In his youth, Marion Chittenden--that was not his name then--was wild and wayward, and became involved in numerous brawls and personal encounters. When about twenty years of age, in a drunken brawl he shot and killed one of his best friends. Filled with horror, and knowing the consequences of his crime, he fled. Although a large reward was offered for his apprehension, all efforts to find him proved unavailing. As years passed and nothing was heard from him, his relatives breathed sighs of relief and considered him as one dead. The fact was, he had fled beyond the Mississippi and became lost in the wilds of Missouri. Here he changed his name, and no one ever knew but that he always had been Marion Chittenden. In the Ozarks he made his living by hunting and fishing, and for some years lived almost the life of a hermit. In one particular his crime made him a changed man; from the moment he fled he never touched another drop of liquor. One day while hunting he came across a lovely valley. Through it ran a purling stream, its waters as clear as crystal. Around and about the valley the hills rose to a height of from five to eight hundred feet, clothed to their tops in a forest of living green. When he first saw the valley it was from the top of one of the hills where he had trailed and shot a bear. As he stood and looked, the scene was so peaceful, so beautiful, that a longing for rest came over him. The wild and wandering life he had led for years all at once palled upon him. The memory of his childhood came like a flood. His waywardness, his crime, arose before him with startling distinctness. He was naturally a lover of the refinements of civilization, and the rough, lonely life he had led was the result of his crime, not of inclination. Standing there, he suddenly exclaimed, "Here will I make my home; here will I forget the past; here will I begin a new life." He descended into the valley, startling a herd of deer that bounded into the forest which clothed the hills. But they need not have been afraid--for the time being he had lost the instinct of a hunter. He stood by the side of the little river, its clear waters showing the fish darting to and fro, as if in wanton play. A little back was a knoll crowned with noble trees. "Here," thought he, "will I build my house. Here will I begin my new life. It is beautiful. The stream is beautiful. It shall be called La Belle, and this the valley of La Belle." And the valley of La Belle it became. He went to St. Louis and preëmpted the land, for he had no fears the rough, bearded hunter would be taken for the immaculate young dandy who had fled from Kentucky. He built him a home; the range of thousands of acres of land was his, and his flocks grew and flourished. Time passed, and other settlers began to invade the seclusion of the Ozarks.