This was precisely what I feared we _were_ doing. I said no more about it, although I hadn't much confidence in his notions of a first class hotel. There was nothing for it but to rest upon his assurance and go hopefully forward to the end of the line. It must have been about ten of a dark warm night as we came to a final halt beside a low station marked "Reno," and at the suggestion of the brakeman I called for "the Palace Hotel Bus," although none of the waiting carriages or drivers seemed even remotely related to a palace. My wife, filled with a high sense of our adventure, took her seat in the muddy and smelly carriage, with touching trust in me. The Palace Hotel, with its doorway brightly lighted with electricity, proved a pleasant surprise. It looked clean and bright and new, and the proprietor, a cheerful and self-respecting citizen, was equally reassuring. We went to our rooms with restored confidence in Oklahoma. The next morning, before we had finished our breakfast, a messenger from the Agency came in to say that a carryall was at the door, and soon we were on our way toward the Fort. The roads were muddy, but the plain was vividly, brilliantly green, and the sky radiantly blue. The wind, filled with delicious spring odors, came out of the west; larks were whistling and wild ducks were in flight. To my wife it was as strange as it was beautiful. It was the prairie at its best--like the Jim River in 1881. Fort Reno (a cluster of frame barracks), occupied a low hill which overlooked the valley of the Canadian, on whose green meadows piebald cattle were scattered like bits of topaz. Flowers starred the southern slopes, and beside the stream near the willows (in which mocking birds were singing), stood clusters of the conical tents of the Cheyennes, lodges of canvas made in the ancient form. Our way led to the Agency through one of these villages, and as we passed we saw women at their work, and children in their play, all happy and quite indifferent to the white man and his comment. The Stouchs met us at the door of the big frame cottage which was the agent's house, and while Mrs. Stouch took charge of Zulime the Major led me at once to his office, in order that I might lose no time in getting acquainted with his wards. In ten minutes I found myself deep in another world, a world of captive, aboriginal warriors, sorrowfully concerned with the problem of "walking the white man's trail."