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out, I gave him my hand in silent renewal of a friendship into which something new and deeply significant had come. "I hope she will never regret it," was all I could say.
Zulime was not deceived as to my income. My property, up to this time, consisted of a small, a very small library, a dozen Navajo rugs, several paintings, a share in four acres of land and my book rights (which were of negligible value so far as furnishing a living was concerned), and my wife perceived very clearly that our margin above necessity was narrow, but this did not disturb her faith in the future, or if it did, she gave no sign of it--her face was nearly always smiling. Nevertheless I had no intention of keeping her in West Salem all summer. I could not afford to wear out her interest in it.
One day, shortly after Lorado's visit, I received a letter from Major Stouch, the Indian Agent with whom I had campaigned at Lamedeer in '97. He wrote: "I have just been detailed to take charge of the Cheyenne Agency at Darlington, Oklahoma. Mrs. Stouch and I are about to start on a survey of my new reservation and I should like to have you and your wife come down and accompany us on our circuit. We shall hold a number of councils with the Indians, and there will be dances and pow-wows. It will all be material for your pen."
This invitation appealed to me with especial force for I had long desired to study the Southern Cheyennes, and a tour with Stouch promised a rich harvest of fictional themes, for me. Furthermore it offered a most romantic experience for Zulime--just the kind of enlightenment I had promised her.
With no time to lose, we packed our trunks and took train for Kansas City enroute for Indian Territory, the scene of many of the most exciting romances of my youth, the stronghold of bank robbers, and the hiding place of military renegades.
On our way to Oklahoma, we visited Professor Taft in Hanover and I find this note recorded: "All day the wind blew, the persistent, mournful crying wind of the