IIITHE CRAWL

Straight awayBeneath the flare of dawn, the Ree land lay,And through it ran the short trail to the goal.Thereon a grim turnpikeman waited toll:But ‘twas so doomed that southering geese should fleeNine times, ere yet the vengeance of the ReeShould make their foe the haunter of a tale.Midway to safety on the northern trailThe scoriac region of a hell burned blackForbade the crawler. And for all his lack,Hugh had no heart to journey with the suns:No suppliant unto those faithless onesShould bid for pity at the Big Horn’s mouth.The greater odds for safety in the SouthAllured him; so he felt the midday sunBlaze down the coulee of a little runThat dwindled upward to the watershedWhereon the feeders of the Moreau head—Scarce more than deep-carved runes of vernal rain.The trailing leg was like a galling chain,And bound him to a doubt that would not pass.Defiant clumps of thirst-embittered grassThat bit parched earth with bared and fang-like roots;Dwarf thickets, jealous for their stunted fruits,Harsh-tempered by their disinheritance—These symbolized the enmity of ChanceFor him who, with his fate unreconciled,Equipped for travel as a weanling child,Essayed the journey of a mighty man.Like agitated oil the heat-waves ranAnd made the scabrous gulch appear to shakeAs some reflected landscape in a lakeWhere laggard breezes move. A taunting reekRose from the grudging seepage of the creek,Whereof Hugh drank and drank, and still would drink.And where the mottled shadow dripped as inkFrom scanty thickets on the yellow glare,The crawler faltered with no heart to dareAgain the torture of that toil, untilThe master-thought of vengeance ‘woke the willTo goad him forth. And when the sun quiescedAmid ironic heavens in the West—The region of false friends—Hugh gained a riseWhence to the fading cincture of the skiesA purpling panorama swept away.Scarce farther than a shout might carry, layThe place of his betrayal. He could seeThe yellow blotch of earth where treacheryHad digged his grave. O futile wrath and toil!Tucked in beneath yon coverlet of soil,Turned back for him, how soundly had he slept!Fool, fool! to struggle when he might have creptSo short a space, yet farther than the flightOf swiftest dreaming through the longest night,Into the quiet house of no false friend.Alas for those who seek a journey’s end—They have it ever with them like a ghost:Nor shall they find, who deem they seek it most,But crave the end of human ends—as Hugh.Now swoopingly the world of dream broke throughThe figured wall of sense. It seemed he ranAs wind above the creeping ways of man,And came upon the place of his desire,Where burned, far-luring as a beacon-fire,The face of Jamie. But the vengeful strokeBit air. The darkness lifted like a smoke—And it was early morning.Gazing far,From where the West yet kept a pallid starTo thinner sky where dawn was wearing through,Hugh shrank with dread, reluctant to renewThe war with that serene antagonist.More fearsome than a smashing iron fistSeemed that vast negativity of might;Until the frustrate vision of the nightCame moonwise on the gloom of his despair.And lo, the foe was naught but yielding air,A vacancy to fill with his intent!So from his spacious bed he ‘rose and wentThree-footed; and the vision goaded him.All morning southward to the bare sky rimThe rugged coulee zigzagged, mounting slow;And ever as it ‘rose, the lean creek’s flowDwindled and dwindled steadily, untilAt last a scooped-out basin would not fill;And thenceforth ‘twas a way of mocking dust.But, in that Hugh still kept the driving lustFor vengeance, this new circumstance of fateServed but to brew more venom for his hate,And nerved him to avail the most with least.Ere noon the crawler chanced upon a feastOf breadroot sunning in a favored draw.A sentry gopher from his stronghold sawSome three-legged beast, bear-like, yet not a bear,With quite misguided fury digging whereNo hapless brother gopher might be found.And while, with stripéd nose above his mound,The sentinel chirped shrilly to his clanScare-tales of that anomaly, the manDevoured the chance-flung manna of the plainsThat some vague reminiscence of old rainsKept succulent, despite the burning drouth.So with new vigor Hugh assailed the South,His pockets laden with the precious rootsAgainst that coming traverse, where no fruitsOf herb or vine or shrub might brave the landSpread rooflike ‘twixt the Moreau and the Grand.The coulee deepened; yellow walls flung high,Sheer to the ragged strip of blinding sky,Dazzled and sweltered in the glare of day.Capricious draughts that woke and died awayInto the heavy drowse, were breatht as flame.And midway down the afternoon, Hugh cameUpon a little patch of spongy ground.His thirst became a rage. He gazed around,Seeking a spring; but all about was dryAs strewn bones bleaching to a desert sky;Nor did a clawed hole, bought with needed strength,Return a grateful ooze. And when at lengthHugh sucked the mud, he spat it in disgust.It had the acrid tang of broken trust,The sweetish, tepid taste of feigning love!Still hopeful of a spring somewhere above,He crawled the faster for his taunted thirst.More damp spots, no less grudging than the first,Occurred with growing frequence on the way,Until amid the purple wane of dayThe crawler came upon a little pool!Clear as a friend’s heart, ‘twas, and seeming cool—A crystal bowl whence skyey deeps looked up.So might a god set down his drinking cupCharged with a distillation of haut skies.As famished horses, thrusting to the eyesParched muzzles, take a long-sought water-hole,Hugh plunged his head into the brimming bowlAs though to share the joy with every sense.And lo, the tang of that wide insolenceOf sky and plain was acrid in the draught!How ripplingly the lying water laughed!How like fine sentiment the mirrored skyWon credence for a sink of alkali!So with false friends. And yet, as may accrueFrom specious love some profit of the true,One gift of kindness had the tainted sink.Stripped of his clothes, Hugh let his body drinkAt every thirsting pore. Through trunk and limbThe elemental blessing solaced him;Nor did he rise till, vague with stellar light,The lone gulch, buttressing an arch of night,Was like a temple to the Holy Ghost.As priests in slow procession with the Host,A gusty breeze intoned—now low, now loud,And now, as to the murmur of a crowd,Yielding the dim-torched wonder of the nave.Aloft along the dusky architraveThe wander-tale of drifting stars evolved;And Hugh lay gazing till the whole resolvedInto a haze.It seemed that Little JimHad come to share a merry fire with him,And there had been no trouble ‘twixt the two.And Jamie listened eagerly while HughEssayed a tangled tale of bears and men,Bread-root and stars. But ever now and thenThe shifting smoke-cloud dimmed the golden hair,The leal blue eyes; until with sudden flareThe flame effaced them utterly—and lo,The gulch bank-full with morning!Loath to go,Hugh lay beside the pool and pondered fate.He saw his age-long pilgrimage of hateStretch out—a fool’s trail; and it made him cringe;For still amid the nightly vision’s fringeHis dull wit strayed, companioned with regret.But when the sun, a tilted cauldron setUpon the gulch rim, poured a blaze of day,He rose and bathed again, and went his way,Sustaining wrath returning with the toil.At noon the gulch walls, hewn in lighter soil,Fell back; and coulees dense with shrub and vineClimbed zigzag to the sharp horizon line,Whence one might choose the pilotage of crows.He labored upward through the noonday doze.Of breathless shade, where plums were turning redIn tangled bowers, and grapevines overheadPurpled with fruit to taunt the crawler’s thirst.With little effort Hugh attained the first;The latter bargained sharply ere they soldTheir luscious clusters for the hoarded goldOf strength that had so very much to buy.Now, having feasted, it was sweet to lieBeneath a sun-proof canopy; and sleepCame swiftly.Hugh awakened to some deepStar-snuffing well of night. Awhile he layAnd wondered what had happened to the dayAnd where he was and what were best to do.But when, fog-like, the drowse dispersed, he knewHow from the rim above the plain stretched farTo where the evening and the morning are,And that ‘twere better he should crawl by night,Sleep out the glare. With groping hands for sight,Skyward along the broken steep he crawled,And saw at length, immense and purple-walled—Or sensed—the dusky mystery of plain.Gazing aloft, he found the capsized WainIn mid-plunge down the polar steep. TheretoHe set his back; and far ahead there grew,As some pale blossom from a darkling root,The star-blanched summit of a lonely butte,And thitherward he dragged his heavy limb.It seemed naught moved. Time hovered over him,An instant of incipient endeavor.‘Twas ever thus, and should be thus forever—This groping for the same armful of space,An insubstantial essence of one place,Extentless on a weird frontier of sleep.Sheer deep upon unfathomable deepThe flood of dusk bore down without a sound,As ocean on the spirits of the drownedAwakened headlong leagues beneath the light.So lapsed the drowsy æon of the night—A strangely tensile moment in a trance.And then, as quickened to somnambulance,The heavens, imperceptibly in motion,Were altered as the upward deeps of oceanDiluted with a seepage of the moon.The butte-top, late a gossamer balloonIn mid-air tethered hovering, grew downAnd rooted in a blear expanse of brown,That, lifting slowly with the ebb of night,Took on the harsh solidity of light—And day was on the prairie like a flame.Scarce had he munched the hoarded roots, when cameA vertigo of slumber. Snatchy dreamsOf sick pools, inaccessible cool streams,Lured on through giddy vacancies of heatIn swooping flights; now hills of roasting meatMade savory the oven of the world,Yet kept remote peripheries and whirledAbout a burning center that was Hugh.Then all were gone, save one, and it turned blueAnd was a heap of cool and luscious fruit,Until at length he knew it for the butteNow mantled with a weaving of the gloam.It was the hour when cattle straggle home.Across the clearing in a hush of sleepThey saunter, lowing; loiter belly-deepAmid the lush grass by the meadow stream.How like the sound of water in a dreamThe intermittent tinkle of yon bell.A windlass creaks contentment from a well,And cool deeps gurgle as the bucket sinks.Now blowing at the trough the plow-team drinks;The shaken harness rattles. Sleepy quailsCall far. The warm milk hisses in the pailsThere in the dusky barn-lot. Crickets cry.The meadow twinkles with the glowing fly.One hears the horses munching at their oats.The green grows black. A veil of slumber floatsAcross the haunts of home-enamored men.Some freak of memory brought back againThe boyhood world of sight and scent and sound:It perished, and the prairie ringed him round,Blank as the face of fate. In listless moodHugh set his face against the solitudeAnd met the night. The new moon, low and far,A frail cup tilted, nor the high-swung star,It seemed, might glint on any stream or springOr touch with silver any toothsome thing.The kiote voiced the universal lack.As from a nether fire, the plain gave backThe swelter of the noon-glare to the gloom.In the hot hush Hugh heard his temples boom.Thirst tortured. Motion was a languid pain.Why seek some further nowhere on the plain?Here might the kiotes feast as well as there.So spoke some loose-lipped spirit of despair;And still Hugh moved, volitionless—a weightSubmissive to that now unconscious hate,As darkling water to the hidden moon.Now when the night wore on in middle swoon,The crawler, roused from stupor, was awareOf some strange alteration in the air.To breathe became an act of conscious will.The starry waste was ominously still.The far-off kiote’s yelp came sharp and clearAs through a tunnel in the atmosphere—A ponderable, resonating mass.The limp leg dragging on the sun-dried grassProduced a sound unnaturally loud.Crouched, panting, Hugh looked up but saw no cloud.An oily film seemed spread upon the skyNow dully staring as the open eyeOf one in fever. Gasping, choked with thirst,A childish rage assailed Hugh, and he cursed:‘Twas like a broken spirit’s outcry, tossedUpon hell’s burlesque sabbath for the lost,And briefly space seemed crowded with the voice.To wait and die, to move and die—what choice?Hugh chose not, yet he crawled; though more and moreHe felt the futile strife was nearly o’er.And as he went, a muffled rumbling grew,More felt than heard; for long it puzzled Hugh.Somehow ‘twas coextensive with his thirst,Yet boundless; swollen blood-veins ere they burstMight give such warning, so he thought. And stillThe drone seemed heaping up a phonic hillThat towered in a listening profound.Then suddenly a mountain peak of soundCame toppling to a heaven-jolting fall!The prairie shuddered, and a raucous drawlRan far and perished in the outer deep.As one too roughly shaken out of sleep,Hugh stared bewildered. Still the face of nightRemained the same, save where upon his rightThe moon had vanished ‘neath the prairie rim.Then suddenly the meaning came to him.He turned and saw athwart the northwest sky,Like some black eyelid shutting on an eye,A coming night to which the night was day!Star-hungry, ranged in regular array,The lifting mass assailed the Dragon’s lair,Submerged the region of the hounded Bear,Out-topped the tall Ox-Driver and the Pole.And all the while there came a low-toned roll,Less sound in air than tremor in the earth,From where, like flame upon a windy hearth,Deep in the further murk sheet-lightning flared.And still the southern arc of heaven stared,A half-shut eye, near blind with fever rheum;And still the plain lay tranquil as a tombWherein the dead reck not a menaced world.What turmoil now? Lo, ragged columns hurledPell-mell up stellar slopes! Swift blue fires leapAbove the wild assailants of the steep!Along the solid rear a dull boom runs!So light horse squadrons charge beneath the guns.Now once again the night is deathly still.What ghastly peace upon the zenith hill,No longer starry? Not a sound is heard.So poised the hush, it seems a whispered wordMight loose all noises in an avalanche.Only the black mass moves, and far glooms blanchWith fitful flashes. The capricious flareReveals the butte-top tall and lonely thereLike some gray prophet contemplating doom.But hark! What spirits whisper in the gloom?What sibilation of conspiraciesRuffles the hush—or murmuring of trees,Ghosts of the ancient forest—or old rain,In some hallucination of the plain,A frustrate phantom mourning? All around,That e’er evolving, ne’er resolving soundGropes in the stifling hollow of the night.Then—once—twice—thrice—a blade of blinding lightRipped up the heavens, and the deluge came—A burst of wind and water, noise and flameThat hurled the watcher flat upon the ground.A moment past Hugh famished; now, half drowned,He gasped for breath amid the hurtling drench.So might a testy god, long sought to quenchA puny thirst, pour wassail, hurling afterThe crashing bowl with wild sardonic laughterTo see man wrestle with his answered prayer!Prone to the roaring flaw and ceaseless flare,The man drank deeply with the drinking grass;Until it seemed the storm would never passBut ravin down the painted murk for aye.When had what dreamer seen a glaring dayAnd leagues of prairie pantingly aquiver?Flame, flood, wind, noise and darkness were a riverTearing a cosmic channel to no sea.The tortured night wore on; then suddenlyPeace fell. Remotely the retreating WrathTrailed dull, reluctant thunders in its path,And up along a broken stair of cloudThe Dawn came creeping whitely. Like a shroudGray vapors clung along the sodden plain.Up rose the sun to wipe the final stainOf fury from the sky and drink the mist.Against a flawless arch of amethystThe butte soared, like a soul serene and whiteBecause of the katharsis of the night.All day Hugh fought with sleep and struggled onSoutheastward; for the heavy heat was goneDespite the naked sun. The blank NorthwestBreathed coolly; and the crawler thought it bestTo move while yet each little break and hollowAnd shallow basin of the bison-wallowBegrudged the earth and air its dwindling store.But now that thirst was conquered, more and moreHe felt the gnaw of hunger like a rage.And once, from dozing in a clump of sage,A lone jackrabbit bounded. As a flameHope flared in Hugh, until the memory cameOf him who robbed a sleeping friend and fled.Then hate and hunger merged; the man saw red,And momently the hare and Little JimWere one blurred mark for murder unto him—Elusive, taunting, sweet to clutch and tear.The rabbit paused to scan the crippled bearThat ground its teeth as though it chewed a root.But when, in witless rage, Hugh drew his bootAnd hurled it with a curse, the hare loped off,Its critic ears turned back, as though to scoffAt silly brutes that threw their legs away.Night like a shadow on enduring daySwooped by. The dream of crawling and the actWere phases of one everlasting fact:Hugh woke, and he was doing what he dreamed.The butte, outstripped at eventide, now seemedIntent to follow. Ever now and thenThe crawler paused to calculate againWhat dear-bought yawn of distance dwarfed the hill.Close in the rear it soared, a Titan still,Whose hand-in-pocket saunter kept the pace.Distinct along the southern rim of spaceA low ridge lay, the crest of the divide.What rest and plenty on the other side!Through what lush valleys ran what crystal brooks!And there in virgin meadows wayside nooksWith leaf and purple cluster dulled the light!All day it seemed that distant Pisgah HeightRetreated, and the tall butte dogged the rear.At eve a stripéd gopher chirping nearGave Hugh an inspiration. Now, at least,No thieving friend should rob him of a feast.His great idea stirred him as a shout.Off came a boot, a sock was ravelled out.The coarse yarn, fashioned to a running snare,He placed about the gopher’s hole with care,And then withdrew to hold the yarn and wait.The night-bound moments, ponderous with fate,Crept slowly by. The battered gray face leeredIn expectation. Down the grizzled beardRan slaver from anticipating jaws.Evolving twilight hovered to a pause.The light wind fell. Again and yet againThe man devoured his fancied prey: and thenWithin the noose a timid snout was thrust.His hand unsteadied with the hunger lust,Hugh jerked the yarn. It broke.Down swooped the night,A shadow of despair. Bleak height on height,It seemed, a sheer abyss enclosed him round.Clutching a strand of yarn, he heard the soundOf some infernal turmoil under him.Grimly he strove to reach the ragged rimThat snared a star, until the skyey spaceWas darkened with a roof of Jamie’s face,And then the yarn was broken, and he fell.A-tumble like a stricken bat, his yellWoke hordes of laughers down the giddy yawnOf that black pit—and suddenly ‘twas dawn.Dream-dawn, dream-noon, dream-twilight! Yet, possestBy one stern dream more clamorous than the rest,Hugh headed for a gap that notched the hills,Wherethrough a luring murmur of cool rills,A haunting smell of verdure seemed to creep.By fits the wild adventure of his sleepBecame the cause of all his waking care,And he complained unto the empty airHow Jamie broke the yarn.The sun and breezeHad drunk all shallow basins to the lees,But now and then some gully, choked with mud,Retained a turbid relict of the flood.Dream-dawn, dream-noon, dream-night! And still obsessedBy that one dream more clamorous than the rest,Hugh struggled for the crest of the divide.And when at length he saw the other side,‘Twas but a rumpled waste of yellow hills!The deep-sunk, wiser self had known the rillsAnd nooks to be the facture of a whim;Yet had the pleasant lie befriended him,And now the brutal fact had come to stare.Succumbing to a languorous despair,He mourned his fate with childish uncontrolAnd nursed that deadly adder of the soul,Self-pity. Let the crows swoop down and feed,Aye, batten on a thing that died of need,A poor old wretch betrayed of God and Man!So peevishly his broken musing ran,Till, glutted with the luxury of woe,He turned to see the butte, that he might knowHow little all his striving could availAgainst ill-luck. And lo, a finger-nail,At arm-length held, could blot it out of space!A goading purpose and a creeping paceHad dwarfed the Titan in a haze of blue!And suddenly new power came to HughWith gazing on his masterpiece of will.So fare the wise on Pisgah.Down the hill,Unto the higher vision consecrate,Now sallied forth the new triumvirate—A Weariness, a Hunger and a Glory—Against tyrannic Chance. As in a storySome higher Hugh observed the baser part.So sits the artist throned above his art,Nor recks the travail so the end be fair.It seemed the wrinkled hills pressed in to stare,The arch of heaven was an eye a-gaze.And as Hugh went, he fashioned many a phraseFor use when, by some friendly ember-light,His tale of things endured should speed the nightAnd all this gloom grow golden in the sharing.So wrought the old evangel of high daring,The duty and the beauty of endeavor,The privilege of going on forever,A victor in the moment.Ah, but whenThe night slipped by and morning came again,The sky and hill were only sky and hillAnd crawling but an agony of will.So once again the old triumvirate,A buzzard Hunger and a viper HateTogether with the baser part of Hugh,Went visionless.That day the wild geese flew,Vague in a gray profundity of sky;And on into the night their muffled cryHaunted the moonlight like a far farewell.It made Hugh homesick, though he could not tellFor what he yearned; and in his fitful sleepingThe cry became the sound of Jamie weeping,Immeasurably distant.Morning broke,Blear, chilly, through a fog that drove as smokeBefore the booming Northwest. Sweet and sadCame creeping back old visions of the lad—Some trick of speech, some merry little lilt,The brooding blue of eyes too clear for guilt,The wind-blown golden hair. Hate slept that day,And half of Hugh was half a life away,A wandering spirit wistful of the past;And half went drifting with the autumn blastThat mourned among the melancholy hills;For something of the lethargy that killsCame creeping close upon the ebb of hate.Only the raw wind, like the lash of Fate,Could have availed to move him any more.At last the buzzard beak no longer toreHis vitals, and he ceased to think of food.The fighter slumbered, and a maudlin moodForetold the dissolution of the man.He sobbed, and down his beard the big tears ran.And now the scene is changed; the bleak wind’s cryBecomes a flight of bullets snarling byFrom where on yonder summit skulk the Rees.Against the sky, in silhouette, he seesThe headstrong Jamie in the leaden rain.And now serenely beautiful and slainThe dear lad lies within a gusty tent.Thus vexed with doleful whims the crawler wentAdrift before the wind, nor saw the trail;Till close on night he knew a rugged valeHad closed about him; and a hush was there,Though still a moaning in the upper airTold how the gray-winged gale blew out the day.Beneath a clump of brush he swooned awayInto an icy void; and waking numb,It seemed the still white dawn of death had comeOn this, some cradle-valley of the soul.He saw a dim, enchanted hollow rollBeneath him, and the brush thereof was fleece;And, like the body of the perfect peaceThat thralled the whole, abode the break of day.It seemed no wind had ever come that way,Nor sound dwelt there, nor echo found the place.And Hugh lay lapped in wonderment a space,Vexed with a snarl whereof the ends were lost,Till, shivering, he wondered if a frostHad fallen with the dying of the blast.So, vaguely troubled, listlessly he castA gaze about him: lo, above his headThe gray-green curtain of his chilly bedWas broidered thick with plums! Or so it seemed,For he was half persuaded that he dreamed;And with a steady stare he strove to keepThat treasure for the other side of sleep.Returning hunger bade him rise; in vainHe struggled with a fine-spun mesh of painThat trammelled him, until a yellow streamOf day flowed down the white vale of a dreamAnd left it disenchanted in the glare.Then, warmed and soothed, Hugh rose and feasted there,And thought once more of reaching the Moreau.To southward with a painful pace and slowHe went stiff-jointed; and a gnawing acheIn that hip-wound he had for Jamie’s sakeOft made him groan—nor wrought a tender mood:The rankling weapon of ingratitudeWas turned again with every puckering twinge.Far down the vale a narrow winding fringeOf wilted green betokened how a springThere sent a little rill meandering;And Hugh was greatly heartened, for he knewWhat fruits and herbs might flourish in the slough,And thirst, henceforth, should torture not again.So day on day, despite the crawler’s pain,All in the windless, golden autumn weather,These two, as comrades, struggled south together—The homeless graybeard and the homing rill:And one was sullen with the lust to kill,And one went crooning of the moon-wooed vast;For each the many-fathomed peace at last,But oh the boon of singing on the way!So came these in the golden fall of dayUnto a sudden turn in the ravine,Wherefrom Hugh saw a flat of cluttered greenBeneath the further bluffs of the Moreau.With sinking heart he paused and gazed belowUpon the goal of so much toil and pain.Yon green had seemed a paradise to gainThe while he thirsted where the lonely butteLooked far and saw no toothsome herb or fruitIn all that yellow barren dim with heat.But now the wasting body cried for meat,And sickness was upon him. Game should pass,Nor deign to fear the mighty hunter Glass,But curiously sniffing, pause to stare.Now while thus musing, Hugh became awareOf some low murmur, phasic and profound,Scarce risen o’er the border line of sound.It might have been the coursing of his blood,Or thunder heard remotely, or a floodFlung down a wooded valley far away.Yet that had been no weather-breeding day;‘Twould frost that night; amid the thirsty landAll streams ran thin; and when he pressed a handOn either ear, the world seemed very still.The deep-worn channel of the little rillHere fell away to eastward, rising, roughWith old rain-furrows, to a lofty bluffThat faced the river with a yellow wall.Thereto, perplexed, Hugh set about to crawl,Nor reached the summit till the sun was low.Far-spread, shade-dimpled in the level glow,The still land told not whence the murmur grew;But where the green strip melted into blueFar down the winding valley of the stream,Hugh saw what seemed the tempest of a dreamAt mimic havoc in the timber-glooms.As from the sweeping of gigantic brooms,A dust cloud deepened down the dwindling river;Upon the distant tree-tops ran a shiverAnd huddled thickets writhed as in a gale.On creeps the windless tempest up the vale,The while the murmur deepens to a roar,As with the wider yawning of a door.And now the agitated green gloom gapesTo belch a flood of countless dusky shapesThat mill and wrangle in a turbid flow—Migrating myriads of the buffaloBound for the winter pastures of the Platte!Exhausted, faint with need of meat, Hugh satAnd watched the mounting of the living flood.Down came the night, and like a blot of bloodThe lopped moon weltered in the dust-bleared East.Sleep came and gave a Barmecidal feast.About a merry flame were simmeringSweet haunches of the calving of the Spring,And tender tongues that never tasted snow,And marrow bones that yielded to a blowSuch treasure! Hugh awoke with gnashing teeth,And heard the mooing drone of cows beneath,The roll of hoofs, the challenge of the bull.So sounds a freshet when the banks are fullAnd bursting brush-jams bellow to the croonOf water through green leaves. The ragged moonNow drenched the valley in an eerie rain:Below, the semblance of a hurricane;Above, the perfect calm of brooding frost,Through which the wolves in doleful tenson tossedFrom hill to hill the ancient hunger-song.In broken sleep Hugh rolled the chill night long,Half conscious of the flowing flesh below.And now he trailed a bison in the snowThat deepened till he could not lift his feet.Again, he battled for a chunk of meatWith some gray beast that fought with icy fang.And when he woke, the