Three score and ten years have now gone by since the last Concord stage coach made its final run from Atchison, through Granada. All equipment was at that time moved west to the end of steel—leaving the eastern end of the great Overland Trail abandoned and waiting, a lost ghost, for the day when Fate, slow but sure, should plow it under. And with poignant memory was gone, too, a stirring bit of frontier life in the West. MEMORY’S STOREHOUSE UNLOCKED Published in Wetmore Spectator, Holton Recorder, Seneca Courier-Tribune, Atchison Daily Globe— December, 1938. By John T. Bristow Green Campbell’s Colorful Mining Career The train wound its way by easy stages down from the mountain heights into the desert valley. The railroad split the great basin in halves. On either side treeless mountains rose in endless succession. It was mid-summer in the great inter-mountain region—and the sage-fringed valley, broad and almost level, stretching ahead for miles and miles, shimmered frightfully under the glaring rays of the noonday sun. And winds swept out of the south like withering blasts from a slag furnace. It was the Utah desert. Far off to the right, shrouded in desert haze, could be seen the tip of a mountain which marked the approximate location of a famous early-day mining camp. The scene — barren, desolate, and so familiar to me — brought back a flood of memories. Instantly my mind dwelt upon events of the long-ago in that old mining camp and simultaneously with the home-life back in Kansas of the man who made it. In that brief flash I saw it all. In that jumbled picture I glimpsed a sturdy hoist over a deep shaft at the base of that mountain, whose cables had in times past brought up daily tons of high-grade argentiferous ore, every ton of which, though it greatly enriched my erstwhile Kansas. The last installment of J. T. Bristow’s fascinating tale of the career of Green Campbell is a fine piece of writing. We have heard many commendable expressions on this biographical sketch. . . . The author, J. T. Bristow, is a resident of Wetmore, a former newspaperman, well known to many of our citizens. That he is a good writer is the conviction of all. —WILL T. BECK, Holton Recorder, neighbor, had spelled defeat for him in the most sacred phase of human life. In that flash I glimpsed too a stretch of rich rolling Kansas prairie lined with streams of running water and a healthy growth of timber, in the center of which, down by the timber’s edge, was once this man’s place of abode, and which was then, and still is, but a few miles from my own home. And I saw a wrecked home; a court house thronged with curious people; and a lonely woman, a distraught wife and mother of a little boy, fighting desperately for her freedom—and alimony. The scene is now in Kansas. It will shift back and forth between here — meaning, roughly, Wetmore, from which place this writing issues—and the old mining West again and again as this narrative unfolds.