Philip Bedford, so long silent about this which lay nearest to his heart, felt that a torrent of words was rushing to his lips.
"I can't tell you, Bill," he said, "how I felt when that letter was handed to me. Jim Harrington, a farmer who knew us, brought it over from Frankfort. He was on his horse when he met me coming down the street, and he leaned over and handed it to me. Of course he had read it, as it wasn't in an envelope, and he sat there on his horse looking at me, while I read it, although I didn't know that until afterward.
"Bill, I was so glad I couldn't speak for awhile. We hadn't heard from John in two or three years, and we were all sure that he was dead. After I read the letter through, I just stood there, holding it out in my hand and looking at it. Then I remember coming back to earth, when Jim Harrington leaned over to me from his saddle and said: 'Phil, is it genuine?'
"'It's real,' I replied, 'I'd know his handwriting anywhere in the world.'
"'What are you going to do, Phil?' he asked.
"'I'm going to start for Mexico to-morrow,' I said.
"'It's a powerful risky undertaking,' he said.
"'I'm going to start for Mexico to-morrow,' I said again.
"Then from his height on the horse he put his hand on my head for a moment and said: 'I knew you'd go, Phil. I know the breed. I was in the War of 1812 with your father, when we were boys together. You're only a boy yourself, but you go to Mexico, and I believe you'll find John.'
"So you see, Bill, even at the very start there was one who believed that I would succeed."