wolves no longer sang;White dawn athwart a white world smote the hill,And thunder rolled along the valley still.Morn, wiping up the frost as with a sponge,Day on the steep and down the nightward plunge,And Twilight saw the myriads moving on.Dust to the westward where the van had gone,And dust and muffled thunder in the east!Hugh starved while gazing on a Titan feast.The tons of beef, that eddied there and swirled,Had stilled the crying hungers of the world,Yet not one little morsel was for him.The red sun, pausing on the dusty rim,Induced a panic aspect of his plight:The herd would pass and vanish in the nightAnd be another dream to cling and flout.Now scanning all the summit round about,Amid the rubble of the ancient driftHe saw a bowlder. ‘Twas too big to lift,Yet he might roll it. Painfully and slowHe worked it to the edge, then let it goAnd breathlessly expectant watched it fall.It hurtled down the leaning yellow wall,And bounding from a brushy ledge’s brow,It barely grazed the buttocks of a cowAnd made a moment’s eddy where it struck.In peevish wrath Hugh cursed his evil luck,And seizing rubble, gave his fury ventBy pelting bison till his strength was spent:So might a child assail the crowding sea!Then, sick at heart and musing bitterly,He shambled down the steep way to the creek,And having stayed the tearing buzzard beakWith breadroot and the waters of the rill,Slept till the white of morning o’er the hillWas like a whisper groping in a hush.The stream’s low trill seemed loud. The tumbled brushAnd rumpled tree-tops in the flat below,Upon a fog that clung like spectral snow,Lay motionless; nor any sound was there.No frost had fallen, but the crystal airSmacked of the autumn, and a heavy dewLay hoar upon the grass. There came on HughA picture, vivid in the moment’s thrill,Of martialed corn-shocks marching up a hillAnd spiked fields dotted with the pumpkin’s gold.It vanished; and, a-shiver with the cold,He brooded on the mockeries of Chance,The shrewd malignity of CircumstanceThat either gave too little or too much.Yet, with the fragment of a hope for crutch,His spirit rallied, and he rose to go,Though each stiff joint resisted as a foeAnd that old hip-wound battled with his will.So down along the channel of the rillUnto the vale below he fought his way.The frore fog, rifting in the risen day,Revealed the havoc of the living flood—The river shallows beaten into mud,The slender saplings shattered in the crush,All lower leafage stripped, the tousled brushDespoiled of fruitage, winter-thin, aghast.And where the avalanche of hoofs had passedIt seemed nor herb nor grass had ever been.And this the hard-won paradise, whereinA food-devouring plethora of foodHad come to make a starving solitude!Yet hope and courage mounted with the sun.Surely, Hugh thought, some ill-begotten oneOf all that striving mass had lost the strifeAnd perished in the headlong stream of life—A feast to fill the bellies of the strong,That still the weak might perish. All day longHe struggled down the stricken vale, nor sawWhat thing he sought. But when the twilight aweWas creeping in, beyond a bend aroseA din as though the kiotes and the crowsFought there with shrill and raucous battle cries.Small need had Hugh to ponder and surmiseWhat guerdon beak and fang contended for.Within himself the oldest cause of warBrought forth upon the instant fang and beak.He too would fight! Nor had he far to seekAmid the driftwood strewn about the sandFor weapons suited to a brawny handWith such a purpose. Armed with club and stoneHe forged ahead into the battle zone,And from a screening thicket spied his foes.He saw a bison carcass black with crows,And over it a welter of black wings,And round about, a press of tawny ringsThat, like a muddy current churned to foamUpon a snag, flashed whitely in the gloamWith naked teeth; while close about the prizeRed beaks and muzzles bloody to the eyesBetrayed how worth a struggle was the feast.Then came on Hugh the fury of the beast—To eat or to be eaten! Better soTo die contending with a living foe,Than fight the yielding distance and the lack.Masked by the brush he opened the attack,And ever where a stone or club fell true,About the stricken one an uproar grewAnd brute tore brute, forgetful of the prey,Until the whole pack tumbled in the frayWith bleeding flanks and lacerated throats.Then, as the leader of a host who notesThe cannon-wrought confusion of the foe,Hugh seized the moment for a daring blow.The wolf’s a coward, who, in goodly packs,May counterfeit the courage that he lacksAnd with a craven’s fury crush the bold.But when the disunited mass that rolledIn suicidal strife, became awareHow some great beast that shambled like a bearBore down with roaring challenge, fell a hushUpon the pack, some slinking to the brushWith tails a-droop; while some that whined in painWrithed off on reddened trails. With bristled maneBefore the flying stones a bolder fewSnarled menace at the foe as they withdrewTo fill the outer dusk with clamorings.Aloft upon a moaning wind of wingsThe crows with harsh, vituperative criesNow saw a gray wolf of prodigious sizeDevouring with the frenzy of the starved.Thus fell to Hugh a bison killed and carved;And so Fate’s whims mysteriously trend—Woe in the silken meshes of the friend,Weal in the might and menace of the foe.But with the fading of the afterglowThe routed wolves found courage to return:Amid the brush Hugh saw their eye-balls burn;And well he knew how futile stick and stoneShould prove by night to keep them from their own.Better is less with safety, than enoughWith ruin. He retreated to a bluff,And scarce had reached it when the pack swooped inUpon the carcass.All night long, the dinOf wrangling wolves assailed the starry air,While high above them in a brushy lairHugh dreamed of gnawing at the bloody feast.Along about the blanching of the east,When sleep is weirdest and a moment’s flight,Remembered coextensive with the night,May teem with hapful years; as light in smoke,Upon the jumble of Hugh’s dreaming brokeA buzz of human voices. Once againHe rode the westward trail with Henry’s men—Hoof-smitten leagues consuming in a dust.And now the nightmare of that broken trustWas on him, and he lay beside the spring,A corpse, yet heard the muffled parleyingAbove him of the looters of the dead:But when he might have riddled what they said,The babble flattened to a blur of gray—And lo, upon a bleak frontier of day,The spent moon staring down! A little spaceHugh scrutinized the featureless white face,As though ‘twould speak. But when again the soundGrew up, and seemed to come from under ground,He cast the drowse, and peering down the slope,Beheld what set at grapple fear and hope—Three Indian horsemen riding at a jog!Their ponies, wading belly-deep in fog,That clung along the valley, seemed to swim,And through a thinner vapor moving dim,The men were ghost-like.Could they be the Sioux?Almost the wish became belief in Hugh.Or were they Rees? As readily the doubtWithheld him from the hazard of a shout.And while he followed them with baffled gaze,Grown large and vague, dissolving in the haze,They vanished westward.Knowing well the wontOf Indians moving on the bison-hunt,Forthwith Hugh guessed the early riders wereThe outflung feelers of a tribe a-stirLike some huge cat gone mousing. So he layConcealed, impatient with the sleepy dayThat dawdled in the dawning. Would it bringGood luck or ill? His eager questioning,As crawling fog, took on a golden hueFrom sunrise. He was waiting for the Sioux,Their parfleche panniers fat with sun-dried maizeAnd wasna! From the mint of evil daysHe would coin tales and be no begging guestAbout the tribal feast-fires burning west,But kinsman of the blood of daring men.And when the crawler stood erect again—O Friend-Betrayer at the Big Horn’s mouth,Beware of someone riding from the SouthTo do the deed that he had lived to do!Now when the sun stood hour-high in the blue,From where a cloud of startled blackbirds roseDown stream, a panic tumult broke the dozeOf windless morning. What unwelcome newsEmbroiled the parliament of feathered shrews?A boiling cloud against the sun they lower,Flackering strepent; now a sooty shower,Big-flaked, squall-driven westward, down they flutterTo set a clump of cottonwoods a-sputterWith cold black fire! And once again, some shockOf sight or sound flings panic in the flock—Gray boughs exploding in a ruck of birds!What augury in orniscopic wordsDid yon swart sibyls on the morning scrawl?Now broke abruptly through the clacking brawlA camp-dog’s barking and a pony’s neigh;Whereat a running nicker fled away,Attenuating to a rearward hush;And lo! in hailing distance ‘round the brushThat fringed a jutting bluff’s base like a beardUpon a stubborn chin out-thrust, appearedA band of mounted warriors! In their vanAloof and lonely rode a gnarled old manUpon a piebald stallion. Stooped was heBeneath his heavy years, yet haughtilyHe wore them like the purple of a king.Keen for a goal, as from the driving stringA barbed and feathered arrow truly sped,His face was like a flinty arrow-head,And brooded westward in a steady stare.There was a sift of winter in his hair,The bleakness of brown winter in his look.Hugh saw, and huddled closer in his nook.Fled the bright dreams of safety, feast and restBefore that keen, cold brooder on the West,As gaudy leaves before the blizzard flee.‘Twas Elk Tongue, fighting chieftain of the Ree,With all his people at his pony’s tail—Full two-score lodges emptied on the trailOf hunger!On they came in ravelled rank,And many a haggard eye and hollow flankMade plain how close and pitilessly pressedThe enemy that drove them to the West—Such foeman as no warrior ever slew.A tale of cornfields plundered by the SiouxTheir sagging panniers told. Yet rich enoughThey seemed to him who watched them from the bluff;Yea, pampered nigh the limit of desire!No friend had filched from them the boon of fireAnd hurled them shivering back upon the beast.Erect they went, full-armed to strive, at least;And nightly in a cozy ember-glowHope fed them with a dream of buffaloSoon to be overtaken. After that,Home with their Pawnee cousins on the Platte,Much meat and merry-making till the Spring.On dragged the rabble like a fraying stringToo tautly drawn. The rich-in-ponies rode,For much is light and little is a loadAmong all heathen with no Christ to save!Gray seekers for the yet begrudging grave,Bent with the hoeing of forgotten maize,Wood-hewers, water-bearers all their days,Toiled ‘neath the life-long hoarding of their packs.And nursing squaws, their babies at their backsWhining because the milk they got was thinnedIn dugs of famine, strove as with a wind.Invincibly equipped with their first bowsThe striplings strutted, knowing, as youth knows,How fair life is beyond the beckoning blue.Cold-eyed the grandsires plodded, for they knew,As frosted heads may know, how all trails mergeIn what lone land. Raw maidens on the vergeOf some half-guessed-at mystery of life,In wistful emulation of the wifeStooped to the fancied burden of the race;Nor read upon the withered granddam’s faceThe scrawled tale of that burden and its woe.Slant to the sagging poles of the travaux,Numb to the squaw’s harsh railing and the goad,The lean cayuses toiled. And children rodeA-top the household plunder, wonder-eyedTo see a world flow by on either side,From blue air sprung to vanish in blue air,A river of enchantments.Here and thereThe camp-curs loped upon a vexing questWhere countless hoofs had left a palimpsest,A taunting snarl of broken scents. And nowThey sniff the clean bones of the bison cow,Howl to the skies; and now with manes a-roughThey nose the man-smell leading to the bluff;Pause puzzled at the base and sweep the heightWith questioning yelps. Aloft, crouched low in fright,Already Hugh can hear the braves’ guffawsAt their scorned foeman yielded to the squaws’Inverted mercy and a slow-won grave.Since Earth’s first mother scolded from a caveAnd that dear riddle of her love began,No man has wrought a weapon against manTo match the deadly venom brewed aboveThe lean, blue, blinding heart-fires of her love.Well might the hunted hunter shrink aghast!But thrice three seasons yet should swell the past,So was it writ, ere Fate’s keen harriersShould run Hugh Glass to earth.The hungry cursTook up again the tangled scent of food.Still flowed the rabble through the solitude—A thinning stream now of the halt, the weakAnd all who had not very far to seekFor that weird pass whereto the fleet are slow,And out of it keen winds and numbing blow,Shrill with the fleeing voices of the dead.Slowly the scattered stragglers, making headAgainst their weariness as up a steep,Fled westward; and the morning lay asleepUpon the valley fallen wondrous still.Hugh kept his nook, nor ventured forth, untilThe high day toppled to the blue descent,When thirst became a master, and he wentWith painful scrambling down the broken scarp,Lured by the stream, that like a smitten harpRippled a muted music to the sun.Scarce had he crossed the open flat, and wonThe half-way fringe of willows, when he saw,Slow plodding up the trail, a tottering squawWhose years made big the little pack she bore.Crouched in the brush Hugh watched her. More and moreThe little burden tempted him. Why not?A thin cry throttled in that lonely spotCould bring no succor. None should ever know,Save him, the feasted kiote and the crow,Why one poor crone found not the midnight fire.Nor would the vanguard, quick with young desire,Devouring distance westward like a flame,Regret this ash dropped rearward.On she came,Slow-footed, staring blankly on the sand—So close now that it needed but a handOut-thrust to overthrow her; aye, to winThat priceless spoil, a little tent of skin,A flint and steel, a kettle and a knife!What did the dying with the means of life,That thus the fit-to-live should suffer lack?Poised for the lunge, what whimsy held him back?Why did he gaze upon the passing prize,Nor seize it? Did some gust of ghostly criesAwaken round her—whisperings of Eld,Wraith-voices of the babies she had held—To plead for pity on her graveward days?Far down a moment’s cleavage in the hazeOf backward years Hugh saw her now—nor sawThe little burden and the feeble squaw,But someone sitting haloed like a saintBeside a hearth long cold. The dream grew faint;And when he looked again, the crone was goneBeyond a clump of willow.Crawling on,He reached the river. Leaning to a poolCalm in its cup of sand, he saw—a fool!A wild, wry mask of mirth, a-grin, yet grim,Rose there to claim identity with himAnd ridicule his folly. Pity? Faugh!Who pitied this, that it should spare a squawSpent in the spawning of a scorpion brood?He drank and hastened down the solitude,Fleeing that thing which fleered him, and was Hugh.And as he went his self-accusing grewAnd with it, anger; till it came to seemThat somehow some sly Jamie of a dreamHad plundered him again; and he was strongWith lust of vengeance and the sting of wrong,So that he travelled faster than for days.Now when the eve in many-shaded graysWove the day’s shroud, and through the lower landsLean fog-arms groped with chilling spirit hands,Hugh paused perplexed. Elusive, haunting, dim,As though some memory that stirred in him,Invasive of the real, outgrew the dream,There came upon the breeze that stole up streamA whiff of woodsmoke.‘Twixt a beat and beatOf Hugh’s deluded heart, it seemed the sweetAllure of home.—A brief way, and one cameUpon the clearing where the sumach flameRan round the forest-fringe; and just beyondOne saw the slough grass nodding in the pondUnto the sleepy troll the bullfrogs sung.And then one saw the place where one was young—The log-house sitting on a stumpy rise.Hearth-lit within, its windows were as eyesThat love much and are faded with old tears.It seemed regretful of a life’s arrears,Yet patient, with a self-denying poise,Like some old mother for her bearded boysWaiting sweet-hearted and a little sad.—So briefly dreamed a recrudescent ladBeneath gray hairs, and fled.Through chill and dampStill groped the odor, hinting at a camp,A two-tongued herald wooing hope and fear.Was hospitality or danger near?A Sioux war-party hot upon the trail,Or laggard Rees? Hugh crawled across the vale,Toiled up along a zigzag gully’s bedAnd reached a bluff’s top. In a smudge of redThe West burned low. Hill summits, yet alight,And pools of gloom anticipating nightMottled the landscape to the dull blue rim.What freak of fancy had imposed on him?Could one smell home-smoke fifty years away?He saw no fire; no pluming spire of grayRose in the dimming air to woo or warn.He lay upon the bare height, fagged, forlorn,And old times came upon him with the creepOf subtle drugs that put the will to sleepAnd wreak doom to the soothing of a dream.So listlessly he scanned the sombrous stream,Scarce seeing what he scanned. The dark increased;A chill wind wakened from the frowning eastAnd soughed along the vale.Then with a startHe saw what broke the torpor of his heartAnd set the wild blood free. From where he layAn easy point-blank rifle-shot away,Appeared a mystic germinating sparkThat in some secret garden of the darkUpreared a frail, blue, nodding stem, whereonA ruddy lily flourished—and was gone!What miracle was this? Again it grew,The scarlet blossom on the stem of blue,And withered back again into the night.With pounding heart Hugh crawled along the heightAnd reached a point of vantage whence, below,He saw capricious witch-lights dim and glowLike far-spent embers quickened in a breeze.‘Twas surely not a camp of laggard Rees,Nor yet of Siouan warriors hot in chase.Dusk and a quiet bivouacked in that place.A doddering vagrant with numb hands, the WindFumbled the dying ashes there, and whined.It was the day-old camp-ground of the foe!Glad-hearted now, Hugh gained the vale below,Keen to possess once more the ancient gift.Nearing the glow, he saw vague shadows liftOut of the painted gloom of smouldering logs—Distorted bulks that bristled, and were dogsSnarling at this invasion of their lair.Hugh charged upon them, growling like a bear,And sent them whining.Now again to viewThe burgeoning of scarlet, gold and blue,The immemorial miracle of fire!From heaped-up twigs a tenuous smoky spireArose, and made an altar of the place.The spark-glow, faint upon the grizzled face,Transformed the kneeling outcast to a priest;And, native of the light-begetting East,The Wind became a chanting acolyte.These two, entempled in the vaulted night,Breathed conjuries of interwoven breath.Then, hark!—the snapping of the chains of Death!From dead wood, lo!—the epiphanic god!Once more the freightage of the fennel rodDissolved the chilling pall of Jovian scorn.The wonder of the resurrection morn,The face apocalyptic and the sword,The glory of the many-symboled Lord,Hugh, lifting up his eyes about him, saw!And something in him like a vernal thaw,Voiced with the sound of many waters, ranAnd quickened to the laughter of a man.Light-heartedly he fed the singing flameAnd took its blessing: till a soft sleep cameWith dreaming that was like a pleasant tale.The far white dawn was peering up the valeWhen he awoke to indolent content.A few shorn stars in pale astonishmentWere huddled westward; and the fire was low.Three scrawny camp-curs, mustered in a rowBeyond the heap of embers, heads askew,Ears pricked to question what the man might do,Sat wistfully regardant. He arose;And they, grown canny in a school of blows,Skulked to a safer distance, there to raiseA dolorous chanting of the evil days,Their gray breath like the body of a prayer.Hugh nursed the sullen embers to a flare,Then set about to view an empty campAs once before; but now no smoky lampOf blear suspicion searched a gloom of fraudWherein a smirking Friendship, like a bawd,Embraced a coward Safety; now no grief,‘Twixt hideous revelation and belief,Made womanish the man; but glad to strive,With hope to nerve him and a will to drive,He knew that he could finish in the race.The staring impassivity of spaceNo longer mocked; the dreadful skyward climb,Where distance seemed identical with time,Was past now; and that mystic something, luck,Without which worth may flounder in the ruck,Had turned to him again.So flamelike soaredRekindled hope in him as he exploredAmong the ash-heaps; and the lean dogs ranAnd barked about him, for the love of manWistful, yet fearing. Surely he could findSome trifle in the hurry left behind—Or haply hidden in the trampled sand—That to the cunning of a needy handShould prove the master-key of circumstance:For ‘tis the little gifts of grudging Chance,Well husbanded, make victors.Long he soughtWithout avail; and, crawling back, he thoughtOf how the dogs were growing less afraid,And how one might be skinned without a blade.A flake of flint might do it: he would try.And then he saw—or did the servile eyeTrick out a mental image like the real?He saw a glimmering of whetted steelBeside a heap now washed with morning light!Scarce more of marvel and the sense of mightMoved Arthur when he reached a hand to takeThe fay-wrought brand emerging from the lake,Whereby a kingdom should be lopped of strife,Than Hugh now, pouncing on a trader’s knifeWorn hollow in the use of bounteous days!And now behold a rich man by the blazeOf his own hearth—a lord of steel and fire!Not having, but the measure of desireDetermines wealth. Who gaining more, seek most,Are ever the pursuers of a ghostAnd lend their fleetness to the fugitive.For Hugh, long goaded by the wish to live,What gage of mastery in fire and tool!—That twain wherewith Time put the brute to school,Evolving Man, the maker and the seer.‘Twixt urging hunger and restraining fearThe gaunt dogs hovered round the man; while heCajoled them in the language of the ReeAnd simulated feeding them with sand,Until the boldest dared to sniff his hand,Bare-fanged and with conciliative whine.Through bristled mane the quick blade bit the spineBelow the skull; and as a flame-struck thingThe body humped and shuddered, withering;The lank limbs huddled, wilted.Now to skinThe carcass, dig a hole, arrange thereinAnd fix the pelt with stakes, the flesh-side up.This done, he shaped the bladder to a cupOn willow withes, and filled the rawhide potWith water from the river—made it hotWith roasted stones, and set the meat a-boil.Those days of famine and prodigious toilHad wrought bulimic cravings in the man,And scarce the cooking of the flesh outranThe eating of it. As a fed flame towersAccording to the fuel it devours,His hunger with indulgence grew, nor ceasedUntil the kettle, empty of the feast,Went dim, the sky and valley, merging, swirledIn subtle smoke that smothered out the world.Hugh slept.And then—as divers, mounting, sunderA murmuring murk to blink in sudden wonderUpon a dazzling upper deep of blue—He rose again to consciousness, and knewThe low sun beating slantly on his face.Now indolently gazing round the place,He noted how the curs had revelled there—The bones and entrails gone; some scattered hairAlone remaining of the pot of hide.How strange he had not heard them at his side!And granting but one afternoon had passed,What could have made the fire burn out so fast?Had daylight waned, night fallen, morning crept,Noon blazed, a new day dwindled while he slept?And was the friendlike fire a Jamie too?Across the twilit consciousness of HughThe old obsession like a wounded birdFluttered.He got upon his knees and stirredThe feathery ash; but not a spark was there.Already with the failing sun the airWent keen, betokening a frosty night.Hugh winced with something like the clutch of fright.How could he bear the torture, how sustainThe sting of that antiquity of painRolled back upon him—face again the foe,That yielding victor, fleet in being slow,That huge, impersonal malevolence?So readily the tentacles of senseRoot in the larger standard of desire,That Hugh fell farther in the loss of fireThan in the finding of it he arose.And suddenly the place grew strange, as growsA friend’s house, when the friend is on his bier,And all that was familiar there and dearPuts on a blank, inhospitable look.Hugh set his face against the east, and tookThat dreariest of ways, the trail of flight.He would outcrawl the shadow of the nightAnd have the day to blanket him in sleep.But as he went to meet the gloom a-creep,Bemused with life’s irrational rebuffs,A yelping of the dogs among the bluffsRose, hunger-whetted, stabbing; rent the pallOf evening silence; blunted to a drawlAmid the arid waterways, and died.And as the echo to the sound replied,So in the troubled mind of Hugh was wroughtA reminiscent cry of thought to thoughtThat, groping, found an unlocked door to life:The dogs—keen flint to skin one—then the knifeDiscovered. Why, that made a flint and steel!No further with the subtle foe at heelHe fled; for all about him in the rock,To waken when the needy hand might knock,A savior slept! He found a flake of flint,Scraped from his shirt a little wad of lint,Spilled on it from the smitten stone a showerOf ruddy seed; and saw the mystic flowerThat genders its own summer, bloom anew!And so capricious luck came back to Hugh;And he was happier than he had beenSince Jamie to that unforgiven sinHad yielded, ages back upon the Grand.Now he would turn the cunning of his handTo carving crutches, that he might arise,Be manlike, lift more rapidly the skiesThat crouched between his purpose and the mark.The warm glow housed him from the frosty dark,And there he wrought in very joyous moodAnd sang by fits—whereat the solitudeSet laggard singers snatching at the tune.The gaunter for their hunt, the dogs came soonTo haunt the shaken fringes of the glow,And, pitching voices to the timeless woe,Outwailed the lilting. So the Chorus singsOf terror, pity and the tears of thingsWhen most the doomed protagonist is gay.The stars swarmed over, and the front of dayWhitened above a white world, and the sunRose on a sleeper with a task well done,Nor roused him till its burning topped the blue.When Hugh awoke, there woke a younger Hugh,Now half a stranger; and ‘twas good to feelWith ebbing sleep the old green vigor steal,Thrilling, along his muscles and his veins,As in a lull of winter-cleansing rainsThe gray bough quickens to the sap a-creep.It chanced the dogs lay near him, sound asleep,Curled nose to buttock in the noonday glow.He killed the larger with a well-aimed blow,Skinned, dressed and set it roasting on a spit;And when ‘twas cooked, ate sparingly of it,For need might yet make little seem a feast.Fording the river shallows, south by eastHe hobbled now along a withered rillThat issued where old floods had gashed the hill—A cyclopean portal yawning sheer.No storm of countless hoofs had entered here:It seemed a place where nothing ever comesBut change of season. He could hear the plumsPlash in the frosted thicket, over-lush;While, like a spirit lisping in the hush,The crisp leaves whispered round him as they fell.And ever now and then the autumn spellWas broken by an ululating cryFrom where far back with muzzle to the skyThe lone dog followed, mourning. Darkness came;And huddled up beside a cozy flame,Hugh’s sleep was but a momentary flightAcross a little shadow into light.So day on day he toiled: and when, afloatAbove the sunset like a stygian boat,The new moon bore the spectre of the old,He saw—a dwindling strip of blue outrolled—The valley of the tortuous Cheyenne.And ere the half moon sailed the night again,Those far lone leagues had sloughed their garb of blue,And dwindled, dwindled, dwindled after Hugh,Until he saw that Titan of the plains,The sinewy Missouri. Dearth of rainsHad made the Giant gaunt as he who saw.This loud Chain-Smasher of a late March thawSeemed never to have bellowed at his banks;And yet, with staring ribs and hollow flanks,The urge of an indomitable willProclaimed him of the breed of giants still;And where the current ran a boiling track,‘Twas like the muscles of a mighty backGrown Atlantean in the wrestler’s craft.Hugh set to work and built a little raftOf driftwood bound with grapevines. So it fellThat one with an amazing tale to tellCame drifting to the gates of Kiowa.

