With all of the advances that have become just an accepted part of modern day life, all of the different accomplishments that have caused various members of our species to beat their chests and proclaim their greatness, it has become easier than ever before to delude ourselves into thinking that we have solved many of the great mysteries of life and few real head scratchers remain.
For those of us who are novices, searching through the common, every day records of history is, in many ways, similar to taking a journey half blind-folded. You have an idea, vague though it may be, of where you’re starting and an even more vague idea of where you want to end up, but the distance between the two is often rambling and haphazard and largely based on luck.
Located north of town, the cemetery at Sheridan Lake sits on the crest of the gentlest of slopes. The elevation is no more than perhaps a hundred feet higher than the land that surrounds it, yet it is still graced with just enough rise to give all who stop and look an unobstructed view of the miles and miles of wide open plains that stretch all the way to the far distant horizon.
Recently, one of the readers of the Independent suggested a story he thought other readers might enjoy. It took place in 1872 and involved a group of individuals whose names are so well-known that the story itself sounds like something more likely to be found in a dime store novel than a history book of the time.
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