“Very true, Lieutenant Stanton,” replied the captain, “as you say, I am rather gray and grizzled; nevertheless, I am your comrade as far as the sentiments of loyalty for the old flag are concerned. Indeed, I am quite as ready to sacrifice my life in the defense of the stars and stripes as you have shown yourself to be.” “You exaggerate the severity of my wound. I assure you it is comparatively slight. By the way,” he continued, turning toward Hugh, “did you send my letters?” Hugh nodded affirmatively. “Very well,” he continued, addressing the captain, “if you are a comrade of mine you will permit me to dress and be ready to receive my captain.” The physician caught Captain Osborn’s eye, and made a sign that perhaps it would be best to humor the injured man’s whim. The doctor and Hugh withdrew to an adjoining room, but Captain Osborn remained. The cattle owner assumed a sitting position on the side of the bed. His coat, vest, and trousers were resting on a chair near by, but he seemed in no hurry about dressing. “Well, comrade,” said Captain Osborn, “perhaps, if you feel strong enough, you had better make haste and dress, as the captain of your company will arrive before long.” “Where are my clothes?” asked the lieutenant. “Why, don’t you see them on the chair before you?” “What?” roared the injured man, “My uniform, my uniform, sir! Don’t you understand? Do you think for a moment that I will tolerate the idea of wearing citizen’s clothes,—and secondhand at that?” Whereupon he gave the chair a vigorous push with his foot, upsetting it, clothes and all. As he did so, a pocketbook slipped from his coat pocket and rested on the floor at his feet. Captain Osborn was momentarily at a loss to know what to do or say in the emergency. In the meantime, the cattle owner had reached for and picked up the pocketbook and some business cards that had fallen out of it. “Ho, ho! what’s this?” said he, glancing at one of the cards. “‘Hugh Stanton, Cashier Meade National Bank, Meade, Kansas.’ It seems that I have a namesake in the banking business.” As he opened the pocketbook to replace the cards, he read aloud the name stamped in gold on the russet leather lining, “‘John B. Horton.’ Horton, Horton,” he repeated to himself, as he pressed his hand against his wound. “Where have I heard that name?” and he looked half vacantly at the old captain, who was watching him intently. “Lieutenant Stanton,” said the captain, coming closer to him and looking him squarely in the face, “this pocketbook belongs to the man whose name you have pronounced—John B. Horton—the cattle king of southwestern Kansas and No-Man’s-Land, who is worth ten million dollars if he is worth a cent. His beautiful home is at Horton’s Grove; he has a noble wife and a most lovely daughter, Ethel.” “Ethel, Ethel,” repeated the injured man, “my wife’s name.”