Chapter 2

Chapter 24,025 wordsPublic domain

"Crossed right here where we are settin', Saw their trail that very day; Struck plumb north, and by my reck'nin' Towards the north they'll likely stay. North of here, by my experience, He'll find grass that's mighty fine. Chances are that he'll keep goin' Till he strikes Nebraska's line. It was just the next day after That my cattle scattered so; Some strayed off 'way south to Jimson's, One bunch in the bend below. That's the day I met that feller (Eyes so black he couldn't see) Who kept pumpin' me with questions Like you've just been askin' me.

"Asked about that prairie schooner, Said that they was friends of hisn, Like to wore me plumb to frazzles With his everlasting quiz'n. Rode a piebald, knock-kneed broncho; Coat was battered, ripped, and torn; He was yaller, long, and g'anted Like a steer with holler horn. An' you oughter seen his breeches! He must sure be shy on sense; Why, they looked like he'd been riding On a bucking barb wire fence. You won't meet him, 'cause I saw him Coming back across this way, Going eastward where he come from; Took the back trail yesterday.

"Said he'd found the old man's outfit Moving westward on North Fork. Can't remember all he told me, For he runs a heap to talk. Said he'd found out what he wanted; Said he 'had a plan or two, And the folks that knowed Jim Johnson, Knowed that he would put 'em through.' Then there's others took the west trail; They got that way huntin' range-- Funny how folks when they come here Get to itchin' for a change! I've been stayin' too confinin'; Never left this herd but once. I'm the oldest puncher round here,-- Been here over fourteen months."

Long before the sun had risen, While the night mist's ghostly veil Hid from view the sloughs and hollows, Billy took the northern trail. Through the sunflowers in the low land, Plodding over sandstone knolls, Winding through the level stretches Dotted thick with treacherous holes Where the prairie dogs sat chattering, Bolt upright upon their mounds, While the ground owls sought their burrows, Startled by the warning sounds; Stumbling into buffalo wallows, Dug out in an earlier day By the halting herds that rested, Rolled and bellowed in their play.

Now and then the sheltered hillside Waved its varicolored flowers As a greeting to the trav'ler, Solace to the toilsome hours. Old Jack Rabbit hopped before him, Then sat up, to watch him pass, Dusky horned-toads scurried nimbly Through the withered buffalo grass. Here and there the buzzing rattler Whirred a warning, head alert, Then retreated from the snapping, Stinging strokes of Billy's quirt. Day by day the wild breeze flying, With'ring in its scorching heat, Hummed a tune to labored beating Of the plodding horses' feet.

Day by day this panorama Passing slowly, dully by, With the sun's brass disc high gleaming From a white and cloudless sky, Sometimes drew fantastic pictures. Many a strange and gruesome sign-- Phantom trees and fairy castles-- Blurred the far horizon line. Then they'd vanish like the fancies Of a fever-smitten brain, And returning, changed in outline, Elsewhere on the mighty plain Would allure the eyesore trav'ler Till the very sky above Seemed to mock with vague mirages Every surety of love.

When each weary day was over, Halting near some watering-place, Bill unpacked his meager outfit, Turned the horses loose to graze, Baked his varicolored dough-bread, On a fire of cattle chips; Coffee made of green-scummed water, Nectar to his thirsty lips. On the ground he spread his blanket And reclining there alone, Heard the swiftly sweeping breezes Sing in dreary monotone Strange wild anthems, weird and lonesome, Like lost spirits floating by, While afar in broken measure Swelled the coyotes' yelping cry.

All the varied information Gathered from the few he passed-- Some from herders, some from stragglers Gave the missing clew at last As to where old Mac was heading; For that telltale band of steel Stamped along the endless roadway Printed by the turning wheel, Pressed its image on the memory Of the settlers coming back, Who, when questioned by the searcher, Told him that the telltale track Had begun to veer to westward After crossing by the way Leading up the North Platte River, Where the sand wastes stretch away.

