But the love of adventure was in father's blood.

Excitement was plentiful during my two years' service as a Pony Express rider.

But the West of the old times, with its strong characters, its stern battles and its tremendous stretches of loneliness, can never be blotted from my mind.

It was my effort, in depicting the West, to depict it as it was.

With the help of a friend I got father into a wagon, when the crowd had gone. I held his head in my lap during the ride home. I believed he was mortally wounded. He had been stabbed down through the kidneys, leaving an ugly wound.

Indians were frequently off their reservations.

My restless, roaming spirit would not allow me to remain at home very long.