The veranda of the colonel's house gave a view of the parade grounds and the long avenue that came down between the officers' houses, cottonwoods lacing their limbs above the road. There was green in the lawns, the flash of flowers between the leaves and shrubs, white-gleaming walls, trim walks, shorn hedges. It seemed a pleasant place of quiet beauty that bright September morning, and a pity to give it up by and by to dust and desolation; a place where men and women might be happy, but for the gnawing fire of ambition in their hearts. Mrs. Colonel Landcraft was not going. Indians made her sick, she said, especially Indians sitting around in the tall grass waiting for the carcasses to be cut up and apportioned out to them in bloody chunks. But there seemed to be another source of her sickness that morning, measuring by the grave glances with which she searched her daughter's face. She wondered whether the major and Frances had quarreled; and if so, whether Nola Chadron had been the cause. They were off, with the colonel and a lately-assigned captain in the lead. There was a keener pleasure in this beef day than usual for the colonel, for he had new ground to sow with its wonders, which were beginning to pale in his old eyes which had seen so much of the world. "Very likely we'll see the minister's wife there," said he, as they rode forward, "and if so, it will be worth your while to take special note of her. St. John Mathews, the Episcopalian minister over there at the mission--those white buildings there among the trees--is a full-blooded Crow. One of the pioneer missionaries took him up and sent him back East to school, where in time he entered the ministry and married this white girl. She was a college girl, I've been told, glamoured by the romance of Mathews' life. Well, it was soon over." The colonel sighed, and fell silent. The captain, feeling that it was intended that he should, made polite inquiry. "The trouble is that Mathews is an Indian out of his place," the colonel resumed. "He returned here twenty years or so ago, and took up his work among his people. But as he advanced toward civilization, his wife began to slip back. Little by little she adopted the Indian ways and dress, until now you couldn't tell her from a squaw if you were to meet her for the first time. She presents a curious psychological study--or perhaps biological example of atavism, for I believe there's more body than soul in the poor creature now. It's nature maintaining the balance, you see. He goes up; she slips back. "If she's there, she'll be squatting among the squaws, waiting to carry home her husband's allotment of warm, bloody beef. She doesn't have to do it, and it shames and humiliates Mathews, too, even though they say she cuts it up and divides it among the poorer Indians. She's a savage; her eyes sparkle at the sight of red meat."