And a strong, brave man had been General Jeremiah Travis,—pioneer, Indian fighter, Colonel in the Creek war and at New Orleans, and a General in the war with Mexico.
His love for the Union had been that of a brave man who had gone through battles and shed his blood for his country.
The Civil War broke his heart.
In his early days his heart had been in his thoroughbred horses and his fighting cocks, and when he heard that his nephew had died with Crockett and Bowie at the Alamo, he drew himself proudly up and said: “A right brave boy, by the Eternal, and he died as becomes one crossed on an Irish Grey cock.”
That had been years before. Now, a new civilization had come on the stage, and where the grandsire had taken to thoroughbreds, Richard Travis, the grandson, took to trotters. In the stalls where once stood the sons of Sir Archie, Boston, and imported Glencoe himself, now were sons of Mambrino Patchin, and George Wilkes and Harold. And a splendid lot they were—sires,—brood mares and colts, in the paddocks of The Gaffs.
Travis took no man's dust in the Tennessee Valley. At county fairs he had a walk-over.
He had inherited The Gaffs from his grandfather, for both his parents died in his infancy, and his two remaining uncles gave their lives in Virginia, early in the war, following the flag of the Confederacy.
One of them had left a son, whom Richard Travis had educated and who had, but the June before, graduated from the State University.
Travis saw but little of him, since each did as he pleased, and it did not please either of them to get into each other's way.
There had been no sympathy between them. There could not be, for they were too much alike in many ways.