ended at Santa Fe, the "_City of the
Holy Faith_," in New Mexico.

The little trading town of Independence was a busy place in the frontier
years of the Middle West. Ungentle and unlovely as it was, it was the
great gateway between the river traffic on the one side, and the plains
commerce of the far Southwest on the other. At the wharf at Westport,
only a few miles away, the steamers left their cargoes of flour and
bacon, coffee and calicoes, jewelry and sugar--whatever might have a
market value to merchants beyond the desert lands. And here these same
steamers took on furs, and silver bullion, and such other produce of the
mountains and mines and open plains as the opulently laden caravans had
toiled through long days, overland, to bring to the river's wharf.

To-day the same old gateway stands as of yore. But it may be given only
to men who have seen what I have seen, to know how that our Kansas City,
the Beautiful, could grow up from that old wilderness outpost of
commerce threescore and more years ago.

The Clarenden store was the busiest spot in the center of this busy
little town. Goods from both lines of trade entered and cleared here. In
front of the building three Conestoga wagons with stout mule teams stood
ready. A fourth wagon, the Dearborn carriage of that time, filled
mostly with bedding, clothing, and the few luxuries a long camping-out
journey may indulge in, waited only for a team, and we would be off to
the plains.

Jondo and Bill Banney were busy with the last things to be done before
we started. Aunty Boone sat on a pile of pelts inside the store, smoking
her pipe. Beverly and Mat stood waiting in the big doorway, while I sat
on a barrel outside, because my ankle was still a bit stiff. A crowd had
gathered before the store to see us off. It was not such a company as
the soldier-men at the fort. The outlaw, the loafer, the drunkard, the
ruffian, the gambler, and the trickster far outnumbered the stern-faced
men of affairs. When the balance turns the other way the frontier
disappears. Mingling with these was a pale-faced invalid now and then,
with the well-appointed new arrivals from the East.

"What are we waiting for, Bev?" I asked, as the street filled with men.

"Got to get another span of moolies for our baby-cart. Uncle Esmond
hadn't counted on the nurse and the cook going, you know, but he rigged
this littler wagon out in a twinkle."

"That's the family carriage, drawn by spirited steed