be scattered to guard America from a real and terrible foe?
Then, for some reason his mind swept back to the other subject upon which he had been thinking so deeply, to the camping trip for which he should, even now, be making plans. At this very moment Otto Bradford would probably be coming out of his cabin to take the horses down to water, the sun would be bright, the thin air very cold, and the mountains all scarlet and yellow and brown in the strange colors that only the Rocky Mountains can show. Perhaps it would be so clear that you could see the Highlands, that circle of tremendous peaks beyond the rough brown buttes that hemmed the valley in, the high sky line that often was not visible for weeks together but, on a brilliant day like this, would spring suddenly into being, a vast wall of glittering white, with jagged summits that seemed to touch the very sky. The wind would blow down from the snow fields sharp and chill, it would lift the manes of the horses as they snorted, kicked up their heels and went galloping off down the trail. It would be good to see it all again but—
