“My dear Stanton,” said the captain, “you are right in saying that it is a likeness of Captain Osborn; you are correct also in saying that he was your warmest friend; not only was, but is to this day. I am Captain Lyman Osborn.”
“What!” shouted the wounded man, starting up. “No, no; impossible! You may be the captain’s father or grandfather, but you’re not the captain of my company.”
“Yes, my dear friend,” said Captain Osborn, laying a hand gently on either shoulder of the patient, who had risen from his chair, “the war has been over a long time—over twenty years. I am now an old man, and so are you.” The captain’s gentle embrace seemed to soothe and subdue the listener. “More than twenty-five years have intervened since that engagement at Bethel Church, when you received that terrible wound on your head. You were captured by the enemy and nursed back to life among strangers, but the unnatural pressure of a misplaced bone disturbed your memory, leaving your previous life a blank. Your friends supposed you were dead, but I thank God you are not. You had forgotten your name, and in some way substituted the name of John B. Horton.”
The rich cattle owner gazed speechlessly into the captain’s face as he made this wonderful revelation. He glanced hastily over his shoulder at the mirror, and seemed to realize the truth of all that he had heard, and his hand unconsciously stole into the captain’s.
“But my wife, Captain, my wife and little Hugh?” The captain was silent.
“Come, Captain Osborn, if it is really true as you state, don’t trifle with me, don’t keep me in suspense. My darling wife, my little boy,—tell me of them.” He clasped the captain’s hand in both his own, as if he were beginning to believe and trust him.
“My dear Hugh,” replied the captain, “I know your love for Ethel was very great; then you were a young man, only twenty-five years old. You are more than fifty now, and many changes have come. Be brave and courageous. Ethel, your little wife, died a year after you were wounded, but little Hugh has grown to be a man much loved and respected by all. He is an honor to you.”
“But, Captain,” faltered Stanton, while tears sprang to his eyes, “where have I been all these years?”
“Not idle,” replied the captain, “you are perhaps the richest man in southwestern Kansas; you are called John B. Horton, the cattle king, and, as I remarked awhile ago, you live at Horton’s Grove, two miles from here, with your good wife and your lovely daughter, Ethel.”
“Yes, yes,” said he, clasping his hands to his head and sinking into a chair which the captain had pushed toward him. “Yes, yes, I am beginning to remember,—yes, beginning to remember.” He finally grew silent and was lost in thought.