He thought of his joyous exultation at the time he had won the accomplished and graceful Indian princess, whom half-a-dozen distinguished braves and as many handsome white traders had sought in marriage; of her trusting preference for him; of their joyous honeymoon; and of the herd of beautiful horses with which he had purchased her for his chosen bride, thus making her a slave. He winced as he thought of the legal status of his wife and children. He blushed with shame as he thought of her loyalty to him through all the years of her transformation from a lithe and pretty maiden of sixteen, whom every man admired, to the shapeless and slovenly specimen of her people, of whom he was now ashamed. He thought bitterly yet lovingly of the numerous children she had borne him uncomplainingly, while wandering from place to place in quest of roots and berries to save them from starvation in their early married years, when game would be scarce and his fickle fortunes had vanished for months at a stretch. He remembered with what loving pride he had named his first two children John and Annie, in honor of the brother and sister for whom his heart had so often hungered. “And the end is this!” he cried, noting with a start that the sun was down. “Why did I name them John and Annie? I might have known better. I was a fool. And yet why should they be spurned on account of their Indian blood? If, instead of marrying Wahnetta, I had refused to make her my lawful wife, would my white relations have spurned me now?” His childhood days passed and repassed before his mental vision like a panorama. His family had been proud of him. What sacrifices they had made to send him to college, and with what base ingratitude he had repaid their loyalty and love! He had worse than wasted his opportunities, he thought, as he gazed abroad over the mighty landscape, bounded on the one hand by the wide basin of the receded and still slowly receding waters of Great Salt Lake, and on the other by the Rocky Mountains,—so near that they obstructed his vision, though he well knew their extent and majesty. “This won’t do!” cried the wretched man, as he started homeward, reeling like a drunken man. “Papa!” cried a childish voice. “Do hurry home! We are so hungry! Where have you been for so long?” “All right, Johnnie; I’m coming. Papa forgot.” * * * * * In a large military tent, or annex, at the rear end of the trader’s tent sat Wahnetta, his wife. He shuddered at the thought. And yet why should he? Was she not as good as he? Had all her years of faithful servitude counted for nothing? A meal of boiled buffalo meat and vegetables, with bread, coffee, butter, and eggs, was waiting on a table of rough boards resting on trestles, and covered with an oilcloth that had once been white.