Straight away

Beneath the flare of dawn, the Ree land lay,

And through it ran the short trail to the goal.

Thereon a grim turnpikeman waited toll:

But ‘twas so doomed that southering geese should flee

Nine times, ere yet the vengeance of the Ree

Should make their foe the haunter of a tale.

Midway to safety on the northern trailThe scoriac region of a hell burned blackForbade the crawler. And for all his lack,Hugh had no heart to journey with the suns:No suppliant unto those faithless onesShould bid for pity at the Big Horn’s mouth.

Midway to safety on the northern trail

The scoriac region of a hell burned black

Forbade the crawler. And for all his lack,

Hugh had no heart to journey with the suns:

No suppliant unto those faithless ones

Should bid for pity at the Big Horn’s mouth.

The greater odds for safety in the SouthAllured him; so he felt the midday sunBlaze down the coulee of a little runThat dwindled upward to the watershedWhereon the feeders of the Moreau head—Scarce more than deep-carved runes of vernal rain.The trailing leg was like a galling chain,And bound him to a doubt that would not pass.Defiant clumps of thirst-embittered grassThat bit parched earth with bared and fang-like roots;Dwarf thickets, jealous for their stunted fruits,Harsh-tempered by their disinheritance—These symbolized the enmity of ChanceFor him who, with his fate unreconciled,Equipped for travel as a weanling child,Essayed the journey of a mighty man.

The greater odds for safety in the South

Allured him; so he felt the midday sun

Blaze down the coulee of a little run

That dwindled upward to the watershed

Whereon the feeders of the Moreau head—

Scarce more than deep-carved runes of vernal rain.

The trailing leg was like a galling chain,

And bound him to a doubt that would not pass.

Defiant clumps of thirst-embittered grass

That bit parched earth with bared and fang-like roots;

Dwarf thickets, jealous for their stunted fruits,

Harsh-tempered by their disinheritance—

These symbolized the enmity of Chance

For him who, with his fate unreconciled,

Equipped for travel as a weanling child,

Essayed the journey of a mighty man.

Like agitated oil the heat-waves ranAnd made the scabrous gulch appear to shakeAs some reflected landscape in a lakeWhere laggard breezes move. A taunting reekRose from the grudging seepage of the creek,Whereof Hugh drank and drank, and still would drink.And where the mottled shadow dripped as inkFrom scanty thickets on the yellow glare,The crawler faltered with no heart to dareAgain the torture of that toil, untilThe master-thought of vengeance ‘woke the willTo goad him forth. And when the sun quiescedAmid ironic heavens in the West—The region of false friends—Hugh gained a riseWhence to the fading cincture of the skiesA purpling panorama swept away.Scarce farther than a shout might carry, layThe place of his betrayal. He could seeThe yellow blotch of earth where treacheryHad digged his grave. O futile wrath and toil!Tucked in beneath yon coverlet of soil,Turned back for him, how soundly had he slept!Fool, fool! to struggle when he might have creptSo short a space, yet farther than the flightOf swiftest dreaming through the longest night,Into the quiet house of no false friend.

Like agitated oil the heat-waves ran

And made the scabrous gulch appear to shake

As some reflected landscape in a lake

Where laggard breezes move. A taunting reek

Rose from the grudging seepage of the creek,

Whereof Hugh drank and drank, and still would drink.

And where the mottled shadow dripped as ink

From scanty thickets on the yellow glare,

The crawler faltered with no heart to dare

Again the torture of that toil, until

The master-thought of vengeance ‘woke the will

To goad him forth. And when the sun quiesced

Amid ironic heavens in the West—

The region of false friends—Hugh gained a rise

Whence to the fading cincture of the skies

A purpling panorama swept away.

Scarce farther than a shout might carry, lay

The place of his betrayal. He could see

The yellow blotch of earth where treachery

Had digged his grave. O futile wrath and toil!

Tucked in beneath yon coverlet of soil,

Turned back for him, how soundly had he slept!

Fool, fool! to struggle when he might have crept

So short a space, yet farther than the flight

Of swiftest dreaming through the longest night,

Into the quiet house of no false friend.

Alas for those who seek a journey’s end—They have it ever with them like a ghost:Nor shall they find, who deem they seek it most,But crave the end of human ends—as Hugh.

Alas for those who seek a journey’s end—

They have it ever with them like a ghost:

Nor shall they find, who deem they seek it most,

But crave the end of human ends—as Hugh.

Now swoopingly the world of dream broke throughThe figured wall of sense. It seemed he ranAs wind above the creeping ways of man,And came upon the place of his desire,Where burned, far-luring as a beacon-fire,The face of Jamie. But the vengeful strokeBit air. The darkness lifted like a smoke—And it was early morning.Gazing far,From where the West yet kept a pallid starTo thinner sky where dawn was wearing through,Hugh shrank with dread, reluctant to renewThe war with that serene antagonist.More fearsome than a smashing iron fistSeemed that vast negativity of might;Until the frustrate vision of the nightCame moonwise on the gloom of his despair.And lo, the foe was naught but yielding air,A vacancy to fill with his intent!So from his spacious bed he ‘rose and wentThree-footed; and the vision goaded him.

