Nancy MacIntyre | Page 5

the coming night-- There against the fiery background Where the day and night have met, Move three disappearing figures, Outlined sharp in silhouette. Zeb and Si and Bill, the lover, Chafing under each delay, Pass below the red horizon, Toward the river trail away.
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Far across the upland prairie To the valley-land below, Where the tall and tangled joint-grass Makes the horses pant and blow, There the silent Solomon River Reaching westward to its source, With its fringe of sombre timber Guides the lover on his course. All the night he keeps his saddle, Urging Zeb and Simon on, Till the trail clears up before him In the gray of early dawn. Where it turns in towards the river, Arched above with vine-growth rank, He, dismounting, ties the horses Near the steep and treacherous bank.
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More than light and shade and landscape Meet the plainsman's searching look, For the paths that lie before him Are the pages of his book. Stooping down and reading slowly, Noting every trace around, Of the travel gone before him, Every mark upon the ground, Down the winding, deep-cut roadway Furrowed out by grinding tire, Where the ruts lead to the water, In the half-dried plastic mire, He beholds the telltale marking Of an odd-shaped band of steel, Welded to secure the fellies Of old MacIntyre's wheel.

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High above the wind is moaning In a lonely, fretful mood, Through the lofty spreading branches Of the elm and cottonwood. Where the willows hide the fordway With their fringe of lighter green, Is the dam, decayed and broken, Where the beavers once have been. On the sycamore bent o'er it, With its gleaming trunk of white, Sits the barred owl, idly blinking At the early morning's light, While, within its spacious hollow, Where the rotting heart had clung Till removed by age and fire, Sleeps the wild cat with her young.
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Plunging through the sluggish water, Scarcely halting for a drink, Toiling through the sticky quagmire, They attain the farther brink. Here the trail leads to the westward,-- Once the redman's wild domain; Now the shallow rutted highway Of the settler's wagon train. Here and there along the edges, Paths work through the waving grass, Where at night from bluff to river, Sneaking coyotes find a pass. Here the meadow lark sings gaily As she leaves her hidden nest, While the sun of early morning Double-tints her orange breast.
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Up this broad and fertile valley, Tracing all its winding ways, Plodding on with dogged patience Through a score of weary days, Camping in the lonely timber, Sleeping on the scorching plain, Bearing heat and thirst and hunger, Sore fatigue and wind and rain-- Halting only when the telltale Mark was missing in the track; Only when he called a greeting, As he passed some settler's shack; Till the valley and its timber Vanished, where the rolling sward Of the westward-sweeping prairie Marks the trail 'cross Mingo's ford.
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Here for hours he searched the crossing And the wheel-ruts leading on To the north, a full day's journey, But the guiding mark was gone. Not a vestige here remaining Of the sign that could be told, For old Mac had traveled swiftly And the trail was mixed and old. Two whole days Bill searched and waited, Hoping for some other clew, Weighing questions of direction, Undecided what to do. Till, one night, while cooking supper By the camp-fire's genial glow, He was startled by a stranger's Sudden presence and "Hello!"
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Tall of stature, dark of visage, By the wind well dried and tanned, Clad in "shaps" and spurs that jingled, With a bull whip in his hand. Close behind him in the shadows, Eyes aglow with red and green, Stood a blazed-face Texas pony, Ewe-necked, cat-hammed, wild, and mean. "Hello, stranger! glad to see you, Got my cattle fixed for night; Just got through, and riding round 'em, 'Cross the bluff, I saw your light. No, thanks, pardner, had my supper; Seems your fire is short o' wood; I just thought I'd see who's camped here-- Gee! that bacon does smell good!"
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When the frugal meal was over, When the pipes were filled and lit, And the cowboy ceased his stories Weak in moral, rank in wit, Billy plied him long with questions, Wording each with thought and care, Lest his zeal for information Should reveal his mission there. "Tell me who you've seen go by here, Just within the last few days; What they had for teams and outfits; How the country round here lays. Have you seen a prairie schooner-- Old style freighter--pass this way? Both wheel hosses white-nosed sorrels, Lead team of a dun and gray?"
[Illustration: "Loaded up their prairie schooner, And vamoosed the ranch 'fore light."]
[Illustration: "He was startled by a stranger's Sudden presence and 'Hello!'"]
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"I remember some such outfit, If I've got