As he crossed this barren prairie's Sweeping waste of poverty, Billy paused beside the cripple Of a wind-torn twisted tree, Standing there, marooned forever, Where its hapless seed had blown, Miles on miles from forest neighbor, Struggling out its life alone. Here he stopped, with head uncovered, Conscious of a strange appeal, Yielding to the voiceless longing Human hearts are bound to feel When their lot is isolation, And a field of sterile soil Dwarfs and twists the struggling spirit As the body bends with toil.

Here, that subtle, silent craving, Which with life will never end, Of the lonesome and the needy For the comfort of a friend, Drew the trav'ler to this tree waif, And he spread his outfit near, And they held that sacred converse Which the soul alone can hear. While the horses browsed the sage brush, And the sun withdrew his light, And the moon in mournful splendor Ushered in the lonely night, He lay down beneath the branches, Wrapped in musings strange and deep-- Thoughts that bore him off in silence O'er the placid sea of sleep.

In his dreams he saw a monarch Decked in sumptuous array, Seated on a throne of glory Bearing royal title, Day. Then some mighty power transcendent, Thrust him from his gorgeous throne, Turning all the realm to darkness, And the world was left alone. As the shades of gloom were spreading, By strange flashing threads of light He beheld in dim-drawn outline, On the background of the night, Phantom horse and girlish rider, Speeding on in reckless race, Till she turned directly toward him And he saw her fearless face!

With the journey's slow progression Slipped away the summer days, Merging with the sleepy beauty Of the lazy autumn haze; And the frosts and drought combining Waged relentless battle there, Withering up the scanty ranges, Leaving all the country bare. When he entered Colorado, Following still the barren plain Where for months the mocking heavens Never spared a drop of rain, Faithful Simon, weak and starving, Following feebly in the track Pulled upon his straining halter, Groaned and fell beneath his pack.

Vain were all the kind entreaties, Vain the simple nursing done To relieve his palsied weakness-- Poor old Simon's course was run. Billy spent the night beside him, But with next day's early dawn, With the east's first flush of scarlet, Simon's faithful soul passed on. Then, with hands outstretched before him, Half remembering what was said When a child he saw the sexton Sprinkle earth upon the dead-- "Dust to dust, and then to ashes-- I forget the other part-- I can't say the words I want to, I can't think--all's in my heart.

"Over twenty years, old pardner, We have been companions true; You have always kept your end up In the hardships we've gone through. If we'd stayed, and I had never Seen her face or touched her hand, We should still have been contented, On our little piece of land. This strange spell won't let me falter, Though the chasing never ends; Seems that nothing ever'll stop it, Sickness, death, or loss of friends. Where this love will drive a fellow, I ain't wise enough to tell; Sometimes think it leads to heaven By a trail that runs through hell."

Weeks thereafter, plodding northward Crossing over Lodge Pole creek, Threading Colorado's stretches-- Sandy deserts wild and bleak-- Where the sun wars on the living, Struggling 'neath his blinding light, Then resigns his work of ravage To the chilling frosts of night; Where the bleaching bones of horses Here and there bestrew the plains, Telling many a ghastly story Of misguided settlers' trains-- Where the early frontier ranger Marked the first trail to Cheyenne, Billy, following its wand'rings, Found the missing mark again.

Then the labored pace grew faster As he passed each camping place, Marking well the lessening distance In the long-contested race. Riding through Wyoming's foothills, With their rugged summit lines Stretched across the clear horizon, Fringed with pointed spruce and pines, He beheld, one early morning, Rising slowly to the sky, Smoke--the thin and gauzy column Of a camp fire built close by; And, on looking down the valley With exultant, ringing cheer, He beheld the prairie schooner And the MacIntyres near.

On an open spot of grass land Gilded by the rising sun, Sloping sharply to the crevice Where the mountain waters run, Ike, reclining, watched the horses, Now increased to quite a band, While above him, in the timber, Brother Bill, with gun in hand, Held it poised in sudden wonder, Half in attitude to shoot, As he saw the coming rider, Heard his loudly yelled salute. Near an old abandoned cabin, Huddled by the breakfast fire, Resting calm in fancied safety Sat the elder MacIntyre.

