Opportunity was
knocking at my gate, a giant young commonwealth was struggling in the
throes of political revolution, while I wandered through it all like
a blind man led by a child. Precedent was of little value, as present
environment controlled my actions. The best people in Texas were
doubtful of ever ridding themselves of the baneful incubus of
Reconstruction. Men on whose judgment I relied laughed at me for
acquiring more land than a mere homestead. Stock cattle were in such
disrepute that they had no cash value. Many a section of deeded land
changed owners for a milk cow, while surveyors would no longer locate
new lands for the customary third, but insisted on a half interest.
Ranchmen were so indifferent that many never went off their home range
in branding the calf crop, not considering a ten or twenty per
cent loss of any importance. Yet through it all--from my Virginia
rearing--there lurked a wavering belief that some day, in some manner,
these lands and cattle would have a value. But my faith was neither
the bold nor the assertive kind, and I drifted along, clinging to any
passing straw of opinion.
The Indians were still giving trouble along the Texas frontier. A line
of government posts, extending from Red River on the north to the Rio
Grande on the south, made a pretense of holding the Comanches and
their allies in check, while this arm of the service was ably seconded
by the Texas Rangers.
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