Now swoopingly the world of dream broke through

The figured wall of sense. It seemed he ran

As wind above the creeping ways of man,

And came upon the place of his desire,

Where burned, far-luring as a beacon-fire,

The face of Jamie. But the vengeful stroke

Bit air. The darkness lifted like a smoke—

And it was early morning.

Gazing far,

From where the West yet kept a pallid star

To thinner sky where dawn was wearing through,

Hugh shrank with dread, reluctant to renew

The war with that serene antagonist.

More fearsome than a smashing iron fist

Seemed that vast negativity of might;

Until the frustrate vision of the night

Came moonwise on the gloom of his despair.

And lo, the foe was naught but yielding air,

A vacancy to fill with his intent!

So from his spacious bed he ‘rose and went

Three-footed; and the vision goaded him.

All morning southward to the bare sky rimThe rugged coulee zigzagged, mounting slow;And ever as it ‘rose, the lean creek’s flowDwindled and dwindled steadily, untilAt last a scooped-out basin would not fill;And thenceforth ‘twas a way of mocking dust.But, in that Hugh still kept the driving lustFor vengeance, this new circumstance of fateServed but to brew more venom for his hate,And nerved him to avail the most with least.Ere noon the crawler chanced upon a feastOf breadroot sunning in a favored draw.A sentry gopher from his stronghold sawSome three-legged beast, bear-like, yet not a bear,With quite misguided fury digging whereNo hapless brother gopher might be found.And while, with stripéd nose above his mound,The sentinel chirped shrilly to his clanScare-tales of that anomaly, the manDevoured the chance-flung manna of the plainsThat some vague reminiscence of old rainsKept succulent, despite the burning drouth.

All morning southward to the bare sky rim

The rugged coulee zigzagged, mounting slow;

And ever as it ‘rose, the lean creek’s flow

Dwindled and dwindled steadily, until

At last a scooped-out basin would not fill;

And thenceforth ‘twas a way of mocking dust.

But, in that Hugh still kept the driving lust

For vengeance, this new circumstance of fate

Served but to brew more venom for his hate,

And nerved him to avail the most with least.

Ere noon the crawler chanced upon a feast

Of breadroot sunning in a favored draw.

A sentry gopher from his stronghold saw

Some three-legged beast, bear-like, yet not a bear,

With quite misguided fury digging where

No hapless brother gopher might be found.

And while, with stripéd nose above his mound,

The sentinel chirped shrilly to his clan

Scare-tales of that anomaly, the man

Devoured the chance-flung manna of the plains

That some vague reminiscence of old rains

Kept succulent, despite the burning drouth.

So with new vigor Hugh assailed the South,His pockets laden with the precious rootsAgainst that coming traverse, where no fruitsOf herb or vine or shrub might brave the landSpread rooflike ‘twixt the Moreau and the Grand.

So with new vigor Hugh assailed the South,

His pockets laden with the precious roots

Against that coming traverse, where no fruits

Of herb or vine or shrub might brave the land

Spread rooflike ‘twixt the Moreau and the Grand.

The coulee deepened; yellow walls flung high,Sheer to the ragged strip of blinding sky,Dazzled and sweltered in the glare of day.Capricious draughts that woke and died awayInto the heavy drowse, were breatht as flame.And midway down the afternoon, Hugh cameUpon a little patch of spongy ground.His thirst became a rage. He gazed around,Seeking a spring; but all about was dryAs strewn bones bleaching to a desert sky;Nor did a clawed hole, bought with needed strength,Return a grateful ooze. And when at lengthHugh sucked the mud, he spat it in disgust.It had the acrid tang of broken trust,The sweetish, tepid taste of feigning love!

The coulee deepened; yellow walls flung high,

Sheer to the ragged strip of blinding sky,

Dazzled and sweltered in the glare of day.

Capricious draughts that woke and died away

Into the heavy drowse, were breatht as flame.

And midway down the afternoon, Hugh came

Upon a little patch of spongy ground.

His thirst became a rage. He gazed around,

Seeking a spring; but all about was dry

As strewn bones bleaching to a desert sky;

Nor did a clawed hole, bought with needed strength,

Return a grateful ooze. And when at length

Hugh sucked the mud, he spat it in disgust.

It had the acrid tang of broken trust,

The sweetish, tepid taste of feigning love!

Still hopeful of a spring somewhere above,He crawled the faster for his taunted thirst.More damp spots, no less grudging than the first,Occurred with growing frequence on the way,Until amid the purple wane of dayThe crawler came upon a little pool!Clear as a friend’s heart, ‘twas, and seeming cool—A crystal bowl whence skyey deeps looked up.So might a god set down his drinking cupCharged with a distillation of haut skies.As famished horses, thrusting to the eyesParched muzzles, take a long-sought water-hole,Hugh plunged his head into the brimming bowlAs though to share the joy with every sense.And lo, the tang of that wide insolenceOf sky and plain was acrid in the draught!How ripplingly the lying water laughed!How like fine sentiment the mirrored skyWon credence for a sink of alkali!So with false friends. And yet, as may accrueFrom specious love some profit of the true,One gift of kindness had the tainted sink.Stripped of his clothes, Hugh let his body drinkAt every thirsting pore. Through trunk and limbThe elemental blessing solaced him;Nor did he rise till, vague with stellar light,The lone gulch, buttressing an arch of night,Was like a temple to the Holy Ghost.As priests in slow procession with the Host,A gusty breeze intoned—now low, now loud,And now, as to the murmur of a crowd,Yielding the dim-torched wonder of the nave.Aloft along the dusky architraveThe wander-tale of drifting stars evolved;And Hugh lay gazing till the whole resolvedInto a haze.It seemed that Little JimHad come to share a merry fire with him,And there had been no trouble ‘twixt the two.And Jamie listened eagerly while HughEssayed a tangled tale of bears and men,Bread-root and stars. But ever now and thenThe shifting smoke-cloud dimmed the golden hair,The leal blue eyes; until with sudden flareThe flame effaced them utterly—and lo,The gulch bank-full with morning!Loath to go,Hugh lay beside the pool and pondered fate.He saw his age-long pilgrimage of hateStretch out—a fool’s trail; and it made him cringe;For still amid the nightly vision’s fringeHis dull wit strayed, companioned with regret.But when the sun, a tilted cauldron setUpon the gulch rim, poured a blaze of day,He rose and bathed again, and went his way,Sustaining wrath returning with the toil.

Still hopeful of a spring somewhere above,

He crawled the faster for his taunted thirst.

More damp spots, no less grudging than the first,

Occurred with growing frequence on the way,

Until amid the purple wane of day

The crawler came upon a little pool!

Clear as a friend’s heart, ‘twas, and seeming cool—

A crystal bowl whence skyey deeps looked up.

So might a god set down his drinking cup

Charged with a distillation of haut skies.

As famished horses, thrusting to the eyes

Parched muzzles, take a long-sought water-hole,

Hugh plunged his head into the brimming bowl

As though to share the joy with every sense.

And lo, the tang of that wide insolence

Of sky and plain was acrid in the draught!

How ripplingly the lying water laughed!

How like fine sentiment the mirrored sky

Won credence for a sink of alkali!

So with false friends. And yet, as may accrue

From specious love some profit of the true,

One gift of kindness had the tainted sink.

Stripped of his clothes, Hugh let his body drink

At every thirsting pore. Through trunk and limb

The elemental blessing solaced him;

Nor did he rise till, vague with stellar light,

The lone gulch, buttressing an arch of night,

Was like a temple to the Holy Ghost.

As priests in slow procession with the Host,

A gusty breeze intoned—now low, now loud,

And now, as to the murmur of a crowd,

Yielding the dim-torched wonder of the nave.

Aloft along the dusky architrave

The wander-tale of drifting stars evolved;

And Hugh lay gazing till the whole resolved

Into a haze.

It seemed that Little Jim

Had come to share a merry fire with him,

And there had been no trouble ‘twixt the two.

And Jamie listened eagerly while Hugh

Essayed a tangled tale of bears and men,

Bread-root and stars. But ever now and then

The shifting smoke-cloud dimmed the golden hair,

The leal blue eyes; until with sudden flare

The flame effaced them utterly—and lo,

The gulch bank-full with morning!

Loath to go,

Hugh lay beside the pool and pondered fate.

He saw his age-long pilgrimage of hate

Stretch out—a fool’s trail; and it made him cringe;

For still amid the nightly vision’s fringe

His dull wit strayed, companioned with regret.

But when the sun, a tilted cauldron set

Upon the gulch rim, poured a blaze of day,

He rose and bathed again, and went his way,

Sustaining wrath returning with the toil.

At noon the gulch walls, hewn in lighter soil,Fell back; and coulees dense with shrub and vineClimbed zigzag to the sharp horizon line,Whence one might choose the pilotage of crows.He labored upward through the noonday doze.Of breathless shade, where plums were turning redIn tangled bowers, and grapevines overheadPurpled with fruit to taunt the crawler’s thirst.With little effort Hugh attained the first;The latter bargained sharply ere they soldTheir luscious clusters for the hoarded goldOf strength that had so very much to buy.Now, having feasted, it was sweet to lieBeneath a sun-proof canopy; and sleepCame swiftly.Hugh awakened to some deepStar-snuffing well of night. Awhile he layAnd wondered what had happened to the dayAnd where he was and what were best to do.But when, fog-like, the drowse dispersed, he knewHow from the rim above the plain stretched farTo where the evening and the morning are,And that ‘twere better he should crawl by night,Sleep out the glare. With groping hands for sight,Skyward along the broken steep he crawled,And saw at length, immense and purple-walled—Or sensed—the dusky mystery of plain.Gazing aloft, he found the capsized WainIn mid-plunge down the polar steep. TheretoHe set his back; and far ahead there grew,As some pale blossom from a darkling root,The star-blanched summit of a lonely butte,And thitherward he dragged his heavy limb.

At noon the gulch walls, hewn in lighter soil,

Fell back; and coulees dense with shrub and vine

Climbed zigzag to the sharp horizon line,

Whence one might choose the pilotage of crows.

He labored upward through the noonday doze.

Of breathless shade, where plums were turning red

In tangled bowers, and grapevines overhead

Purpled with fruit to taunt the crawler’s thirst.

With little effort Hugh attained the first;

The latter bargained sharply ere they sold

Their luscious clusters for the hoarded gold

Of strength that had so very much to buy.

Now, having feasted, it was sweet to lie

Beneath a sun-proof canopy; and sleep

Came swiftly.

Hugh awakened to some deep

Star-snuffing well of night. Awhile he lay

And wondered what had happened to the day

And where he was and what were best to do.

But when, fog-like, the drowse dispersed, he knew

How from the rim above the plain stretched far

To where the evening and the morning are,

And that ‘twere better he should crawl by night,

Sleep out the glare. With groping hands for sight,

Skyward along the broken steep he crawled,

And saw at length, immense and purple-walled—

Or sensed—the dusky mystery of plain.

Gazing aloft, he found the capsized Wain

In mid-plunge down the polar steep. Thereto

He set his back; and far ahead there grew,

As some pale blossom from a darkling root,

The star-blanched summit of a lonely butte,

And thitherward he dragged his heavy limb.

It seemed naught moved. Time hovered over him,An instant of incipient endeavor.‘Twas ever thus, and should be thus forever—This groping for the same armful of space,An insubstantial essence of one place,Extentless on a weird frontier of sleep.Sheer deep upon unfathomable deepThe flood of dusk bore down without a sound,As ocean on the spirits of the drownedAwakened headlong leagues beneath the light.

It seemed naught moved. Time hovered over him,

An instant of incipient endeavor.

‘Twas ever thus, and should be thus forever—

This groping for the same armful of space,

An insubstantial essence of one place,

Extentless on a weird frontier of sleep.

Sheer deep upon unfathomable deep

The flood of dusk bore down without a sound,

As ocean on the spirits of the drowned

Awakened headlong leagues beneath the light.

So lapsed the drowsy æon of the night—A strangely tensile moment in a trance.And then, as quickened to somnambulance,The heavens, imperceptibly in motion,Were altered as the upward deeps of oceanDiluted with a seepage of the moon.The butte-top, late a gossamer balloonIn mid-air tethered hovering, grew downAnd rooted in a blear expanse of brown,That, lifting slowly with the ebb of night,Took on the harsh solidity of light—And day was on the prairie like a flame.

So lapsed the drowsy æon of the night—

A strangely tensile moment in a trance.

And then, as quickened to somnambulance,

The heavens, imperceptibly in motion,

Were altered as the upward deeps of ocean

Diluted with a seepage of the moon.

The butte-top, late a gossamer balloon

In mid-air tethered hovering, grew down

And rooted in a blear expanse of brown,

That, lifting slowly with the ebb of night,

Took on the harsh solidity of light—

And day was on the prairie like a flame.

Scarce had he munched the hoarded roots, when cameA vertigo of slumber. Snatchy dreamsOf sick pools, inaccessible cool streams,Lured on through giddy vacancies of heatIn swooping flights; now hills of roasting meatMade savory the oven of the world,Yet kept remote peripheries and whirledAbout a burning center that was Hugh.Then all were gone, save one, and it turned blueAnd was a heap of cool and luscious fruit,Until at length he knew it for the butteNow mantled with a weaving of the gloam.It was the hour when cattle straggle home.Across the clearing in a hush of sleepThey saunter, lowing; loiter belly-deepAmid the lush grass by the meadow stream.How like the sound of water in a dreamThe intermittent tinkle of yon bell.A windlass creaks contentment from a well,And cool deeps gurgle as the bucket sinks.Now blowing at the trough the plow-team drinks;The shaken harness rattles. Sleepy quailsCall far. The warm milk hisses in the pailsThere in the dusky barn-lot. Crickets cry.The meadow twinkles with the glowing fly.One hears the horses munching at their oats.The green grows black. A veil of slumber floatsAcross the haunts of home-enamored men.

Scarce had he munched the hoarded roots, when came

A vertigo of slumber. Snatchy dreams

Of sick pools, inaccessible cool streams,

Lured on through giddy vacancies of heat

In swooping flights; now hills of roasting meat

Made savory the oven of the world,

Yet kept remote peripheries and whirled

About a burning center that was Hugh.

Then all were gone, save one, and it turned blue

And was a heap of cool and luscious fruit,

Until at length he knew it for the butte

Now mantled with a weaving of the gloam.

It was the hour when cattle straggle home.

Across the clearing in a hush of sleep

They saunter, lowing; loiter belly-deep

Amid the lush grass by the meadow stream.

How like the sound of water in a dream

The intermittent tinkle of yon bell.

A windlass creaks contentment from a well,

And cool deeps gurgle as the bucket sinks.

Now blowing at the trough the plow-team drinks;

The shaken harness rattles. Sleepy quails

Call far. The warm milk hisses in the pails

There in the dusky barn-lot. Crickets cry.

The meadow twinkles with the glowing fly.

One hears the horses munching at their oats.

The green grows black. A veil of slumber floats

Across the haunts of home-enamored men.

Some freak of memory brought back againThe boyhood world of sight and scent and sound:It perished, and the prairie ringed him round,Blank as the face of fate. In listless moodHugh set his face against the solitudeAnd met the night. The new moon, low and far,A frail cup tilted, nor the high-swung star,It seemed, might glint on any stream or springOr touch with silver any toothsome thing.The kiote voiced the universal lack.As from a nether fire, the plain gave backThe swelter of the noon-glare to the gloom.In the hot hush Hugh heard his temples boom.Thirst tortured. Motion was a languid pain.Why seek some further nowhere on the plain?Here might the kiotes feast as well as there.So spoke some loose-lipped spirit of despair;And still Hugh moved, volitionless—a weightSubmissive to that now unconscious hate,As darkling water to the hidden moon.

Some freak of memory brought back again

The boyhood world of sight and scent and sound:

It perished, and the prairie ringed him round,

Blank as the face of fate. In listless mood

Hugh set his face against the solitude

And met the night. The new moon, low and far,

A frail cup tilted, nor the high-swung star,

It seemed, might glint on any stream or spring

Or touch with silver any toothsome thing.

The kiote voiced the universal lack.

As from a nether fire, the plain gave back

The swelter of the noon-glare to the gloom.

In the hot hush Hugh heard his temples boom.

Thirst tortured. Motion was a languid pain.

Why seek some further nowhere on the plain?

Here might the kiotes feast as well as there.

So spoke some loose-lipped spirit of despair;

And still Hugh moved, volitionless—a weight

Submissive to that now unconscious hate,

As darkling water to the hidden moon.

Now when the night wore on in middle swoon,The crawler, roused from stupor, was awareOf some strange alteration in the air.To breathe became an act of conscious will.The starry waste was ominously still.The far-off kiote’s yelp came sharp and clearAs through a tunnel in the atmosphere—A ponderable, resonating mass.The limp leg dragging on the sun-dried grassProduced a sound unnaturally loud.

Now when the night wore on in middle swoon,

The crawler, roused from stupor, was aware

Of some strange alteration in the air.

To breathe became an act of conscious will.

The starry waste was ominously still.

The far-off kiote’s yelp came sharp and clear

As through a tunnel in the atmosphere—

A ponderable, resonating mass.

The limp leg dragging on the sun-dried grass

Produced a sound unnaturally loud.

Crouched, panting, Hugh looked up but saw no cloud.An oily film seemed spread upon the skyNow dully staring as the open eyeOf one in fever. Gasping, choked with thirst,A childish rage assailed Hugh, and he cursed:‘Twas like a broken spirit’s outcry, tossedUpon hell’s burlesque sabbath for the lost,And briefly space seemed crowded with the voice.

Crouched, panting, Hugh looked up but saw no cloud.

An oily film seemed spread upon the sky

Now dully staring as the open eye

Of one in fever. Gasping, choked with thirst,

A childish rage assailed Hugh, and he cursed:

‘Twas like a broken spirit’s outcry, tossed

Upon hell’s burlesque sabbath for the lost,

And briefly space seemed crowded with the voice.

To wait and die, to move and die—what choice?Hugh chose not, yet he crawled; though more and moreHe felt the futile strife was nearly o’er.And as he went, a muffled rumbling grew,More felt than heard; for long it puzzled Hugh.Somehow ‘twas coextensive with his thirst,Yet boundless; swollen blood-veins ere they burstMight give such warning, so he thought. And stillThe drone seemed heaping up a phonic hillThat towered in a listening profound.Then suddenly a mountain peak of soundCame toppling to a heaven-jolting fall!The prairie shuddered, and a raucous drawlRan far and perished in the outer deep.

To wait and die, to move and die—what choice?

Hugh chose not, yet he crawled; though more and more

He felt the futile strife was nearly o’er.

And as he went, a muffled rumbling grew,

More felt than heard; for long it puzzled Hugh.

Somehow ‘twas coextensive with his thirst,

Yet boundless; swollen blood-veins ere they burst

Might give such warning, so he thought. And still

The drone seemed heaping up a phonic hill

That towered in a listening profound.

