Nancy MacIntyre Part 7

As the soul in deep communion, Seeks some isolated bower Where the body's sordid cravings Yield beneath the spirit's power, So the searcher, bowed in reverence, Left untouched his evening fare As he listened to the voices Of the shadows gathering there.

Here no lighted torch or camp fire With its weak and fitful ray, Could illume the mystic journey Of prayer's consecrated way.

Here the silence brought its message Of forebodings, vague and deep, In its visions to the dreamer, Through the mystery of sleep.

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In his dreams he saw a monarch Decked in sumptuous array, Seated on a throne of glory, Bearing royal t.i.tle, Day.

Then some mighty power transcendent, Thrust him from his gorgeous throne, Turning all the realm to darkness, And the world was left alone.

As the shades of gloom were spreading, By strange flas.h.i.+ng threads of light He beheld in dim-drawn outline, On the background of the night, Phantom horse and girlish rider, Speeding on in reckless race, Till she turned directly toward him And he saw her fearless face.

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Then, behold! the King returning With a pageantry so bright, That the shadow-clad usurpers Fled in ignominious fright.

As he saw the hosts approaching Through a cloud of battle smoke, Charging wildly down upon him, He, in sudden fear, awoke.

As he looked, the blackened heavens Splashed with demon-tinted blood From the hue of burning prairie Throbbed above the fiery flood.

Leaping o'er the rounded bluff-tops, Down the valley's long incline, He could see the lurid column Spread its blazing battle line.

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Like a troop of charging hors.e.m.e.n Sweeping on with maddened roar, Mowing down the gra.s.s battalions, Crackling flames swept all before.

Then the driftwood's rifted breastwork, Left there by the waters high, Flashed up in a hissing furnace, As the red-armed fiends leaped by.

Clinging to the swaying saddle And the plunging horse's mane, Billy dashed through falling embers To the level, open plain.

On the right and left, the head fires Rus.h.i.+ng on at furious pace, Stretched beside the horse and rider In the life-and-death-fought race.

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Here the gale with venomed fury Met in vortex from afar, Raising high the flaming pennons Of the fiery fiends of war.

Flas.h.i.+ng by, the blazing gra.s.s stems Sped like arrows through the air, Falling on the distant prairie, Kindling fresh fires everywhere.

Pressing through the low-flung smoke clouds-- Stifling fumes of Hades' breath-- Fiercer with each flying moment Drove those scorching blasts of death.

Thrice his horse, 'neath quirt and rowel Bravely struggling, almost fell, As he fled in desperation O'er the trail that led through h.e.l.l.

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One poor singed and panting coyote Through the perils of the ride Hemmed in by the flames pursuing Ran close by the horse's side.

Scarce a meager pace behind them, Pressing hard the coyote's rear, Raced a frantic old jack rabbit, Ears laid low in speed and fear.

Reaching now a stretch of upland, Here the coyote changed his course, Breaking through the narrow side-fire, Followed fast by hare and horse; And, upon the smoking prairie Over which the fire had pa.s.sed, Steaming horse and stricken rider Found a breathing s.p.a.ce at last.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Fiercer with each flying moment Drove those scorching blasts of death."]

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When the morning sun in splendor Rose upon the blackened plain, His red beams revealed the lover Back at Old Man's Bend again.

Waist deep in its soothing waters Bathing blistered brow and hands; While near by, in pain a-tremble, Faithful Zeb impatient stands.

Through the bend he searched and wandered, But except the furrowed bark, Of a gnarled and aged elm tree Which revealed one bullet-mark, Naught was left save blackened embers; And the words he "knew in part"-- "Dust to dust and then to ashes"-- Told the story of his heart.

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Back along the Solomon River, Trailing towards the humble claim He had lost when love and duty Fired his soul to "being game"; Back, across the beaver fordway, Where love first had found the track, Now returning with the rankling Sting of hate to bring him back-- Hate, that hunger made more bitter When his last jerked beef was gone; Climbing trees to cut off branches For his horse to browse upon; Back, where once the flower-decked prairie, Spread its bloom of hope and bliss, Now a blackened field of mourning, From the fire of one sweet kiss.

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Till one day, he saw beyond him, In the distance, purple crowned, That old monarch of the prairie, Guard of ages, North Pole Mound.

Then the field where Zeb and Simon Pulled the old sod-breaking plow Stretching like a narrow ribbon On the land that lay below.

Now the horse's steps grew lighter As he pa.s.sed each well-known sign Of the old familiar landscape, And they crossed the eighty's line, Where the spring of running waters Gave envenomed purpose birth, As he drank its bubbling offering From the pulsing heart of earth.

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Then, ascending from the hollow, Full before his eyes appeared Home--his home--the low-walled sodhouse Which his toiling hands had reared.

Near the straw shed stood the wagon He had brought from Wichita, And beneath the gra.s.s-fringed gable Hung his trusty crosscut saw.

In the dooryard, near the window, Lay the broken homemade chair, Where, at evening, love-born fancies Revelled, as he rested there; Love, whose scattered seed had fallen On a mystic field of fate, Where the tangled vine extending Bore the bitter fruit of hate.

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Hurrying nearer, he dismounted, Trembling with the rage he felt, As he cast aside the bridle And drew taut his cartridge belt.

Throwing down his torn sombrero, There, before the tight-closed door, On the cowardly usurper Loud and bitter vengeance swore.

"Come, you dirty, green-sc.u.mmed scoundrel, With your sneaking 'plan or two'!

Just come out, you rope-necked buzzard!

See how far you'll put them through.

You can keep the eighty acres, h.e.l.l will write your pedigree, But I'll rub your crooked nose-piece In the dirt you stole from me.

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"Come outside, you sneaking coyote!

If you've got a drop of man In your greasy, thieving carca.s.s, Finish up what you began."

Fiercer grew his coa.r.s.e invective, Louder yet his taunting calls, When no answer to his challenge Came from out the low sod walls.

Uncontrolled, his furious anger Spoke in quick and murderous roar As he pumped his old six-shooter Through the barred and bolted door.

When he paused the rude door opened, And before its splintered place Stood the vision of the shadows, And he saw Her fearless face.

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As the artist in his painting Plans the background to enhance All the beauty of his subject Both in pose and countenance, So the poor and dark interior Lent its gloom to magnify All the power and witching beauty Of her face and l.u.s.trous eye.

Standing there, a pictured G.o.ddess Sketched against a lowering storm, Bearing on her pallid features That supernal gift of calm.

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"Nancy! Woman! G.o.d in heaven, Speak, girl! Can this thing be true?

Are you here with that--that scoundrel, After all that I've gone through?