to be a pioneer. There were other things, he imagined. Depths unrevealed, unsuspected by herself, fires too. Her eyes, her lips, could harbor passion. She was no weakling, for love or war.
He brought himself up with a jerk.
"My grandfather," she commenced, "was a dreamer, I think. He was not like his father, who was a miller, a manufacturer of woolen goods in Massachusetts. Grandfather roamed the woods, I know, and he wrote poems. There was something in him that just held him back from being a minister. He wrote a book or two, on natural history. He corresponded with Audubon when he was only twenty-two. That was the year before Audubon died, eighteen fifty-one. You know Audubon was writing a great book with Bachman, on the quarupeds of North America. It was finished after his death. But that was what fired my grand-daddy to go out West."
To Sheridan, Audubon was just a name, the name of a man who had written words and made pictures about birds. But he reflected the girl's interest.
"So grandfather came out here in 'fifty-eight. It was all New Mexico then. They had adventures with Indians and with Mexicans, cattle thieves, raiders, miners. It must have been wonderful. He told me all about it. He loved the life."
Her eyes sparkled, her voice was animated. Pictures came up before Sheridan of those early days.
"It was an Indian who told grandfather of this place," she went on. "Some of the party settled