Then suddenly a mountain peak of sound

Came toppling to a heaven-jolting fall!

The prairie shuddered, and a raucous drawl

Ran far and perished in the outer deep.

As one too roughly shaken out of sleep,Hugh stared bewildered. Still the face of nightRemained the same, save where upon his rightThe moon had vanished ‘neath the prairie rim.Then suddenly the meaning came to him.He turned and saw athwart the northwest sky,Like some black eyelid shutting on an eye,A coming night to which the night was day!Star-hungry, ranged in regular array,The lifting mass assailed the Dragon’s lair,Submerged the region of the hounded Bear,Out-topped the tall Ox-Driver and the Pole.And all the while there came a low-toned roll,Less sound in air than tremor in the earth,From where, like flame upon a windy hearth,Deep in the further murk sheet-lightning flared.And still the southern arc of heaven stared,A half-shut eye, near blind with fever rheum;And still the plain lay tranquil as a tombWherein the dead reck not a menaced world.

As one too roughly shaken out of sleep,

Hugh stared bewildered. Still the face of night

Remained the same, save where upon his right

The moon had vanished ‘neath the prairie rim.

Then suddenly the meaning came to him.

He turned and saw athwart the northwest sky,

Like some black eyelid shutting on an eye,

A coming night to which the night was day!

Star-hungry, ranged in regular array,

The lifting mass assailed the Dragon’s lair,

Submerged the region of the hounded Bear,

Out-topped the tall Ox-Driver and the Pole.

And all the while there came a low-toned roll,

Less sound in air than tremor in the earth,

From where, like flame upon a windy hearth,

Deep in the further murk sheet-lightning flared.

And still the southern arc of heaven stared,

A half-shut eye, near blind with fever rheum;

And still the plain lay tranquil as a tomb

Wherein the dead reck not a menaced world.

What turmoil now? Lo, ragged columns hurledPell-mell up stellar slopes! Swift blue fires leapAbove the wild assailants of the steep!Along the solid rear a dull boom runs!So light horse squadrons charge beneath the guns.Now once again the night is deathly still.What ghastly peace upon the zenith hill,No longer starry? Not a sound is heard.So poised the hush, it seems a whispered wordMight loose all noises in an avalanche.Only the black mass moves, and far glooms blanchWith fitful flashes. The capricious flareReveals the butte-top tall and lonely thereLike some gray prophet contemplating doom.

What turmoil now? Lo, ragged columns hurled

Pell-mell up stellar slopes! Swift blue fires leap

Above the wild assailants of the steep!

Along the solid rear a dull boom runs!

So light horse squadrons charge beneath the guns.

Now once again the night is deathly still.

What ghastly peace upon the zenith hill,

No longer starry? Not a sound is heard.

So poised the hush, it seems a whispered word

Might loose all noises in an avalanche.

Only the black mass moves, and far glooms blanch

With fitful flashes. The capricious flare

Reveals the butte-top tall and lonely there

Like some gray prophet contemplating doom.

But hark! What spirits whisper in the gloom?What sibilation of conspiraciesRuffles the hush—or murmuring of trees,Ghosts of the ancient forest—or old rain,In some hallucination of the plain,A frustrate phantom mourning? All around,That e’er evolving, ne’er resolving soundGropes in the stifling hollow of the night.

But hark! What spirits whisper in the gloom?

What sibilation of conspiracies

Ruffles the hush—or murmuring of trees,

Ghosts of the ancient forest—or old rain,

In some hallucination of the plain,

A frustrate phantom mourning? All around,

That e’er evolving, ne’er resolving sound

Gropes in the stifling hollow of the night.

Then—once—twice—thrice—a blade of blinding lightRipped up the heavens, and the deluge came—A burst of wind and water, noise and flameThat hurled the watcher flat upon the ground.A moment past Hugh famished; now, half drowned,He gasped for breath amid the hurtling drench.

Then—once—twice—thrice—a blade of blinding light

Ripped up the heavens, and the deluge came—

A burst of wind and water, noise and flame

That hurled the watcher flat upon the ground.

A moment past Hugh famished; now, half drowned,

He gasped for breath amid the hurtling drench.

So might a testy god, long sought to quenchA puny thirst, pour wassail, hurling afterThe crashing bowl with wild sardonic laughterTo see man wrestle with his answered prayer!

So might a testy god, long sought to quench

A puny thirst, pour wassail, hurling after

The crashing bowl with wild sardonic laughter

To see man wrestle with his answered prayer!

Prone to the roaring flaw and ceaseless flare,The man drank deeply with the drinking grass;Until it seemed the storm would never passBut ravin down the painted murk for aye.When had what dreamer seen a glaring dayAnd leagues of prairie pantingly aquiver?Flame, flood, wind, noise and darkness were a riverTearing a cosmic channel to no sea.

Prone to the roaring flaw and ceaseless flare,

The man drank deeply with the drinking grass;

Until it seemed the storm would never pass

But ravin down the painted murk for aye.

When had what dreamer seen a glaring day

And leagues of prairie pantingly aquiver?

Flame, flood, wind, noise and darkness were a river

Tearing a cosmic channel to no sea.

The tortured night wore on; then suddenlyPeace fell. Remotely the retreating WrathTrailed dull, reluctant thunders in its path,And up along a broken stair of cloudThe Dawn came creeping whitely. Like a shroudGray vapors clung along the sodden plain.Up rose the sun to wipe the final stainOf fury from the sky and drink the mist.Against a flawless arch of amethystThe butte soared, like a soul serene and whiteBecause of the katharsis of the night.

The tortured night wore on; then suddenly

Peace fell. Remotely the retreating Wrath

Trailed dull, reluctant thunders in its path,

And up along a broken stair of cloud

The Dawn came creeping whitely. Like a shroud

Gray vapors clung along the sodden plain.

Up rose the sun to wipe the final stain

Of fury from the sky and drink the mist.

Against a flawless arch of amethyst

The butte soared, like a soul serene and white

Because of the katharsis of the night.

All day Hugh fought with sleep and struggled onSoutheastward; for the heavy heat was goneDespite the naked sun. The blank NorthwestBreathed coolly; and the crawler thought it bestTo move while yet each little break and hollowAnd shallow basin of the bison-wallowBegrudged the earth and air its dwindling store.But now that thirst was conquered, more and moreHe felt the gnaw of hunger like a rage.And once, from dozing in a clump of sage,A lone jackrabbit bounded. As a flameHope flared in Hugh, until the memory cameOf him who robbed a sleeping friend and fled.Then hate and hunger merged; the man saw red,And momently the hare and Little JimWere one blurred mark for murder unto him—Elusive, taunting, sweet to clutch and tear.The rabbit paused to scan the crippled bearThat ground its teeth as though it chewed a root.But when, in witless rage, Hugh drew his bootAnd hurled it with a curse, the hare loped off,Its critic ears turned back, as though to scoffAt silly brutes that threw their legs away.

All day Hugh fought with sleep and struggled on

Southeastward; for the heavy heat was gone

Despite the naked sun. The blank Northwest

Breathed coolly; and the crawler thought it best

To move while yet each little break and hollow

And shallow basin of the bison-wallow

Begrudged the earth and air its dwindling store.

But now that thirst was conquered, more and more

He felt the gnaw of hunger like a rage.

And once, from dozing in a clump of sage,

A lone jackrabbit bounded. As a flame

Hope flared in Hugh, until the memory came

Of him who robbed a sleeping friend and fled.

Then hate and hunger merged; the man saw red,

And momently the hare and Little Jim

Were one blurred mark for murder unto him—

Elusive, taunting, sweet to clutch and tear.

The rabbit paused to scan the crippled bear

That ground its teeth as though it chewed a root.

But when, in witless rage, Hugh drew his boot

And hurled it with a curse, the hare loped off,

Its critic ears turned back, as though to scoff

At silly brutes that threw their legs away.

Night like a shadow on enduring daySwooped by. The dream of crawling and the actWere phases of one everlasting fact:Hugh woke, and he was doing what he dreamed.The butte, outstripped at eventide, now seemedIntent to follow. Ever now and thenThe crawler paused to calculate againWhat dear-bought yawn of distance dwarfed the hill.Close in the rear it soared, a Titan still,Whose hand-in-pocket saunter kept the pace.

Night like a shadow on enduring day

Swooped by. The dream of crawling and the act

Were phases of one everlasting fact:

Hugh woke, and he was doing what he dreamed.

The butte, outstripped at eventide, now seemed

Intent to follow. Ever now and then

The crawler paused to calculate again

What dear-bought yawn of distance dwarfed the hill.

Close in the rear it soared, a Titan still,

Whose hand-in-pocket saunter kept the pace.

Distinct along the southern rim of spaceA low ridge lay, the crest of the divide.What rest and plenty on the other side!Through what lush valleys ran what crystal brooks!And there in virgin meadows wayside nooksWith leaf and purple cluster dulled the light!

Distinct along the southern rim of space

A low ridge lay, the crest of the divide.

What rest and plenty on the other side!

Through what lush valleys ran what crystal brooks!

And there in virgin meadows wayside nooks

With leaf and purple cluster dulled the light!

All day it seemed that distant Pisgah HeightRetreated, and the tall butte dogged the rear.At eve a stripéd gopher chirping nearGave Hugh an inspiration. Now, at least,No thieving friend should rob him of a feast.His great idea stirred him as a shout.Off came a boot, a sock was ravelled out.The coarse yarn, fashioned to a running snare,He placed about the gopher’s hole with care,And then withdrew to hold the yarn and wait.The night-bound moments, ponderous with fate,Crept slowly by. The battered gray face leeredIn expectation. Down the grizzled beardRan slaver from anticipating jaws.Evolving twilight hovered to a pause.The light wind fell. Again and yet againThe man devoured his fancied prey: and thenWithin the noose a timid snout was thrust.His hand unsteadied with the hunger lust,Hugh jerked the yarn. It broke.

All day it seemed that distant Pisgah Height

Retreated, and the tall butte dogged the rear.

At eve a stripéd gopher chirping near

Gave Hugh an inspiration. Now, at least,

No thieving friend should rob him of a feast.

His great idea stirred him as a shout.

Off came a boot, a sock was ravelled out.

The coarse yarn, fashioned to a running snare,

He placed about the gopher’s hole with care,

And then withdrew to hold the yarn and wait.

The night-bound moments, ponderous with fate,

Crept slowly by. The battered gray face leered

In expectation. Down the grizzled beard

Ran slaver from anticipating jaws.

Evolving twilight hovered to a pause.

The light wind fell. Again and yet again

The man devoured his fancied prey: and then

Within the noose a timid snout was thrust.

His hand unsteadied with the hunger lust,

Hugh jerked the yarn. It broke.

Down swooped the night,A shadow of despair. Bleak height on height,It seemed, a sheer abyss enclosed him round.Clutching a strand of yarn, he heard the soundOf some infernal turmoil under him.Grimly he strove to reach the ragged rimThat snared a star, until the skyey spaceWas darkened with a roof of Jamie’s face,And then the yarn was broken, and he fell.A-tumble like a stricken bat, his yellWoke hordes of laughers down the giddy yawnOf that black pit—and suddenly ‘twas dawn.

Down swooped the night,

A shadow of despair. Bleak height on height,

It seemed, a sheer abyss enclosed him round.

Clutching a strand of yarn, he heard the sound

Of some infernal turmoil under him.

Grimly he strove to reach the ragged rim

That snared a star, until the skyey space

Was darkened with a roof of Jamie’s face,

And then the yarn was broken, and he fell.

A-tumble like a stricken bat, his yell

Woke hordes of laughers down the giddy yawn

Of that black pit—and suddenly ‘twas dawn.

Dream-dawn, dream-noon, dream-twilight! Yet, possestBy one stern dream more clamorous than the rest,Hugh headed for a gap that notched the hills,Wherethrough a luring murmur of cool rills,A haunting smell of verdure seemed to creep.By fits the wild adventure of his sleepBecame the cause of all his waking care,And he complained unto the empty airHow Jamie broke the yarn.

Dream-dawn, dream-noon, dream-twilight! Yet, possest

By one stern dream more clamorous than the rest,

Hugh headed for a gap that notched the hills,

Wherethrough a luring murmur of cool rills,

A haunting smell of verdure seemed to creep.

By fits the wild adventure of his sleep

Became the cause of all his waking care,

And he complained unto the empty air

How Jamie broke the yarn.

The sun and breezeHad drunk all shallow basins to the lees,But now and then some gully, choked with mud,Retained a turbid relict of the flood.Dream-dawn, dream-noon, dream-night! And still obsessedBy that one dream more clamorous than the rest,Hugh struggled for the crest of the divide.And when at length he saw the other side,‘Twas but a rumpled waste of yellow hills!The deep-sunk, wiser self had known the rillsAnd nooks to be the facture of a whim;Yet had the pleasant lie befriended him,And now the brutal fact had come to stare.

The sun and breeze

Had drunk all shallow basins to the lees,

But now and then some gully, choked with mud,

Retained a turbid relict of the flood.

Dream-dawn, dream-noon, dream-night! And still obsessed

By that one dream more clamorous than the rest,

Hugh struggled for the crest of the divide.

And when at length he saw the other side,

‘Twas but a rumpled waste of yellow hills!

The deep-sunk, wiser self had known the rills

And nooks to be the facture of a whim;

Yet had the pleasant lie befriended him,

And now the brutal fact had come to stare.

Succumbing to a languorous despair,He mourned his fate with childish uncontrolAnd nursed that deadly adder of the soul,Self-pity. Let the crows swoop down and feed,Aye, batten on a thing that died of need,A poor old wretch betrayed of God and Man!So peevishly his broken musing ran,Till, glutted with the luxury of woe,He turned to see the butte, that he might knowHow little all his striving could availAgainst ill-luck. And lo, a finger-nail,At arm-length held, could blot it out of space!A goading purpose and a creeping paceHad dwarfed the Titan in a haze of blue!And suddenly new power came to HughWith gazing on his masterpiece of will.So fare the wise on Pisgah.

Succumbing to a languorous despair,

He mourned his fate with childish uncontrol

And nursed that deadly adder of the soul,

Self-pity. Let the crows swoop down and feed,

Aye, batten on a thing that died of need,

A poor old wretch betrayed of God and Man!

So peevishly his broken musing ran,

Till, glutted with the luxury of woe,

He turned to see the butte, that he might know

How little all his striving could avail

Against ill-luck. And lo, a finger-nail,

At arm-length held, could blot it out of space!

A goading purpose and a creeping pace

Had dwarfed the Titan in a haze of blue!

And suddenly new power came to Hugh

With gazing on his masterpiece of will.

So fare the wise on Pisgah.

Down the hill,Unto the higher vision consecrate,Now sallied forth the new triumvirate—A Weariness, a Hunger and a Glory—Against tyrannic Chance. As in a storySome higher Hugh observed the baser part.So sits the artist throned above his art,Nor recks the travail so the end be fair.It seemed the wrinkled hills pressed in to stare,The arch of heaven was an eye a-gaze.And as Hugh went, he fashioned many a phraseFor use when, by some friendly ember-light,His tale of things endured should speed the nightAnd all this gloom grow golden in the sharing.So wrought the old evangel of high daring,The duty and the beauty of endeavor,The privilege of going on forever,A victor in the moment.Ah, but whenThe night slipped by and morning came again,The sky and hill were only sky and hillAnd crawling but an agony of will.So once again the old triumvirate,A buzzard Hunger and a viper HateTogether with the baser part of Hugh,Went visionless.That day the wild geese flew,Vague in a gray profundity of sky;And on into the night their muffled cryHaunted the moonlight like a far farewell.It made Hugh homesick, though he could not tellFor what he yearned; and in his fitful sleepingThe cry became the sound of Jamie weeping,Immeasurably distant.Morning broke,Blear, chilly, through a fog that drove as smokeBefore the booming Northwest. Sweet and sadCame creeping back old visions of the lad—Some trick of speech, some merry little lilt,The brooding blue of eyes too clear for guilt,The wind-blown golden hair. Hate slept that day,And half of Hugh was half a life away,A wandering spirit wistful of the past;And half went drifting with the autumn blastThat mourned among the melancholy hills;For something of the lethargy that killsCame creeping close upon the ebb of hate.Only the raw wind, like the lash of Fate,Could have availed to move him any more.At last the buzzard beak no longer toreHis vitals, and he ceased to think of food.The fighter slumbered, and a maudlin moodForetold the dissolution of the man.He sobbed, and down his beard the big tears ran.And now the scene is changed; the bleak wind’s cryBecomes a flight of bullets snarling byFrom where on yonder summit skulk the Rees.Against the sky, in silhouette, he seesThe headstrong Jamie in the leaden rain.And now serenely beautiful and slainThe dear lad lies within a gusty tent.

Down the hill,

Unto the higher vision consecrate,

Now sallied forth the new triumvirate—

A Weariness, a Hunger and a Glory—

Against tyrannic Chance. As in a story

Some higher Hugh observed the baser part.

So sits the artist throned above his art,

Nor recks the travail so the end be fair.

It seemed the wrinkled hills pressed in to stare,

The arch of heaven was an eye a-gaze.

And as Hugh went, he fashioned many a phrase

For use when, by some friendly ember-light,

His tale of things endured should speed the night

And all this gloom grow golden in the sharing.

So wrought the old evangel of high daring,

The duty and the beauty of endeavor,

The privilege of going on forever,

A victor in the moment.

Ah, but when

The night slipped by and morning came again,

The sky and hill were only sky and hill

And crawling but an agony of will.

So once again the old triumvirate,

A buzzard Hunger and a viper Hate

Together with the baser part of Hugh,

Went visionless.

That day the wild geese flew,

Vague in a gray profundity of sky;

And on into the night their muffled cry

Haunted the moonlight like a far farewell.

It made Hugh homesick, though he could not tell

For what he yearned; and in his fitful sleeping

The cry became the sound of Jamie weeping,

Immeasurably distant.

Morning broke,

Blear, chilly, through a fog that drove as smoke

Before the booming Northwest. Sweet and sad

Came creeping back old visions of the lad—

Some trick of speech, some merry little lilt,

The brooding blue of eyes too clear for guilt,

The wind-blown golden hair. Hate slept that day,

And half of Hugh was half a life away,

A wandering spirit wistful of the past;

And half went drifting with the autumn blast

That mourned among the melancholy hills;

For something of the lethargy that kills

Came creeping close upon the ebb of hate.

Only the raw wind, like the lash of Fate,

Could have availed to move him any more.

At last the buzzard beak no longer tore

His vitals, and he ceased to think of food.

The fighter slumbered, and a maudlin mood

Foretold the dissolution of the man.

He sobbed, and down his beard the big tears ran.

And now the scene is changed; the bleak wind’s cry

Becomes a flight of bullets snarling by

From where on yonder summit skulk the Rees.

Against the sky, in silhouette, he sees

The headstrong Jamie in the leaden rain.

And now serenely beautiful and slain

The dear lad lies within a gusty tent.

