Nancy MacIntyre | Page 5

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
1
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 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.
2
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.
3
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.

4
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.
5
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.
6

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.
7
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!"
8
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!"
9
When the