Thirteen years ago I revisited the once well-known Kosloskie's
Ranch, a picturesque cabin at the foot of the Glorieta Mountains,
about half a mile from the ruins on the Rio Pecos. The old Pole was
absent, but his wife was there; and, although I had not seen her
for fifteen years, she remembered me well, and at once began to
deplore the changed condition of the country since the advent of
the railroad, declaring it had ruined their family with many
others. I could not disagree with her view of the matter, as I
looked on the debris of a former relative greatness all around me.
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