Thus vexed with doleful whims the crawler wentAdrift before the wind, nor saw the trail;Till close on night he knew a rugged valeHad closed about him; and a hush was there,Though still a moaning in the upper airTold how the gray-winged gale blew out the day.Beneath a clump of brush he swooned awayInto an icy void; and waking numb,It seemed the still white dawn of death had comeOn this, some cradle-valley of the soul.He saw a dim, enchanted hollow rollBeneath him, and the brush thereof was fleece;And, like the body of the perfect peaceThat thralled the whole, abode the break of day.It seemed no wind had ever come that way,Nor sound dwelt there, nor echo found the place.And Hugh lay lapped in wonderment a space,Vexed with a snarl whereof the ends were lost,Till, shivering, he wondered if a frostHad fallen with the dying of the blast.So, vaguely troubled, listlessly he castA gaze about him: lo, above his headThe gray-green curtain of his chilly bedWas broidered thick with plums! Or so it seemed,For he was half persuaded that he dreamed;And with a steady stare he strove to keepThat treasure for the other side of sleep.

Thus vexed with doleful whims the crawler went

Adrift before the wind, nor saw the trail;

Till close on night he knew a rugged vale

Had closed about him; and a hush was there,

Though still a moaning in the upper air

Told how the gray-winged gale blew out the day.

Beneath a clump of brush he swooned away

Into an icy void; and waking numb,

It seemed the still white dawn of death had come

On this, some cradle-valley of the soul.

He saw a dim, enchanted hollow roll

Beneath him, and the brush thereof was fleece;

And, like the body of the perfect peace

That thralled the whole, abode the break of day.

It seemed no wind had ever come that way,

Nor sound dwelt there, nor echo found the place.

And Hugh lay lapped in wonderment a space,

Vexed with a snarl whereof the ends were lost,

Till, shivering, he wondered if a frost

Had fallen with the dying of the blast.

So, vaguely troubled, listlessly he cast

A gaze about him: lo, above his head

The gray-green curtain of his chilly bed

Was broidered thick with plums! Or so it seemed,

For he was half persuaded that he dreamed;

And with a steady stare he strove to keep

That treasure for the other side of sleep.

Returning hunger bade him rise; in vainHe struggled with a fine-spun mesh of painThat trammelled him, until a yellow streamOf day flowed down the white vale of a dreamAnd left it disenchanted in the glare.Then, warmed and soothed, Hugh rose and feasted there,And thought once more of reaching the Moreau.

Returning hunger bade him rise; in vain

He struggled with a fine-spun mesh of pain

That trammelled him, until a yellow stream

Of day flowed down the white vale of a dream

And left it disenchanted in the glare.

Then, warmed and soothed, Hugh rose and feasted there,

And thought once more of reaching the Moreau.

To southward with a painful pace and slowHe went stiff-jointed; and a gnawing acheIn that hip-wound he had for Jamie’s sakeOft made him groan—nor wrought a tender mood:The rankling weapon of ingratitudeWas turned again with every puckering twinge.

To southward with a painful pace and slow

He went stiff-jointed; and a gnawing ache

In that hip-wound he had for Jamie’s sake

Oft made him groan—nor wrought a tender mood:

The rankling weapon of ingratitude

Was turned again with every puckering twinge.

Far down the vale a narrow winding fringeOf wilted green betokened how a springThere sent a little rill meandering;And Hugh was greatly heartened, for he knewWhat fruits and herbs might flourish in the slough,And thirst, henceforth, should torture not again.

Far down the vale a narrow winding fringe

Of wilted green betokened how a spring

There sent a little rill meandering;

And Hugh was greatly heartened, for he knew

What fruits and herbs might flourish in the slough,

And thirst, henceforth, should torture not again.

So day on day, despite the crawler’s pain,All in the windless, golden autumn weather,These two, as comrades, struggled south together—The homeless graybeard and the homing rill:And one was sullen with the lust to kill,And one went crooning of the moon-wooed vast;For each the many-fathomed peace at last,But oh the boon of singing on the way!So came these in the golden fall of dayUnto a sudden turn in the ravine,Wherefrom Hugh saw a flat of cluttered greenBeneath the further bluffs of the Moreau.

So day on day, despite the crawler’s pain,

All in the windless, golden autumn weather,

These two, as comrades, struggled south together—

The homeless graybeard and the homing rill:

And one was sullen with the lust to kill,

And one went crooning of the moon-wooed vast;

For each the many-fathomed peace at last,

But oh the boon of singing on the way!

So came these in the golden fall of day

Unto a sudden turn in the ravine,

Wherefrom Hugh saw a flat of cluttered green

Beneath the further bluffs of the Moreau.

With sinking heart he paused and gazed belowUpon the goal of so much toil and pain.Yon green had seemed a paradise to gainThe while he thirsted where the lonely butteLooked far and saw no toothsome herb or fruitIn all that yellow barren dim with heat.But now the wasting body cried for meat,And sickness was upon him. Game should pass,Nor deign to fear the mighty hunter Glass,But curiously sniffing, pause to stare.

With sinking heart he paused and gazed below

Upon the goal of so much toil and pain.

Yon green had seemed a paradise to gain

The while he thirsted where the lonely butte

Looked far and saw no toothsome herb or fruit

In all that yellow barren dim with heat.

But now the wasting body cried for meat,

And sickness was upon him. Game should pass,

Nor deign to fear the mighty hunter Glass,

But curiously sniffing, pause to stare.

Now while thus musing, Hugh became awareOf some low murmur, phasic and profound,Scarce risen o’er the border line of sound.It might have been the coursing of his blood,Or thunder heard remotely, or a floodFlung down a wooded valley far away.Yet that had been no weather-breeding day;‘Twould frost that night; amid the thirsty landAll streams ran thin; and when he pressed a handOn either ear, the world seemed very still.

Now while thus musing, Hugh became aware

Of some low murmur, phasic and profound,

Scarce risen o’er the border line of sound.

It might have been the coursing of his blood,

Or thunder heard remotely, or a flood

Flung down a wooded valley far away.

Yet that had been no weather-breeding day;

‘Twould frost that night; amid the thirsty land

All streams ran thin; and when he pressed a hand

On either ear, the world seemed very still.

The deep-worn channel of the little rillHere fell away to eastward, rising, roughWith old rain-furrows, to a lofty bluffThat faced the river with a yellow wall.Thereto, perplexed, Hugh set about to crawl,Nor reached the summit till the sun was low.Far-spread, shade-dimpled in the level glow,The still land told not whence the murmur grew;But where the green strip melted into blueFar down the winding valley of the stream,Hugh saw what seemed the tempest of a dreamAt mimic havoc in the timber-glooms.As from the sweeping of gigantic brooms,A dust cloud deepened down the dwindling river;Upon the distant tree-tops ran a shiverAnd huddled thickets writhed as in a gale.

The deep-worn channel of the little rill

Here fell away to eastward, rising, rough

With old rain-furrows, to a lofty bluff

That faced the river with a yellow wall.

Thereto, perplexed, Hugh set about to crawl,

Nor reached the summit till the sun was low.

Far-spread, shade-dimpled in the level glow,

The still land told not whence the murmur grew;

But where the green strip melted into blue

Far down the winding valley of the stream,

Hugh saw what seemed the tempest of a dream

At mimic havoc in the timber-glooms.

As from the sweeping of gigantic brooms,

A dust cloud deepened down the dwindling river;

Upon the distant tree-tops ran a shiver

And huddled thickets writhed as in a gale.

On creeps the windless tempest up the vale,The while the murmur deepens to a roar,As with the wider yawning of a door.And now the agitated green gloom gapesTo belch a flood of countless dusky shapesThat mill and wrangle in a turbid flow—Migrating myriads of the buffaloBound for the winter pastures of the Platte!

On creeps the windless tempest up the vale,

The while the murmur deepens to a roar,

As with the wider yawning of a door.

And now the agitated green gloom gapes

To belch a flood of countless dusky shapes

That mill and wrangle in a turbid flow—

Migrating myriads of the buffalo

Bound for the winter pastures of the Platte!

Exhausted, faint with need of meat, Hugh satAnd watched the mounting of the living flood.Down came the night, and like a blot of bloodThe lopped moon weltered in the dust-bleared East.Sleep came and gave a Barmecidal feast.About a merry flame were simmeringSweet haunches of the calving of the Spring,And tender tongues that never tasted snow,And marrow bones that yielded to a blowSuch treasure! Hugh awoke with gnashing teeth,And heard the mooing drone of cows beneath,The roll of hoofs, the challenge of the bull.So sounds a freshet when the banks are fullAnd bursting brush-jams bellow to the croonOf water through green leaves. The ragged moonNow drenched the valley in an eerie rain:Below, the semblance of a hurricane;Above, the perfect calm of brooding frost,Through which the wolves in doleful tenson tossedFrom hill to hill the ancient hunger-song.In broken sleep Hugh rolled the chill night long,Half conscious of the flowing flesh below.And now he trailed a bison in the snowThat deepened till he could not lift his feet.Again, he battled for a chunk of meatWith some gray beast that fought with icy fang.And when he woke, the wolves no longer sang;White dawn athwart a white world smote the hill,And thunder rolled along the valley still.

Exhausted, faint with need of meat, Hugh sat

And watched the mounting of the living flood.

Down came the night, and like a blot of blood

The lopped moon weltered in the dust-bleared East.

Sleep came and gave a Barmecidal feast.

About a merry flame were simmering

Sweet haunches of the calving of the Spring,

And tender tongues that never tasted snow,

And marrow bones that yielded to a blow

Such treasure! Hugh awoke with gnashing teeth,

And heard the mooing drone of cows beneath,

The roll of hoofs, the challenge of the bull.

So sounds a freshet when the banks are full

And bursting brush-jams bellow to the croon

Of water through green leaves. The ragged moon

Now drenched the valley in an eerie rain:

Below, the semblance of a hurricane;

Above, the perfect calm of brooding frost,

Through which the wolves in doleful tenson tossed

From hill to hill the ancient hunger-song.

In broken sleep Hugh rolled the chill night long,

Half conscious of the flowing flesh below.

And now he trailed a bison in the snow

That deepened till he could not lift his feet.

Again, he battled for a chunk of meat

With some gray beast that fought with icy fang.

And when he woke, the wolves no longer sang;

White dawn athwart a white world smote the hill,

And thunder rolled along the valley still.

Morn, wiping up the frost as with a sponge,Day on the steep and down the nightward plunge,And Twilight saw the myriads moving on.Dust to the westward where the van had gone,And dust and muffled thunder in the east!Hugh starved while gazing on a Titan feast.The tons of beef, that eddied there and swirled,Had stilled the crying hungers of the world,Yet not one little morsel was for him.

Morn, wiping up the frost as with a sponge,

Day on the steep and down the nightward plunge,

And Twilight saw the myriads moving on.

Dust to the westward where the van had gone,

And dust and muffled thunder in the east!

Hugh starved while gazing on a Titan feast.

The tons of beef, that eddied there and swirled,

Had stilled the crying hungers of the world,

Yet not one little morsel was for him.

The red sun, pausing on the dusty rim,Induced a panic aspect of his plight:The herd would pass and vanish in the nightAnd be another dream to cling and flout.Now scanning all the summit round about,Amid the rubble of the ancient driftHe saw a bowlder. ‘Twas too big to lift,Yet he might roll it. Painfully and slowHe worked it to the edge, then let it goAnd breathlessly expectant watched it fall.It hurtled down the leaning yellow wall,And bounding from a brushy ledge’s brow,It barely grazed the buttocks of a cowAnd made a moment’s eddy where it struck.

The red sun, pausing on the dusty rim,

Induced a panic aspect of his plight:

The herd would pass and vanish in the night

And be another dream to cling and flout.

Now scanning all the summit round about,

Amid the rubble of the ancient drift

He saw a bowlder. ‘Twas too big to lift,

Yet he might roll it. Painfully and slow

He worked it to the edge, then let it go

And breathlessly expectant watched it fall.

It hurtled down the leaning yellow wall,

And bounding from a brushy ledge’s brow,

It barely grazed the buttocks of a cow

And made a moment’s eddy where it struck.

In peevish wrath Hugh cursed his evil luck,And seizing rubble, gave his fury ventBy pelting bison till his strength was spent:So might a child assail the crowding sea!Then, sick at heart and musing bitterly,He shambled down the steep way to the creek,And having stayed the tearing buzzard beakWith breadroot and the waters of the rill,Slept till the white of morning o’er the hillWas like a whisper groping in a hush.The stream’s low trill seemed loud. The tumbled brushAnd rumpled tree-tops in the flat below,Upon a fog that clung like spectral snow,Lay motionless; nor any sound was there.No frost had fallen, but the crystal airSmacked of the autumn, and a heavy dewLay hoar upon the grass. There came on HughA picture, vivid in the moment’s thrill,Of martialed corn-shocks marching up a hillAnd spiked fields dotted with the pumpkin’s gold.It vanished; and, a-shiver with the cold,He brooded on the mockeries of Chance,The shrewd malignity of CircumstanceThat either gave too little or too much.

In peevish wrath Hugh cursed his evil luck,

And seizing rubble, gave his fury vent

By pelting bison till his strength was spent:

So might a child assail the crowding sea!

Then, sick at heart and musing bitterly,

He shambled down the steep way to the creek,

And having stayed the tearing buzzard beak

With breadroot and the waters of the rill,

Slept till the white of morning o’er the hill

Was like a whisper groping in a hush.

The stream’s low trill seemed loud. The tumbled brush

And rumpled tree-tops in the flat below,

Upon a fog that clung like spectral snow,

Lay motionless; nor any sound was there.

No frost had fallen, but the crystal air

Smacked of the autumn, and a heavy dew

Lay hoar upon the grass. There came on Hugh

A picture, vivid in the moment’s thrill,

Of martialed corn-shocks marching up a hill

And spiked fields dotted with the pumpkin’s gold.

It vanished; and, a-shiver with the cold,

He brooded on the mockeries of Chance,

The shrewd malignity of Circumstance

That either gave too little or too much.

Yet, with the fragment of a hope for crutch,His spirit rallied, and he rose to go,Though each stiff joint resisted as a foeAnd that old hip-wound battled with his will.So down along the channel of the rillUnto the vale below he fought his way.The frore fog, rifting in the risen day,Revealed the havoc of the living flood—The river shallows beaten into mud,The slender saplings shattered in the crush,All lower leafage stripped, the tousled brushDespoiled of fruitage, winter-thin, aghast.And where the avalanche of hoofs had passedIt seemed nor herb nor grass had ever been.And this the hard-won paradise, whereinA food-devouring plethora of foodHad come to make a starving solitude!

Yet, with the fragment of a hope for crutch,

His spirit rallied, and he rose to go,

Though each stiff joint resisted as a foe

And that old hip-wound battled with his will.

So down along the channel of the rill

Unto the vale below he fought his way.

The frore fog, rifting in the risen day,

Revealed the havoc of the living flood—

The river shallows beaten into mud,

The slender saplings shattered in the crush,

All lower leafage stripped, the tousled brush

Despoiled of fruitage, winter-thin, aghast.

And where the avalanche of hoofs had passed

It seemed nor herb nor grass had ever been.

And this the hard-won paradise, wherein

A food-devouring plethora of food

Had come to make a starving solitude!

Yet hope and courage mounted with the sun.Surely, Hugh thought, some ill-begotten oneOf all that striving mass had lost the strifeAnd perished in the headlong stream of life—A feast to fill the bellies of the strong,That still the weak might perish. All day longHe struggled down the stricken vale, nor sawWhat thing he sought. But when the twilight aweWas creeping in, beyond a bend aroseA din as though the kiotes and the crowsFought there with shrill and raucous battle cries.

Yet hope and courage mounted with the sun.

Surely, Hugh thought, some ill-begotten one

Of all that striving mass had lost the strife

And perished in the headlong stream of life—

A feast to fill the bellies of the strong,

That still the weak might perish. All day long

He struggled down the stricken vale, nor saw

What thing he sought. But when the twilight awe

Was creeping in, beyond a bend arose

A din as though the kiotes and the crows

Fought there with shrill and raucous battle cries.

Small need had Hugh to ponder and surmiseWhat guerdon beak and fang contended for.Within himself the oldest cause of warBrought forth upon the instant fang and beak.He too would fight! Nor had he far to seekAmid the driftwood strewn about the sandFor weapons suited to a brawny handWith such a purpose. Armed with club and stoneHe forged ahead into the battle zone,And from a screening thicket spied his foes.

Small need had Hugh to ponder and surmise

What guerdon beak and fang contended for.

Within himself the oldest cause of war

Brought forth upon the instant fang and beak.

He too would fight! Nor had he far to seek

Amid the driftwood strewn about the sand

For weapons suited to a brawny hand

With such a purpose. Armed with club and stone

He forged ahead into the battle zone,

And from a screening thicket spied his foes.

He saw a bison carcass black with crows,And over it a welter of black wings,And round about, a press of tawny ringsThat, like a muddy current churned to foamUpon a snag, flashed whitely in the gloamWith naked teeth; while close about the prizeRed beaks and muzzles bloody to the eyesBetrayed how worth a struggle was the feast.

He saw a bison carcass black with crows,

And over it a welter of black wings,

And round about, a press of tawny rings

That, like a muddy current churned to foam

Upon a snag, flashed whitely in the gloam

With naked teeth; while close about the prize

Red beaks and muzzles bloody to the eyes

Betrayed how worth a struggle was the feast.

Then came on Hugh the fury of the beast—To eat or to be eaten! Better soTo die contending with a living foe,Than fight the yielding distance and the lack.Masked by the brush he opened the attack,And ever where a stone or club fell true,About the stricken one an uproar grewAnd brute tore brute, forgetful of the prey,Until the whole pack tumbled in the frayWith bleeding flanks and lacerated throats.Then, as the leader of a host who notesThe cannon-wrought confusion of the foe,Hugh seized the moment for a daring blow.

Then came on Hugh the fury of the beast—

To eat or to be eaten! Better so

To die contending with a living foe,

Than fight the yielding distance and the lack.

Masked by the brush he opened the attack,

And ever where a stone or club fell true,

About the stricken one an uproar grew

And brute tore brute, forgetful of the prey,

Until the whole pack tumbled in the fray

With bleeding flanks and lacerated throats.

Then, as the leader of a host who notes

The cannon-wrought confusion of the foe,

Hugh seized the moment for a daring blow.