"You! Why, Billy, where d'you come from? What new game you playing now? If you're out on posse business By the gods, jest start your row! What you saying? You are friendly? Wal, I'm glad to hear it's so; And I s'pose you made the journey Way out here to let me know! Oh! you're talking 'bout our Nancy! Now I just begin to see. Set down, Billy; you are askin' Something that sure puzzles me. Nancy ain't like other women-- What I say may hit you queer, But it's jest as well to tell you-- That there girl--she isn't here.

"Don't stampede your words, now, Billy. Slow 'em down and let 'em walk. Lord a'mighty, man! keep quiet! Never heard such crazy talk! Where's the girl? Wal, let me tell you-- T'aint no use to take on so-- Where is Nancy? P'r'aps in heaven; I can't tell yer,--I don't know. When we left last spring from Kansas, Travelin' mostly in the night, We was chased up by a posse; Fourth day out we had a fight. We had jest unhitched the hosses, Making camp at Old Man's Creek-- Gimme some o' that tobacker, I've been out for more'n a week.

"We had jest unhitched the hosses, Nance was riding Kelly's mare, When we heard them all a-comin'-- They had seen us pull in there. Nancy said,' I'll hold 'em, daddie, Get the outfit over here, And I'll trail you in the mornin'; I will see they don't get near.' It was in that heavy timber-- Growing dark and spittin' rain-- Where the creek runs to the eastward, Makes that loop, and back again. We was in a reg'lar pocket; Creek banks made a kind of bluff All around us, so it looked like We was trapped there, sure enough.

"Wal, we had a time in movin'; Things got mixed up in the rush; Lead team broke a piece of harness Pulling through the underbrush. Then the wagon turned clean over, But we drug her plumb across, Hitched with ropes and other fixin's, Usin' every extra hoss. Wal, you never heard such shootin', Bullets whizzin' everywhere; Pumped 'em on us till it sounded Like they had an army there. Nancy stayed and cracked it to 'em, Kind o' circlin' round and round; I could tell the two six-shooters She was usin', by the sound.

"You can bet we did some trav'lin' All that night and all next day; I could still a-hear the shootin' After we was miles away. I supposed we'd see the girl come Ridin' up to us 'fore long, That is--I was jest a-thinkin'-- If there wasn't somethin' wrong. But, in spite of all our lookin', Sometimes slackin' up our gait, Always thinkin' we should see her Every time we'd stop and wait. We have never seen her, Billy, And I own I'm balked a bit, Fur I know that she's a critter Made of nothin' else but grit.

"I wish I could go and find her, But 'twould be too hot for me; Long before I got back that fur I'd be strung up to a tree. So I've been a kind o' thinkin', Since I see what's both'rin' you, 'Bout a thing--I hate to ask it-- That I'd like for you to do. I don't think that girl has ever-- It sure hurts me, what I say-- But I'm sure that in the scrimmage Nancy never got away. Billy, you go back and find her; You are all I've got to send, You can sort o' fix things decent, Where she is--in Old Man's Bend."

THE RETURN

Every life is but a journey-- Trav'ling on from place to place-- Starting from the point God gave us With an ever-varying pace. Outward, onward, spurred by motives In our wand'rings here and there, Sometimes led by hope alluring, Sometimes halted by despair; But the life that travels farthest On that deeper strength depends, For with love, there is no turning; When love dies the journey ends.

Back across the broken foothills, With a courage none can feel Till the burning pangs of sorrow Turn the heart-strings into steel; Back across the winter's playground, Tracing out the paths he trod, With each muttered execration Ending in a prayer to God. Blasts that howled with fiendish laughter, By their loud derisive cry Seemed to mock his labored progress As they passed him swiftly by; Icy, blizzard-driven snowflakes Into ghost-like fancies whirled, Painting on the barren canvas, Gaunt Death battling for the world.

Back across the snow-strewn desert, Fighting famine face to face, Trusting to his horse to take him To each former camping place. Once Zeb stopped beside a snowdrift With a loud and startling neigh; Tried to tell his half-dazed master Where his mate, old Simon, lay. Pressing on, he reached the border Of Nebraska's whitened plain, Where his mind in maudlin fancies Yielded to the bitter strain, As he saw far in the distance, Like a battered mast at sea, Once again the twisted branches Of the lone and friendly tree.

