red in the
Boonville Javelin (post-bellum and revived) a serial of reminiscences,
which, behind an opalescent gossamer of romance, pictured the
Missourians and the chivalrous role they played around that forlornly
chastened and be-chased damsel, la Republica Mexicana.

Quite aside from the prodigious deeds set forth therein, the
journalistic epic is of itself naively prodigious, as anyone knowing Mr.
Boone with pen in hand will at once suspect. All the little Trojan
band--call them Gascons if you will, but own that if they boasted they
were ever keen to substantiate the bluff--all of them, then, strove and
blazed away invariably as heroes and were just as peerless as could be.
You wouldn't look for anything else from Mr. Boone. He must, however, be
credited with one peculiarity, that he never hinted at himself as one of
the glorious company. Daniel knew his newspaper ethics. He knew that the
newspaper man is _not_ the story, however they may regard it in
France, for instance, where the reporter is ever the bright particular
cynosure of any interview that bears his signature.

A few strokes of the Meagre Shanks brush in the way of excerpts from his
narrative, with plenty of extenuating dots in between, should make an
impression, even though impressionistic, and serve perhaps as a sketch
of what befell after Din Driscoll had bearded the Tiger, freed Don
Rodrigo, and surrendered his own two captives. To begin:

A retreat was had [Daniel always got under way slowly, as though
fore-resolved not to stampede.] Echo demands, "Retreat?--The Iron
Brigade in retreat?" 'Twas true. Rallied once again, but under another
flag than the Bars, the Missourians rode all that dank, wet night lest
they meet and have to fight their new friends, the guerrillas under
Rodrigo Galan. It was a weird predicament. Two days before, they were
peaceful settlers in the land--_omne solum forti patria_--their
blood-flecked swords as ploughshares fleshed in earth's warm bosom....
But tyrannical confiscation of the soil they tilled loomed
foreboding.... Pestered nigh unto forceful phrases with shooing robbers
of both sides out of their melon patches, and fired at last by the
sentiment that it behooved them to sally forth and regulate things
themselves.... They only lacked a Cincinnatus. Their old general would
not lead them. Wearing his bright chaplet of renown, Joe Shelby now
drove mules, a captain over long wagon trains....

Then gallant Din Driscoll