"It spreads where it succeeds. Or leastways where people make believe it’s succeeding. Young fellas, they’re predisposed to love that shit. They want to have guns and violence and adventure. ‘It is a way of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation.’ But in the regular army, none of that’s to be had without discipline . Young fellas chafe under that. Comanches got the best of both worlds. Guns, violence, adventure, and glory with no one to boss you around. It worked out here"—Rufus waved his hand out the window—"when there was infinite buffalo and plenty of open space." He now pulled his focus back into the interior of the antique railway car. "But it don’t give you all this here." He picked up a silver fork from the table. "A fork! Comanche can’t make a metal fork to save his life." He tossed it back onto the table. "To get all this, they had to give up their ways. And since their ways was all that they were —being that there was this come one, come all philosophy as far as DNA and all that—they diminished."