Your letter of the 27th is before me. It is just such a letter as I expected--so full of sympathy, love and good, wholesome advice. I wish it were possible, or, rather, expedient, to listen to your advice and return home, for I am heartily sick and tired of the life I am now living. Don't you know that my life out here reminds me, in a measure, of your western experience? Of course, I am not subjected to the hardships and deprivations that you were forced to undergo. But, as far as bodily comfort and companionship are concerned, I must say that your experience must have been rather "tough," if it was worse than mine. Now, don't misunderstand me, I have plenty to eat, such as it is, I have a fairly good bed, in a fairly good room. My companions are, as you know, cowboys. That they are rough and all that, goes without saying, but let me tell you, my dear friend, I have received better treatment and more consideration from these wild, half-civilized cowboys, upon whom I have no earthly claim, than I ever received from some from whom I had a right to expect, if not fair treatment, at least some consideration. The people one meets out here are always willing to give a fellow a "white man's chance." When you write, tell me something about the dear old Mission and its workers. What has become of Davidson, Peck, Booker and all of the boys? I would be extremely sorry to hear that any of them had forsaken the narrow for the broad way. The dear old Mission! What a train of happy memories is connected with it. I almost forgot to inquire about Clay Price. Tell me about all of them. I am about to change my quarters. Don't know where I will go. You had better wait until you hear from me again before answering. With much love to yourself and family, I am, as ever, Your friend, ---- ---- ----. * * * * * DECEMBER 10, 1887. _My Dear Steve:_