Nancy MacIntyre | Page 4

grabbed the hosses' heads, Coaxed and helped them in their trouble, While they strove like thoroughbreds, Lunging, plunging, you stayed with them Till they both were clear and free. Riding one, you lashed them forward, Circled round and picked up me, Helped me mount, while Jim was loading; Then we struck off through the night, Right across the storm-swept prairie, Till the East was streaked with light.
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I was faint and sick and dizzy, From my shattered, bleeding hand, And it seemed as if the jolting Gave me more than I could stand. Once I reeled, and would have fallen, If you hadn't held me there; Put your dear arm tight around me, Whispered, "Billy, don't you care." Then you headed straight for water, Threw the lines, dismounted first, Smoothed the grass down for my pillow, While the hosses quenched their thirst. Then you bathed my throbbing forehead,-- Love and healing in the touch,-- Sayin', "Billy, pardner, listen: That there shootin' wasn't much!"
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From your skirt you tore a piece out, Dressed my wounds so neat and quick, That I felt the Lord had sent you Just to soothe and heal the sick. Bringing back a hat of water, Through the dim light and the rain, Thought I saw your face turn paler, Like you felt a twinge o' pain; But as you knelt down beside me I could hear you humming low Some mysterious song, stopped short by, "Billy, man, we sure must go!" And the sun turned loose his glory, Through the tempest-riven sky, Till it touched us like a blessing From the Father there on high.
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I am standing by her dug-out; Open swings the sagging door, Every grassblade speaks of Nancy; But she's gone, to come no more, For her father and her mother, And her brothers, late last night, Loaded up their prairie schooner, And vamoosed the ranch, 'fore light. There's the bed poles and the stove hole; Not a thing is left for me, As a keepsake of my Nancy, Anywhere that I can see. What! a paper, pinned up yonder, Kind o' folded like a note! It has writin', sure as blazes! It is somethin' Nancy wrote.
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"My dere billy, you will wunder Why I ever rote you this; I am sorry I am leevin Daddie needs me in his biz. I don't reely like this quiet Kind of sober farmer life; I like something allus doin, But for this, I'd be your wife. I got two of old Jim's bullets, Didn't like to let you know, Cause the one that you was luggin' Seemed to fret and hurt you so. Daddie cut them out that evenin; I don't mind a little such, But, dere billy, don't you worry, Old Jim's shootin wasn't much."

THE DECISION
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Since that girl went off and left me, I can't plan just what to do. Saw Tom Frothingham this mornin', He says Johnson's gone off, too. My old mother used to tell me, When I lagged at any task, "Keep on working, do no shirking, You will bring the thing to pass." That advice has been my motto: Everything that I've begun, I've stayed with it, sick or weary, Till the job was squarely done. But this case is kind o' different; Though I ain't the kind that grieves, How you goin' to work that motto When the job gets up and leaves?
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S'pose, in thinkin' and decidin', I refuse to do my part;-- Just sit down and let my mem'ry Finish breaking up my heart-- S'pose I give up like a coward, Let the world say I ain't game, 'Cause by leavin' I should forfeit My poor eighty-acre claim. I ain't 'fraid to do my duty If I'm clear what it's about, But this scrape is so peculiar That my mind's smoked up with doubt. I believe that Nancy loves me, And it may be she'll stay true; But I wonder why the blazes That durn Johnson's gone off too.
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Blamed if I don't get my hosses, Saddle Zeb and lead old Si, And we'll search the wind-swept prairie Till we find that girl, or die! Who'd a thought a man's whole future Could get twisted up like this? All his plans burn up like tinder In the fire of one sweet kiss! "Zeb, come here, and good old Simon-- Listen while I talk to you; Put your noses on my shoulder While I tell you what we'll do. Your fool master's deep in trouble, Can't explain to you just how, But until we find my Nancy, You shall never pull a plow."

THE SEARCH
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In the West, where twilight glories Paint with blood each sky-line cloud, While the virgin rolling prairie Slowly dons her evening shroud; While the killdeer plover settles From its quick and noisy flight; While the prairie cock is blowing Warning of