The wolf’s a coward, who, in goodly packs,May counterfeit the courage that he lacksAnd with a craven’s fury crush the bold.But when the disunited mass that rolledIn suicidal strife, became awareHow some great beast that shambled like a bearBore down with roaring challenge, fell a hushUpon the pack, some slinking to the brushWith tails a-droop; while some that whined in painWrithed off on reddened trails. With bristled maneBefore the flying stones a bolder fewSnarled menace at the foe as they withdrewTo fill the outer dusk with clamorings.Aloft upon a moaning wind of wingsThe crows with harsh, vituperative criesNow saw a gray wolf of prodigious sizeDevouring with the frenzy of the starved.Thus fell to Hugh a bison killed and carved;And so Fate’s whims mysteriously trend—Woe in the silken meshes of the friend,Weal in the might and menace of the foe.But with the fading of the afterglowThe routed wolves found courage to return:Amid the brush Hugh saw their eye-balls burn;And well he knew how futile stick and stoneShould prove by night to keep them from their own.Better is less with safety, than enoughWith ruin. He retreated to a bluff,And scarce had reached it when the pack swooped inUpon the carcass.All night long, the dinOf wrangling wolves assailed the starry air,While high above them in a brushy lairHugh dreamed of gnawing at the bloody feast.

The wolf’s a coward, who, in goodly packs,

May counterfeit the courage that he lacks

And with a craven’s fury crush the bold.

But when the disunited mass that rolled

In suicidal strife, became aware

How some great beast that shambled like a bear

Bore down with roaring challenge, fell a hush

Upon the pack, some slinking to the brush

With tails a-droop; while some that whined in pain

Writhed off on reddened trails. With bristled mane

Before the flying stones a bolder few

Snarled menace at the foe as they withdrew

To fill the outer dusk with clamorings.

Aloft upon a moaning wind of wings

The crows with harsh, vituperative cries

Now saw a gray wolf of prodigious size

Devouring with the frenzy of the starved.

Thus fell to Hugh a bison killed and carved;

And so Fate’s whims mysteriously trend—

Woe in the silken meshes of the friend,

Weal in the might and menace of the foe.

But with the fading of the afterglow

The routed wolves found courage to return:

Amid the brush Hugh saw their eye-balls burn;

And well he knew how futile stick and stone

Should prove by night to keep them from their own.

Better is less with safety, than enough

With ruin. He retreated to a bluff,

And scarce had reached it when the pack swooped in

Upon the carcass.

All night long, the din

Of wrangling wolves assailed the starry air,

While high above them in a brushy lair

Hugh dreamed of gnawing at the bloody feast.

Along about the blanching of the east,When sleep is weirdest and a moment’s flight,Remembered coextensive with the night,May teem with hapful years; as light in smoke,Upon the jumble of Hugh’s dreaming brokeA buzz of human voices. Once againHe rode the westward trail with Henry’s men—Hoof-smitten leagues consuming in a dust.And now the nightmare of that broken trustWas on him, and he lay beside the spring,A corpse, yet heard the muffled parleyingAbove him of the looters of the dead:But when he might have riddled what they said,The babble flattened to a blur of gray—And lo, upon a bleak frontier of day,The spent moon staring down! A little spaceHugh scrutinized the featureless white face,As though ‘twould speak. But when again the soundGrew up, and seemed to come from under ground,He cast the drowse, and peering down the slope,Beheld what set at grapple fear and hope—Three Indian horsemen riding at a jog!Their ponies, wading belly-deep in fog,That clung along the valley, seemed to swim,And through a thinner vapor moving dim,The men were ghost-like.Could they be the Sioux?Almost the wish became belief in Hugh.Or were they Rees? As readily the doubtWithheld him from the hazard of a shout.And while he followed them with baffled gaze,Grown large and vague, dissolving in the haze,They vanished westward.Knowing well the wontOf Indians moving on the bison-hunt,Forthwith Hugh guessed the early riders wereThe outflung feelers of a tribe a-stirLike some huge cat gone mousing. So he layConcealed, impatient with the sleepy dayThat dawdled in the dawning. Would it bringGood luck or ill? His eager questioning,As crawling fog, took on a golden hueFrom sunrise. He was waiting for the Sioux,Their parfleche panniers fat with sun-dried maizeAnd wasna! From the mint of evil daysHe would coin tales and be no begging guestAbout the tribal feast-fires burning west,But kinsman of the blood of daring men.And when the crawler stood erect again—O Friend-Betrayer at the Big Horn’s mouth,Beware of someone riding from the SouthTo do the deed that he had lived to do!

Along about the blanching of the east,

When sleep is weirdest and a moment’s flight,

Remembered coextensive with the night,

May teem with hapful years; as light in smoke,

Upon the jumble of Hugh’s dreaming broke

A buzz of human voices. Once again

He rode the westward trail with Henry’s men—

Hoof-smitten leagues consuming in a dust.

And now the nightmare of that broken trust

Was on him, and he lay beside the spring,

A corpse, yet heard the muffled parleying

Above him of the looters of the dead:

But when he might have riddled what they said,

The babble flattened to a blur of gray—

And lo, upon a bleak frontier of day,

The spent moon staring down! A little space

Hugh scrutinized the featureless white face,

As though ‘twould speak. But when again the sound

Grew up, and seemed to come from under ground,

He cast the drowse, and peering down the slope,

Beheld what set at grapple fear and hope—

Three Indian horsemen riding at a jog!

Their ponies, wading belly-deep in fog,

That clung along the valley, seemed to swim,

And through a thinner vapor moving dim,

The men were ghost-like.

Could they be the Sioux?

Almost the wish became belief in Hugh.

Or were they Rees? As readily the doubt

Withheld him from the hazard of a shout.

And while he followed them with baffled gaze,

Grown large and vague, dissolving in the haze,

They vanished westward.

Knowing well the wont

Of Indians moving on the bison-hunt,

Forthwith Hugh guessed the early riders were

The outflung feelers of a tribe a-stir

Like some huge cat gone mousing. So he lay

Concealed, impatient with the sleepy day

That dawdled in the dawning. Would it bring

Good luck or ill? His eager questioning,

As crawling fog, took on a golden hue

From sunrise. He was waiting for the Sioux,

Their parfleche panniers fat with sun-dried maize

And wasna! From the mint of evil days

He would coin tales and be no begging guest

About the tribal feast-fires burning west,

But kinsman of the blood of daring men.

And when the crawler stood erect again—

O Friend-Betrayer at the Big Horn’s mouth,

Beware of someone riding from the South

To do the deed that he had lived to do!

Now when the sun stood hour-high in the blue,From where a cloud of startled blackbirds roseDown stream, a panic tumult broke the dozeOf windless morning. What unwelcome newsEmbroiled the parliament of feathered shrews?A boiling cloud against the sun they lower,Flackering strepent; now a sooty shower,Big-flaked, squall-driven westward, down they flutterTo set a clump of cottonwoods a-sputterWith cold black fire! And once again, some shockOf sight or sound flings panic in the flock—Gray boughs exploding in a ruck of birds!

Now when the sun stood hour-high in the blue,

From where a cloud of startled blackbirds rose

Down stream, a panic tumult broke the doze

Of windless morning. What unwelcome news

Embroiled the parliament of feathered shrews?

A boiling cloud against the sun they lower,

Flackering strepent; now a sooty shower,

Big-flaked, squall-driven westward, down they flutter

To set a clump of cottonwoods a-sputter

With cold black fire! And once again, some shock

Of sight or sound flings panic in the flock—

Gray boughs exploding in a ruck of birds!

What augury in orniscopic wordsDid yon swart sibyls on the morning scrawl?

What augury in orniscopic words

Did yon swart sibyls on the morning scrawl?

Now broke abruptly through the clacking brawlA camp-dog’s barking and a pony’s neigh;Whereat a running nicker fled away,Attenuating to a rearward hush;And lo! in hailing distance ‘round the brushThat fringed a jutting bluff’s base like a beardUpon a stubborn chin out-thrust, appearedA band of mounted warriors! In their vanAloof and lonely rode a gnarled old manUpon a piebald stallion. Stooped was heBeneath his heavy years, yet haughtilyHe wore them like the purple of a king.Keen for a goal, as from the driving stringA barbed and feathered arrow truly sped,His face was like a flinty arrow-head,And brooded westward in a steady stare.There was a sift of winter in his hair,The bleakness of brown winter in his look.Hugh saw, and huddled closer in his nook.Fled the bright dreams of safety, feast and restBefore that keen, cold brooder on the West,As gaudy leaves before the blizzard flee.‘Twas Elk Tongue, fighting chieftain of the Ree,With all his people at his pony’s tail—Full two-score lodges emptied on the trailOf hunger!On they came in ravelled rank,And many a haggard eye and hollow flankMade plain how close and pitilessly pressedThe enemy that drove them to the West—Such foeman as no warrior ever slew.A tale of cornfields plundered by the SiouxTheir sagging panniers told. Yet rich enoughThey seemed to him who watched them from the bluff;Yea, pampered nigh the limit of desire!No friend had filched from them the boon of fireAnd hurled them shivering back upon the beast.Erect they went, full-armed to strive, at least;And nightly in a cozy ember-glowHope fed them with a dream of buffaloSoon to be overtaken. After that,Home with their Pawnee cousins on the Platte,Much meat and merry-making till the Spring.On dragged the rabble like a fraying stringToo tautly drawn. The rich-in-ponies rode,For much is light and little is a loadAmong all heathen with no Christ to save!Gray seekers for the yet begrudging grave,Bent with the hoeing of forgotten maize,Wood-hewers, water-bearers all their days,Toiled ‘neath the life-long hoarding of their packs.And nursing squaws, their babies at their backsWhining because the milk they got was thinnedIn dugs of famine, strove as with a wind.Invincibly equipped with their first bowsThe striplings strutted, knowing, as youth knows,How fair life is beyond the beckoning blue.Cold-eyed the grandsires plodded, for they knew,As frosted heads may know, how all trails mergeIn what lone land. Raw maidens on the vergeOf some half-guessed-at mystery of life,In wistful emulation of the wifeStooped to the fancied burden of the race;Nor read upon the withered granddam’s faceThe scrawled tale of that burden and its woe.Slant to the sagging poles of the travaux,Numb to the squaw’s harsh railing and the goad,The lean cayuses toiled. And children rodeA-top the household plunder, wonder-eyedTo see a world flow by on either side,From blue air sprung to vanish in blue air,A river of enchantments.Here and thereThe camp-curs loped upon a vexing questWhere countless hoofs had left a palimpsest,A taunting snarl of broken scents. And nowThey sniff the clean bones of the bison cow,Howl to the skies; and now with manes a-roughThey nose the man-smell leading to the bluff;Pause puzzled at the base and sweep the heightWith questioning yelps. Aloft, crouched low in fright,Already Hugh can hear the braves’ guffawsAt their scorned foeman yielded to the squaws’Inverted mercy and a slow-won grave.Since Earth’s first mother scolded from a caveAnd that dear riddle of her love began,No man has wrought a weapon against manTo match the deadly venom brewed aboveThe lean, blue, blinding heart-fires of her love.Well might the hunted hunter shrink aghast!But thrice three seasons yet should swell the past,So was it writ, ere Fate’s keen harriersShould run Hugh Glass to earth.The hungry cursTook up again the tangled scent of food.Still flowed the rabble through the solitude—A thinning stream now of the halt, the weakAnd all who had not very far to seekFor that weird pass whereto the fleet are slow,And out of it keen winds and numbing blow,Shrill with the fleeing voices of the dead.Slowly the scattered stragglers, making headAgainst their weariness as up a steep,Fled westward; and the morning lay asleepUpon the valley fallen wondrous still.

Now broke abruptly through the clacking brawl

A camp-dog’s barking and a pony’s neigh;

Whereat a running nicker fled away,

Attenuating to a rearward hush;

And lo! in hailing distance ‘round the brush

That fringed a jutting bluff’s base like a beard

Upon a stubborn chin out-thrust, appeared

A band of mounted warriors! In their van

Aloof and lonely rode a gnarled old man

Upon a piebald stallion. Stooped was he

Beneath his heavy years, yet haughtily

He wore them like the purple of a king.

Keen for a goal, as from the driving string

A barbed and feathered arrow truly sped,

His face was like a flinty arrow-head,

And brooded westward in a steady stare.

There was a sift of winter in his hair,

The bleakness of brown winter in his look.

Hugh saw, and huddled closer in his nook.

Fled the bright dreams of safety, feast and rest

Before that keen, cold brooder on the West,

As gaudy leaves before the blizzard flee.

‘Twas Elk Tongue, fighting chieftain of the Ree,

With all his people at his pony’s tail—

Full two-score lodges emptied on the trail

Of hunger!

On they came in ravelled rank,

And many a haggard eye and hollow flank

Made plain how close and pitilessly pressed

The enemy that drove them to the West—

Such foeman as no warrior ever slew.

A tale of cornfields plundered by the Sioux

Their sagging panniers told. Yet rich enough

They seemed to him who watched them from the bluff;

Yea, pampered nigh the limit of desire!

No friend had filched from them the boon of fire

And hurled them shivering back upon the beast.

Erect they went, full-armed to strive, at least;

And nightly in a cozy ember-glow

Hope fed them with a dream of buffalo

Soon to be overtaken. After that,

Home with their Pawnee cousins on the Platte,

Much meat and merry-making till the Spring.

On dragged the rabble like a fraying string

Too tautly drawn. The rich-in-ponies rode,

For much is light and little is a load

Among all heathen with no Christ to save!

Gray seekers for the yet begrudging grave,

Bent with the hoeing of forgotten maize,

Wood-hewers, water-bearers all their days,

Toiled ‘neath the life-long hoarding of their packs.

And nursing squaws, their babies at their backs

Whining because the milk they got was thinned

In dugs of famine, strove as with a wind.

Invincibly equipped with their first bows

The striplings strutted, knowing, as youth knows,

How fair life is beyond the beckoning blue.

Cold-eyed the grandsires plodded, for they knew,

As frosted heads may know, how all trails merge

In what lone land. Raw maidens on the verge

Of some half-guessed-at mystery of life,

In wistful emulation of the wife

Stooped to the fancied burden of the race;

Nor read upon the withered granddam’s face

The scrawled tale of that burden and its woe.

Slant to the sagging poles of the travaux,

Numb to the squaw’s harsh railing and the goad,

The lean cayuses toiled. And children rode

A-top the household plunder, wonder-eyed

To see a world flow by on either side,

From blue air sprung to vanish in blue air,

A river of enchantments.

Here and there

The camp-curs loped upon a vexing quest

Where countless hoofs had left a palimpsest,

A taunting snarl of broken scents. And now

They sniff the clean bones of the bison cow,

Howl to the skies; and now with manes a-rough

They nose the man-smell leading to the bluff;

Pause puzzled at the base and sweep the height

With questioning yelps. Aloft, crouched low in fright,

Already Hugh can hear the braves’ guffaws

At their scorned foeman yielded to the squaws’

Inverted mercy and a slow-won grave.

Since Earth’s first mother scolded from a cave

And that dear riddle of her love began,

No man has wrought a weapon against man

To match the deadly venom brewed above

The lean, blue, blinding heart-fires of her love.

Well might the hunted hunter shrink aghast!

But thrice three seasons yet should swell the past,

So was it writ, ere Fate’s keen harriers

Should run Hugh Glass to earth.

The hungry curs

Took up again the tangled scent of food.

Still flowed the rabble through the solitude—

A thinning stream now of the halt, the weak

And all who had not very far to seek

For that weird pass whereto the fleet are slow,

And out of it keen winds and numbing blow,

Shrill with the fleeing voices of the dead.

Slowly the scattered stragglers, making head

Against their weariness as up a steep,

Fled westward; and the morning lay asleep

Upon the valley fallen wondrous still.

Hugh kept his nook, nor ventured forth, untilThe high day toppled to the blue descent,When thirst became a master, and he wentWith painful scrambling down the broken scarp,Lured by the stream, that like a smitten harpRippled a muted music to the sun.

Hugh kept his nook, nor ventured forth, until

The high day toppled to the blue descent,

When thirst became a master, and he went

With painful scrambling down the broken scarp,

Lured by the stream, that like a smitten harp

Rippled a muted music to the sun.

Scarce had he crossed the open flat, and wonThe half-way fringe of willows, when he saw,Slow plodding up the trail, a tottering squawWhose years made big the little pack she bore.Crouched in the brush Hugh watched her. More and moreThe little burden tempted him. Why not?A thin cry throttled in that lonely spotCould bring no succor. None should ever know,Save him, the feasted kiote and the crow,Why one poor crone found not the midnight fire.Nor would the vanguard, quick with young desire,Devouring distance westward like a flame,Regret this ash dropped rearward.On she came,Slow-footed, staring blankly on the sand—So close now that it needed but a handOut-thrust to overthrow her; aye, to winThat priceless spoil, a little tent of skin,A flint and steel, a kettle and a knife!What did the dying with the means of life,That thus the fit-to-live should suffer lack?

Scarce had he crossed the open flat, and won

The half-way fringe of willows, when he saw,

Slow plodding up the trail, a tottering squaw

Whose years made big the little pack she bore.

Crouched in the brush Hugh watched her. More and more

The little burden tempted him. Why not?

A thin cry throttled in that lonely spot

Could bring no succor. None should ever know,

Save him, the feasted kiote and the crow,

Why one poor crone found not the midnight fire.

Nor would the vanguard, quick with young desire,

Devouring distance westward like a flame,

Regret this ash dropped rearward.

On she came,

Slow-footed, staring blankly on the sand—

So close now that it needed but a hand

Out-thrust to overthrow her; aye, to win

That priceless spoil, a little tent of skin,

A flint and steel, a kettle and a knife!

What did the dying with the means of life,

That thus the fit-to-live should suffer lack?

Poised for the lunge, what whimsy held him back?Why did he gaze upon the passing prize,Nor seize it? Did some gust of ghostly criesAwaken round her—whisperings of Eld,Wraith-voices of the babies she had held—To plead for pity on her graveward days?Far down a moment’s cleavage in the hazeOf backward years Hugh saw her now—nor sawThe little burden and the feeble squaw,But someone sitting haloed like a saintBeside a hearth long cold. The dream grew faint;And when he looked again, the crone was goneBeyond a clump of willow.Crawling on,He reached the river. Leaning to a poolCalm in its cup of sand, he saw—a fool!A wild, wry mask of mirth, a-grin, yet grim,Rose there to claim identity with himAnd ridicule his folly. Pity? Faugh!Who pitied this, that it should spare a squawSpent in the spawning of a scorpion brood?

Poised for the lunge, what whimsy held him back?

Why did he gaze upon the passing prize,

Nor seize it? Did some gust of ghostly cries

Awaken round her—whisperings of Eld,

Wraith-voices of the babies she had held—

To plead for pity on her graveward days?

Far down a moment’s cleavage in the haze

Of backward years Hugh saw her now—nor saw

The little burden and the feeble squaw,

But someone sitting haloed like a saint

Beside a hearth long cold. The dream grew faint;

And when he looked again, the crone was gone

Beyond a clump of willow.

Crawling on,

He reached the river. Leaning to a pool

Calm in its cup of sand, he saw—a fool!

A wild, wry mask of mirth, a-grin, yet grim,

Rose there to claim identity with him

And ridicule his folly. Pity? Faugh!

Who pitied this, that it should spare a squaw

Spent in the spawning of a scorpion brood?

He drank and hastened down the solitude,Fleeing that thing which fleered him, and was Hugh.And as he went his self-accusing grewAnd with it, anger; till it came to seemThat somehow some sly Jamie of a dreamHad plundered him again; and he was strongWith lust of vengeance and the sting of wrong,So that he travelled faster than for days.

