Well, they have gone into the night, a vast and silent caravan, with their buckskins and their boots, their spurs and their long rifles, their wagons and their mustangs, their wars and their loves, their brutalities and their chivalries; they have gone to join their old rivals, the wolf, the panther and the Indian, and only a crumbling 'dobe wall, a fading trail, the breath of an old song, remain to mark the roads they traveled. But sometimes when the night wind whispers forgotten tales through the mesquite and the chaparral, it is easy to imagine that once again the tall grass bends to the tread of a ghostly caravan, that the breeze bears the jingle of stirrup and bridle-chain, and that spectral campfires are winking far out on the plains. And a lobo calls where no wolf can be, and the night is dreamy and hushed and still with the pregnancy of old times. But gone are the days when the prairie schooners carried their cargo of empire into the sunset lands and gone the reckless, roaring days when the trail herds went up along the old Chisholm. The old time cowboy with the Spanish mustang and the longhorn steer has followed the raiding Comanche, the buffalo hunter, the wholesale cattle rustler and the old scouts into silence and oblivion.