And now the hour of twelve was at hand, and every one on the _qui vive_ for the bugle blast that would dissolve the chain of enchantment hitherto girding about this coveted land. Many of the “boomers” were mounted on high-spirited and fleet-footed horses, and had ranged themselves along the territorial line, scarcely restrained even by the presence of the troops of cavalry from taking summary possession. The better class of wagons and carriages ranged themselves in line with the horsemen, and even here and there mule teams attached to canvas-covered vehicles stood in the front ranks, with the reins and whip grasped by the “boomers’” wives. All was excitement and expectation. Every nerve was on tension and every muscle strained. Suddenly the air was pierced with the blast of a bugle. Hundreds of throats echoed the sound with shouts of exultation. The quivering limbs of saddled steeds, no longer restrained by the hands that held their bridles, bounded forward, simultaneously into the “beautiful land” of Oklahoma; and wagons and carriages and buggies and prairie schooners and a whole congregation of curious equipages joined in this unparalleled race, where every starter was bound to win a prize—the “Realization Stakes” of home and prosperity. We, the spectators, witnessed the spectacle with most intense interest. Away dashed the thoroughbreds, the bronchos, the pintos, and the mustangs at a breakneck pace, across the uneven surface of the prairie. It was amazing to witness the recklessness of those cowboy riders. They jumped obstacles. They leaped ditches. They cantered with no diminution of speed through waterpools; and when they came to a ravine too wide to leap, down they would go with a rush, and up the other side with a spurt of energy, to scurry once more like mad over the level plain. The occupants of our train now became absorbed in their own fate.... It was rather hard pulling for our engine until we reached the apex of the Cimarron Valley, spread out in picturesque beauty at our very feet. Our train now rushed along the downgrade with the speed of a limited express crossing the fine bridge that spans the Cimarron with a roar, and swinging around the hills that intervened between the river and the Guthrie town site with the rapidity of a swallow’s flight. All that there was of Guthrie, the now famous “magic city,” on April 22, at 1:30 P.M., when the first train from the north drew up at the station and unloaded its first instalment of settlers, was a water-tank, a small station-house, a shanty for the Wells Fargo Express, and a Government Land Office.