I first looked into the dim shadows of the silent country one night in Colorado. Our people had broken up a piece of raw prairie land, ditched water to it and planted corn. It was a new crop for the locality, but we succeeded in getting a good growth for cattle feed. In those days there were few fences, except the horizon and the sky, and cattle wandered everywhere, so as the corn developed we took turns guarding it. One night a small bunch of fat cattle on their way to market was herded about a mile from our cornfield. Feed was scarce on the range, and these steers were hungry. We could see them raise their heads and smell the corn. We knew they would stampede if they could break away. I was on guard; my duty was to ride my pony up and down on the side of the field nearest the herd. Those who know the plains which roll away from the foothills of Northern Colorado will remember the brilliant starlit nights. The dry plains stretch away in rolling waves of brown to the east, while to the west the mountains lift their snow-caps far up into the sparkle of the starlight. It is a land of mystery. Any man who has ever lived there has felt at times that he would give all he possessed to be back there with the shapes that live in the starlight. Great dark shadows slip over the plains. You see them slowly moving and you wonder at them. How can they shift as they do when there are no clouds? That night, far over the prairie, I could see the fires which the herders had built; two or three horsemen were slowly circling about the bunched cattle. It seemed entirely safe, and at one corner of the field I got off the pony and let him feed as I walked along the corn. The night was still, and I could hear nothing, but suddenly my little horse threw up his head, snorted and pulled at his picket pin. I fancied he sensed some sneaking coyote, until out of a shadow near the field I saw half a dozen black forms with white gleaming horns, running for the corn. Part of the herd had broken away, and as I mounted the snorting pony the sickening thought flashed in upon me that I could no longer hear them. Before we could turn back the herd forty or fifty steers had entered the corn. They went aimlessly, smashing and crashing their way through the stalks, and with the other riders I went in after them, but I could hardly hear them. I remember that in order to make sure I held my fingers to my right ear to shut out sound. In the shadow of the corn I ran directly into a steer! He was tearing his way along, but I did not know he was there until my hands touched him. Then for the first time I knew whither I was bound. Probably there is nothing quite so chilling to the heart, unless it be the sudden knowledge that some dear friend must soon walk down the road with death.