Nancy MacIntyre | Page 9

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.
2
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.
3
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.
[Illustration: "Once again the twisted branches Of the lone and friendly
tree."]
4
"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!"
5
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.
6
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.
7
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.
8
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.
9
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.
10
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