"Git up, Zeb. Come, see! She's waving! Waving there for you and me. See her there, so white and pretty, Standing by our friend, the tree! Quit that stumbling! Now then, streak it! Hit the gait you used to do When we hired out for the round up And you beat the first one through. There she is! There's where I saw her When we stayed there all that night; Though 'twas dark, I saw her riding, By those flashing threads of light; She's been waiting! Oh, I left her In this awful lonely place! God forgive me! Nancy! hear me! Oh, that face--that poor white face!"

One cold morning, old Zach Baxter, Riding o'er this snowbound sea Saw a famished pony standing Near a queer and lonely tree. From his frost-encrusted nostrils Came a plaintive whinny, low, As the man rode up beside him Struggling through the drifted snow. When the old man tried to lead him, He refused to turn away; But he pawed the drift beneath him, Where his stricken master lay. And below the cold, white cover, In a deathlike stupor deep, Old Zach found a sorry stranger Shrouded for his last long sleep.

Tearing at the ragged bundle Lodged between the horse's feet, Clutching at the frozen blanket, Brushing back the crusted sleet, Faithful in his rude endeavors, Rousing by his loud commands, Roughly shaking, turning, rubbing, Zach breathed on his face and hands; Till the stiffened limbs responded And the closed eyes opened wide, Dazed and puzzled at the stranger Working fiercely at his side. Billy felt the strong arms raise him, Felt the Frost King's stinging breath As he struggled, half unconscious, In the wav'ring fight with death.

In the east, the sun dogs glistened Like tall shafts of marble, bright, O'er the whitened grave of nature,-- Ghostly spires of frozen light, Flying frost flakes snapping, sparkling, Dancing in a wild display, Turned into a mist of diamonds As they mocked the newborn day.

Old Zach's pony bearing double, Reeking steam from every pore, Reached at last the covered pathway Leading to the dug-out door. With his arms clasped tight round Billy, Zach half dragged his helpless load Through the lowly, mud-walled entrance Of his rudely built abode. There, upon the narrow bunk bed Spread with nondescript attire, Zach enfolded him in wrappings While he started up a fire; And no nurse, however skillful, Whatsoever her degree, Ever gave more loyal service To a patient, than did he.

Poor and meager were the comforts Of Zach's cave-like prairie home, Permeated with the odor Of the fresh-dug virgin loam. Pungent wreaths of smoke, slow drifting, Floated lazily above, To the dried grass of the ceiling From the cracked and rusty stove. Willow poles athwart for rafters Sagged beneath the dirt roof's strain, And a piece of grease-smeared paper Formed the only window-pane. In the center, on the dirt floor Stood a table-like affair Fashioned from a wagon end-gate, Where Zach spread his scanty fare.

There for weeks lay Billy, helpless, Racked with mad'ning fever pains, As the burning sun of summer Scorches sere the desert plains. Then he lay with cold, white features And the feeble, scarce drawn breath, As the silent winter prairie Lies beneath its shroud of death. Ofttimes when the raging sickness Sent the hot blood to his brain, He would point with frantic gesture To the dingy window pane, Calling in excited mutterings, Eyes transfixed in frenzied fright-- "There she is! Now, can't you see her? See her face there in the light!"

Then old Zach would try to soothe him In his simple-hearted way; "She won't hurt you," he would tell him, "I'll go drive her clear away. I've seen things--now listen, pardner-- Those things happened once to me Once down there in old Dodge City, Winding up a three weeks' spree. What you see is jest a 'lusion, 'Cause you're crazy in your head; When your thinker's runnin' proper You'll find 'She' is gone or dead. There, now, pardner, see what this is! Ain't it purty? Your tin cup; Found a little pinch o' coffee. That's the boy, now, drink it up!"

When the breeze of spring in whispers Stirred the withered bunch-grass plume, Humming hymns of resurrection Over nature's silent tomb, And the fleeing clouds of heaven, Bending low at God's command, Spilled their tribute from the ocean On the long-forsaken land, And the sun, with mellow kindness Spread abroad his softened rays, Calling bud and blade and blossom From their sleep of many days, Billy heard, at last, the music Of the glad earth's jubilee, Felt a new strength stir within him, And a longing to be free.

