He was with that cavalry; that cavalry of black men. And when thousands of aimless bullets poured upon America's greatest cavalry (commanded by the greatest American citizen since one immortal one, who met his death cruelly, but for _this_ country), and tumbled them from the saddles like so many playthings, he would never forget that battle cry, "Onward boys!" And from another direction, they came, _black men_. Up a hill that was forbidding in the abruptness of its ascent, they went. Under the heavy fire of the enemy, they did not flinch. What they did on that memorable day in our modern history, the world knows. And if a part of our citizens _did_ not appreciate it at this date, one did. And he proved it in after-years. So, when he heard these poor men of his race now bemoan their fate, crying "This is a white man's country. We have none!" he sighed, and felt pity in his heart for them. After the war, he had gone to Arizona, and spent one summer there at a ranch during his vacation. And this ranch was among the Navajo's. Dull, listless, inert creatures they were. They did nothing to make this country a better place in which to live, and they had _never_ done so, nor were they ever likely to. But, in spite of that, they are the primitive inhabitants and heroes; but not in the best sense, could anyone live among those people three months and conscientiously regard them as _men_. And yet they were given every consideration, while black men were thrust aside. And this was after three hundred years, out of which two hundred and fifty were spent in developing that which is called Dixie.