Nancy MacIntyre Part 6

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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 gra.s.s 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.

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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!"

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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!"

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When the breeze of spring in whispers Stirred the withered bunch-gra.s.s plume, Humming hymns of resurrection Over nature's silent tomb, And the fleeing clouds of heaven, Bending low at G.o.d'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.

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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 sh.o.r.e, Heaving to, the schooner anch.o.r.ed 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.

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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.

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"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.

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"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.

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"Lots of people coming in there From most every foreign land-- Ma.s.sachusetts 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."

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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.'"

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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 ba.s.s of lowing herds.

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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 pa.s.sed 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 gra.s.s 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."

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Then the long, far-reaching bottoms Rank with withered blue-joint gra.s.s, With its broken stems entangled In a matted jungle ma.s.s; 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.

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From these high and broken hilltops He could trace the river's flow, And the creek's untamed meandering, With its looplike bend below, Seeming in the light of evening Like a giant serpent there, Which had coiled about its victim, And lay resting in its lair.

Breaking through the tangled brushwood As the night was coming on, Creeping down the steep embankment Where the muddy waters run, Billy crossed within the timber Where the shroud of deeper gloom, And its chilling breath of darkness Marked the hidden prairie tomb.

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