One day, o'er the hill's low summit, Whence the prairie dipped away, There appeared a moving wagon With its canvas patched and gray, Like a vessel on the ocean Under taut and close-reefed sail, Rising slowly on the billows Heaped up by the driving gale. Veering towards the little dug-out, Making for a friendly shore, Heaving to, the schooner anchored Close beside the open door. Loud and hearty were the greetings, For the driver of the team Was Tom Frothingham, a neighbor, Who had lived near Billy's claim.

Bit by bit he told the story-- How he'd wandered all around Since he left his Kansas homestead And the folks near North Pole mound; How he'd traveled all through Texas With the roving fever on, Camping oft in strange new places, Where no other soul had gone. So the news, now half forgotten In his absence from the place, Came in broken recollections-- Careful efforts to retrace All the incidents of interest To the sick one listening there, Who, with pale and careworn features, Heard the story with despair.

"Three weeks after you left Kansas I hitched up and came away. Still, I reckoned you intended To improve your claim and stay; For your eighty was a picture-- Running spring and good clear land-- Everything a body needed For a starter, right at hand. Well, some others left 'fore I did-- You remember Mac, of course, How he got the moving notion When Bill Kelly missed his horse? Chased him clear to Old Man's crossing, So I heard the posse say; Thought they had him fairly cornered, But, by jings! he got away.

"There are stranger things than fiction; What is natural may seem queer, So I s'pose we needn't wonder At the things we see out here. One thing happened since you left there That I call a burning shame-- Did you know that rope-necked Johnson Jumped your eighty-acre claim? Last I saw him, he was plowing, And he laughed and tried to joke: Said 'twas kind of you to leave him All the ground that you had broke; Said your house was so untidy He was sleeping out of doors, Till he got a girl to help him Wash the pans and scrub the floors.

"Lots of people coming in there From most every foreign land-- Massachusetts and Missouri-- Made a mess I couldn't stand. Every man that's made of manhood Wants to live where he is free, So I'm bound to keep on moving When they get to crowding me. Then another thing that happened: Puzzled every one around When they heard one morning early, That Bill Kelly's horse was found. Aleck Rose told me about it After I had packed and gone; Said the mare strayed in the dooryard With Mac's steel-horn saddle on."

As each day in steady conquest Charged the ranks of fleeing night, Winning back the stolen hours With their golden spears of light; As the living in all nature Felt that mighty spirit's sway, So the sick man caught the power And his illness wore away. One clear morning, as Aurora Silver-tinted all the plain, In his weatherbeaten saddle Billy took the trail again. "Good by, boy," old Zach repeated, "I'm most sure you'll never see Any more o' them 'ere 'lusions, Anyway, what you called 'She.'"

Day by day the low horizon Spread its narrow circle round, As if fate had drawn a barrier, And forbade advance beyond. Though the journey dragged on slowly, Night time brought its sure reward, For the added miles behind him Stretched at length to Mingo's Ford, Where the breeze bore from the upland Broken fragments of the song Of the cowboy with his cattle, As he drove the strays along; Where the voice of flowing water And the treble of the birds, Swelled the hallowed evening anthem To the bass of lowing herds.

Then the trail along the Solomon Where the timber, making friends With the ever-widening valley, Filled the rounded river bends; Then the rankling recollection, As he passed some well-known place Where before, with hope and vigor, He had sped in fruitless chase. Then the lonely camp at nightfall, Where the wind in monotone Thrummed the harp strings of the grass stems, Breathing low its song, "Alone!" Where the stars, fixed in the heavens, To his upturned face would say, With their heartless glint of distance, "She thou seek'st is far away."

Then the long, far-reaching bottoms Rank with withered blue-joint grass, With its broken stems entangled In a matted jungle mass; Then across the higher prairie, Searching out a shorter way, To the creek that joined the river Where Mac crossed and got away; Then the twinge of bitter sorrow As he neared his journey's end, And beheld the fringe of timber On the banks of Old Man's bend, Where no living sign or token Broke the gloom that brooded there, Save a solitary buzzard Floating idly in the air.