and dirty actions that you wish you'd done. These devils has got to go if you'd keep your manhood, harder to beat out than a talky woman, and even the littlest of them puts up a heap big fight. But when the last is killed, there's room for peace.

Sloth walks in front of trouble, peace follows after. Water is nothing till you thirst, rest nothing till you're weary, calm nothing till you've faced the storm, peace nothing until after war. But peace is like the water after thirst, rest when you're weary, calm after storm, earnings of warriors only. Many find peace in death, only a few in life, and I found peace thar in the wilderness, the very medicine of torn souls, fresh from the hand of the Almighty Father.

And I found wealth. Seems there's many persons mistaking dollars for some sort of wealth. I've had a few at times by way of samples, the things which you're apt to be selfish with, or give away to buy self-righteousness. Reckoning with them projuces the feeling called poverty. They're the very stuff and substance of meanness, and no man walks straight-loaded. Dollars gets lost, or throwed away, or left to your next of kin, but they're not a good and lasting possession. I like 'em, too.

What's the good and lasting possession, the real wealth? Times I've been down in civilization, meeting folks who'd been rusting and rotting on one spot, from a while or so to a long lifetime, aye, and proud to boast in long decaying. They'd good memory, but nothing to remember. They're handy enough as purses if they were filled with coin. But where they're poor I'm rich, with wealth of memories, some good, some bad, all real. In coin like "seen" and "known" and "done" I'm millionaire. Ah, yes, but times I wisht that I could part with things I've "lived" to help beginners, and keep moths out of candles. Things lived ain't current coin to be given, sold, lost, thrown, aye, or bequeathed. My body's meat and bones, my soul's the life I've lived, and mine until I square accounts with God. Queer reckoning that last. I guess He'll have to laugh, and He who made all life plumb full of humor, is due to enjoy some things He'll have to punish.

I found peace, I found wealth, yes, and found something more thar in the wilderness. Sweet as the cactus forest in blossom down Salt River is that big memory.

It was after I'd found the things of happy solitude. I'd gone to work then for the Bar Y outfit, breaking the Lightning colts. We was out a few weeks from home, taking an outfit of ponies as far as the Mesa Abaho, and one night camped at the very rim-rock of the Grand CaÑon. The Navajo Indians was peevish, the camp dry, grass scant, herd in a raffish mood, and night come sudden.

I'd just relieved a man to get his supper, and rode herd wide alert. I scented the camp smoke, saw the spark of fire glow on the boys at rest, and heard their peaceful talk hushed in the big night. They seemed such triflin' critters full of fuss since dawn, so small as insects at the edge of nothin', while for miles beneath us that old, old wolfy Colorado River was playing the Grand CaÑon like a fiddler plays a fiddle. But the river in the caÑon seemed no more than a trickle in a crack, hushed by the night, while overheard the mighty blazing stars—point, swing, and drive, rode herd on the milky way. And that seemed no more than cow-boys driving stock. Would God turn His head to see His star herds pass, or notice our earth like some lame calf halting in the rear?

And what am I, then?

That was my great lesson, more gain to me than peace and wealth of mind, for I was humbled to the dust of earth, below that dust of stars. So as a very humble thing, not worth praying for, at least I could be master of myself. I rode no more for wages, but cut out my ponies from the Lightning herd, mounted my stud horse William, told the boys good-by at Montecello, and then rode slowly north into the British possessions. So I come at last to this place, an old abandoned ranch. There's none so poor in dollars as to envy ragged Jesse, or rich enough to want to rob my home. They say there's hidden wealth whar the rainbow goes to earth—that's whar I live.