Nancy MacIntyre | Page 9

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.
[Illustration: "Once again the twisted branches Of the lone and friendly tree."]
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"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!"
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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 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.
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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-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