He drank and hastened down the solitude,

Fleeing that thing which fleered him, and was Hugh.

And as he went his self-accusing grew

And with it, anger; till it came to seem

That somehow some sly Jamie of a dream

Had plundered him again; and he was strong

With lust of vengeance and the sting of wrong,

So that he travelled faster than for days.

Now when the eve in many-shaded graysWove the day’s shroud, and through the lower landsLean fog-arms groped with chilling spirit hands,Hugh paused perplexed. Elusive, haunting, dim,As though some memory that stirred in him,Invasive of the real, outgrew the dream,There came upon the breeze that stole up streamA whiff of woodsmoke.‘Twixt a beat and beatOf Hugh’s deluded heart, it seemed the sweetAllure of home.—A brief way, and one cameUpon the clearing where the sumach flameRan round the forest-fringe; and just beyondOne saw the slough grass nodding in the pondUnto the sleepy troll the bullfrogs sung.And then one saw the place where one was young—The log-house sitting on a stumpy rise.Hearth-lit within, its windows were as eyesThat love much and are faded with old tears.It seemed regretful of a life’s arrears,Yet patient, with a self-denying poise,Like some old mother for her bearded boysWaiting sweet-hearted and a little sad.—So briefly dreamed a recrudescent ladBeneath gray hairs, and fled.Through chill and dampStill groped the odor, hinting at a camp,A two-tongued herald wooing hope and fear.Was hospitality or danger near?A Sioux war-party hot upon the trail,Or laggard Rees? Hugh crawled across the vale,Toiled up along a zigzag gully’s bedAnd reached a bluff’s top. In a smudge of redThe West burned low. Hill summits, yet alight,And pools of gloom anticipating nightMottled the landscape to the dull blue rim.What freak of fancy had imposed on him?Could one smell home-smoke fifty years away?He saw no fire; no pluming spire of grayRose in the dimming air to woo or warn.

Now when the eve in many-shaded grays

Wove the day’s shroud, and through the lower lands

Lean fog-arms groped with chilling spirit hands,

Hugh paused perplexed. Elusive, haunting, dim,

As though some memory that stirred in him,

Invasive of the real, outgrew the dream,

There came upon the breeze that stole up stream

A whiff of woodsmoke.

‘Twixt a beat and beat

Of Hugh’s deluded heart, it seemed the sweet

Allure of home.—A brief way, and one came

Upon the clearing where the sumach flame

Ran round the forest-fringe; and just beyond

One saw the slough grass nodding in the pond

Unto the sleepy troll the bullfrogs sung.

And then one saw the place where one was young—

The log-house sitting on a stumpy rise.

Hearth-lit within, its windows were as eyes

That love much and are faded with old tears.

It seemed regretful of a life’s arrears,

Yet patient, with a self-denying poise,

Like some old mother for her bearded boys

Waiting sweet-hearted and a little sad.—

So briefly dreamed a recrudescent lad

Beneath gray hairs, and fled.

Through chill and damp

Still groped the odor, hinting at a camp,

A two-tongued herald wooing hope and fear.

Was hospitality or danger near?

A Sioux war-party hot upon the trail,

Or laggard Rees? Hugh crawled across the vale,

Toiled up along a zigzag gully’s bed

And reached a bluff’s top. In a smudge of red

The West burned low. Hill summits, yet alight,

And pools of gloom anticipating night

Mottled the landscape to the dull blue rim.

What freak of fancy had imposed on him?

Could one smell home-smoke fifty years away?

He saw no fire; no pluming spire of gray

Rose in the dimming air to woo or warn.

He lay upon the bare height, fagged, forlorn,And old times came upon him with the creepOf subtle drugs that put the will to sleepAnd wreak doom to the soothing of a dream.So listlessly he scanned the sombrous stream,Scarce seeing what he scanned. The dark increased;A chill wind wakened from the frowning eastAnd soughed along the vale.Then with a startHe saw what broke the torpor of his heartAnd set the wild blood free. From where he layAn easy point-blank rifle-shot away,Appeared a mystic germinating sparkThat in some secret garden of the darkUpreared a frail, blue, nodding stem, whereonA ruddy lily flourished—and was gone!What miracle was this? Again it grew,The scarlet blossom on the stem of blue,And withered back again into the night.

He lay upon the bare height, fagged, forlorn,

And old times came upon him with the creep

Of subtle drugs that put the will to sleep

And wreak doom to the soothing of a dream.

So listlessly he scanned the sombrous stream,

Scarce seeing what he scanned. The dark increased;

A chill wind wakened from the frowning east

And soughed along the vale.

Then with a start

He saw what broke the torpor of his heart

And set the wild blood free. From where he lay

An easy point-blank rifle-shot away,

Appeared a mystic germinating spark

That in some secret garden of the dark

Upreared a frail, blue, nodding stem, whereon

A ruddy lily flourished—and was gone!

What miracle was this? Again it grew,

The scarlet blossom on the stem of blue,

And withered back again into the night.

With pounding heart Hugh crawled along the heightAnd reached a point of vantage whence, below,He saw capricious witch-lights dim and glowLike far-spent embers quickened in a breeze.‘Twas surely not a camp of laggard Rees,Nor yet of Siouan warriors hot in chase.Dusk and a quiet bivouacked in that place.A doddering vagrant with numb hands, the WindFumbled the dying ashes there, and whined.It was the day-old camp-ground of the foe!

With pounding heart Hugh crawled along the height

And reached a point of vantage whence, below,

He saw capricious witch-lights dim and glow

Like far-spent embers quickened in a breeze.

‘Twas surely not a camp of laggard Rees,

Nor yet of Siouan warriors hot in chase.

Dusk and a quiet bivouacked in that place.

A doddering vagrant with numb hands, the Wind

Fumbled the dying ashes there, and whined.

It was the day-old camp-ground of the foe!

Glad-hearted now, Hugh gained the vale below,Keen to possess once more the ancient gift.Nearing the glow, he saw vague shadows liftOut of the painted gloom of smouldering logs—Distorted bulks that bristled, and were dogsSnarling at this invasion of their lair.Hugh charged upon them, growling like a bear,And sent them whining.Now again to viewThe burgeoning of scarlet, gold and blue,The immemorial miracle of fire!From heaped-up twigs a tenuous smoky spireArose, and made an altar of the place.The spark-glow, faint upon the grizzled face,Transformed the kneeling outcast to a priest;And, native of the light-begetting East,The Wind became a chanting acolyte.These two, entempled in the vaulted night,Breathed conjuries of interwoven breath.Then, hark!—the snapping of the chains of Death!From dead wood, lo!—the epiphanic god!

Glad-hearted now, Hugh gained the vale below,

Keen to possess once more the ancient gift.

Nearing the glow, he saw vague shadows lift

Out of the painted gloom of smouldering logs—

Distorted bulks that bristled, and were dogs

Snarling at this invasion of their lair.

Hugh charged upon them, growling like a bear,

And sent them whining.

Now again to view

The burgeoning of scarlet, gold and blue,

The immemorial miracle of fire!

From heaped-up twigs a tenuous smoky spire

Arose, and made an altar of the place.

The spark-glow, faint upon the grizzled face,

Transformed the kneeling outcast to a priest;

And, native of the light-begetting East,

The Wind became a chanting acolyte.

These two, entempled in the vaulted night,

Breathed conjuries of interwoven breath.

Then, hark!—the snapping of the chains of Death!

From dead wood, lo!—the epiphanic god!

Once more the freightage of the fennel rodDissolved the chilling pall of Jovian scorn.The wonder of the resurrection morn,The face apocalyptic and the sword,The glory of the many-symboled Lord,Hugh, lifting up his eyes about him, saw!And something in him like a vernal thaw,Voiced with the sound of many waters, ranAnd quickened to the laughter of a man.

Once more the freightage of the fennel rod

Dissolved the chilling pall of Jovian scorn.

The wonder of the resurrection morn,

The face apocalyptic and the sword,

The glory of the many-symboled Lord,

Hugh, lifting up his eyes about him, saw!

And something in him like a vernal thaw,

Voiced with the sound of many waters, ran

And quickened to the laughter of a man.

Light-heartedly he fed the singing flameAnd took its blessing: till a soft sleep cameWith dreaming that was like a pleasant tale.

Light-heartedly he fed the singing flame

And took its blessing: till a soft sleep came

With dreaming that was like a pleasant tale.

The far white dawn was peering up the valeWhen he awoke to indolent content.A few shorn stars in pale astonishmentWere huddled westward; and the fire was low.Three scrawny camp-curs, mustered in a rowBeyond the heap of embers, heads askew,Ears pricked to question what the man might do,Sat wistfully regardant. He arose;And they, grown canny in a school of blows,Skulked to a safer distance, there to raiseA dolorous chanting of the evil days,Their gray breath like the body of a prayer.Hugh nursed the sullen embers to a flare,Then set about to view an empty campAs once before; but now no smoky lampOf blear suspicion searched a gloom of fraudWherein a smirking Friendship, like a bawd,Embraced a coward Safety; now no grief,‘Twixt hideous revelation and belief,Made womanish the man; but glad to strive,With hope to nerve him and a will to drive,He knew that he could finish in the race.The staring impassivity of spaceNo longer mocked; the dreadful skyward climb,Where distance seemed identical with time,Was past now; and that mystic something, luck,Without which worth may flounder in the ruck,Had turned to him again.So flamelike soaredRekindled hope in him as he exploredAmong the ash-heaps; and the lean dogs ranAnd barked about him, for the love of manWistful, yet fearing. Surely he could findSome trifle in the hurry left behind—Or haply hidden in the trampled sand—That to the cunning of a needy handShould prove the master-key of circumstance:For ‘tis the little gifts of grudging Chance,Well husbanded, make victors.Long he soughtWithout avail; and, crawling back, he thoughtOf how the dogs were growing less afraid,And how one might be skinned without a blade.A flake of flint might do it: he would try.And then he saw—or did the servile eyeTrick out a mental image like the real?He saw a glimmering of whetted steelBeside a heap now washed with morning light!

The far white dawn was peering up the vale

When he awoke to indolent content.

A few shorn stars in pale astonishment

Were huddled westward; and the fire was low.

Three scrawny camp-curs, mustered in a row

Beyond the heap of embers, heads askew,

Ears pricked to question what the man might do,

Sat wistfully regardant. He arose;

And they, grown canny in a school of blows,

Skulked to a safer distance, there to raise

A dolorous chanting of the evil days,

Their gray breath like the body of a prayer.

Hugh nursed the sullen embers to a flare,

Then set about to view an empty camp

As once before; but now no smoky lamp

Of blear suspicion searched a gloom of fraud

Wherein a smirking Friendship, like a bawd,

Embraced a coward Safety; now no grief,

‘Twixt hideous revelation and belief,

Made womanish the man; but glad to strive,

With hope to nerve him and a will to drive,

He knew that he could finish in the race.

The staring impassivity of space

No longer mocked; the dreadful skyward climb,

Where distance seemed identical with time,

Was past now; and that mystic something, luck,

Without which worth may flounder in the ruck,

Had turned to him again.

So flamelike soared

Rekindled hope in him as he explored

Among the ash-heaps; and the lean dogs ran

And barked about him, for the love of man

Wistful, yet fearing. Surely he could find

Some trifle in the hurry left behind—

Or haply hidden in the trampled sand—

That to the cunning of a needy hand

Should prove the master-key of circumstance:

For ‘tis the little gifts of grudging Chance,

Well husbanded, make victors.

Long he sought

Without avail; and, crawling back, he thought

Of how the dogs were growing less afraid,

And how one might be skinned without a blade.

A flake of flint might do it: he would try.

And then he saw—or did the servile eye

Trick out a mental image like the real?

He saw a glimmering of whetted steel

Beside a heap now washed with morning light!

Scarce more of marvel and the sense of mightMoved Arthur when he reached a hand to takeThe fay-wrought brand emerging from the lake,Whereby a kingdom should be lopped of strife,Than Hugh now, pouncing on a trader’s knifeWorn hollow in the use of bounteous days!

Scarce more of marvel and the sense of might

Moved Arthur when he reached a hand to take

The fay-wrought brand emerging from the lake,

Whereby a kingdom should be lopped of strife,

Than Hugh now, pouncing on a trader’s knife

Worn hollow in the use of bounteous days!

And now behold a rich man by the blazeOf his own hearth—a lord of steel and fire!Not having, but the measure of desireDetermines wealth. Who gaining more, seek most,Are ever the pursuers of a ghostAnd lend their fleetness to the fugitive.For Hugh, long goaded by the wish to live,What gage of mastery in fire and tool!—That twain wherewith Time put the brute to school,Evolving Man, the maker and the seer.

And now behold a rich man by the blaze

Of his own hearth—a lord of steel and fire!

Not having, but the measure of desire

Determines wealth. Who gaining more, seek most,

Are ever the pursuers of a ghost

And lend their fleetness to the fugitive.

For Hugh, long goaded by the wish to live,

What gage of mastery in fire and tool!—

That twain wherewith Time put the brute to school,

Evolving Man, the maker and the seer.

‘Twixt urging hunger and restraining fearThe gaunt dogs hovered round the man; while heCajoled them in the language of the ReeAnd simulated feeding them with sand,Until the boldest dared to sniff his hand,Bare-fanged and with conciliative whine.Through bristled mane the quick blade bit the spineBelow the skull; and as a flame-struck thingThe body humped and shuddered, withering;The lank limbs huddled, wilted.Now to skinThe carcass, dig a hole, arrange thereinAnd fix the pelt with stakes, the flesh-side up.This done, he shaped the bladder to a cupOn willow withes, and filled the rawhide potWith water from the river—made it hotWith roasted stones, and set the meat a-boil.Those days of famine and prodigious toilHad wrought bulimic cravings in the man,And scarce the cooking of the flesh outranThe eating of it. As a fed flame towersAccording to the fuel it devours,His hunger with indulgence grew, nor ceasedUntil the kettle, empty of the feast,Went dim, the sky and valley, merging, swirledIn subtle smoke that smothered out the world.Hugh slept.And then—as divers, mounting, sunderA murmuring murk to blink in sudden wonderUpon a dazzling upper deep of blue—He rose again to consciousness, and knewThe low sun beating slantly on his face.

‘Twixt urging hunger and restraining fear

The gaunt dogs hovered round the man; while he

Cajoled them in the language of the Ree

And simulated feeding them with sand,

Until the boldest dared to sniff his hand,

Bare-fanged and with conciliative whine.

Through bristled mane the quick blade bit the spine

Below the skull; and as a flame-struck thing

The body humped and shuddered, withering;

The lank limbs huddled, wilted.

Now to skin

The carcass, dig a hole, arrange therein

And fix the pelt with stakes, the flesh-side up.

This done, he shaped the bladder to a cup

On willow withes, and filled the rawhide pot

With water from the river—made it hot

With roasted stones, and set the meat a-boil.

Those days of famine and prodigious toil

Had wrought bulimic cravings in the man,

And scarce the cooking of the flesh outran

The eating of it. As a fed flame towers

According to the fuel it devours,

His hunger with indulgence grew, nor ceased

Until the kettle, empty of the feast,

Went dim, the sky and valley, merging, swirled

In subtle smoke that smothered out the world.

Hugh slept.

And then—as divers, mounting, sunder

A murmuring murk to blink in sudden wonder

Upon a dazzling upper deep of blue—

He rose again to consciousness, and knew

The low sun beating slantly on his face.

Now indolently gazing round the place,He noted how the curs had revelled there—The bones and entrails gone; some scattered hairAlone remaining of the pot of hide.How strange he had not heard them at his side!And granting but one afternoon had passed,What could have made the fire burn out so fast?Had daylight waned, night fallen, morning crept,Noon blazed, a new day dwindled while he slept?And was the friendlike fire a Jamie too?Across the twilit consciousness of HughThe old obsession like a wounded birdFluttered.He got upon his knees and stirredThe feathery ash; but not a spark was there.Already with the failing sun the airWent keen, betokening a frosty night.Hugh winced with something like the clutch of fright.How could he bear the torture, how sustainThe sting of that antiquity of painRolled back upon him—face again the foe,That yielding victor, fleet in being slow,That huge, impersonal malevolence?

Now indolently gazing round the place,

He noted how the curs had revelled there—

The bones and entrails gone; some scattered hair

Alone remaining of the pot of hide.

How strange he had not heard them at his side!

And granting but one afternoon had passed,

What could have made the fire burn out so fast?

Had daylight waned, night fallen, morning crept,

Noon blazed, a new day dwindled while he slept?

And was the friendlike fire a Jamie too?

Across the twilit consciousness of Hugh

The old obsession like a wounded bird

Fluttered.

He got upon his knees and stirred

The feathery ash; but not a spark was there.

Already with the failing sun the air

Went keen, betokening a frosty night.

Hugh winced with something like the clutch of fright.

How could he bear the torture, how sustain

The sting of that antiquity of pain

Rolled back upon him—face again the foe,

That yielding victor, fleet in being slow,

That huge, impersonal malevolence?

So readily the tentacles of senseRoot in the larger standard of desire,That Hugh fell farther in the loss of fireThan in the finding of it he arose.And suddenly the place grew strange, as growsA friend’s house, when the friend is on his bier,And all that was familiar there and dearPuts on a blank, inhospitable look.Hugh set his face against the east, and tookThat dreariest of ways, the trail of flight.He would outcrawl the shadow of the nightAnd have the day to blanket him in sleep.But as he went to meet the gloom a-creep,Bemused with life’s irrational rebuffs,A yelping of the dogs among the bluffsRose, hunger-whetted, stabbing; rent the pallOf evening silence; blunted to a drawlAmid the arid waterways, and died.And as the echo to the sound replied,So in the troubled mind of Hugh was wroughtA reminiscent cry of thought to thoughtThat, groping, found an unlocked door to life:The dogs—keen flint to skin one—then the knifeDiscovered. Why, that made a flint and steel!No further with the subtle foe at heelHe fled; for all about him in the rock,To waken when the needy hand might knock,A savior slept! He found a flake of flint,Scraped from his shirt a little wad of lint,Spilled on it from the smitten stone a showerOf ruddy seed; and saw the mystic flowerThat genders its own summer, bloom anew!

So readily the tentacles of sense

Root in the larger standard of desire,

That Hugh fell farther in the loss of fire

Than in the finding of it he arose.

And suddenly the place grew strange, as grows

A friend’s house, when the friend is on his bier,

And all that was familiar there and dear

Puts on a blank, inhospitable look.

Hugh set his face against the east, and took

That dreariest of ways, the trail of flight.

He would outcrawl the shadow of the night

And have the day to blanket him in sleep.

But as he went to meet the gloom a-creep,

Bemused with life’s irrational rebuffs,

A yelping of the dogs among the bluffs

Rose, hunger-whetted, stabbing; rent the pall

Of evening silence; blunted to a drawl

Amid the arid waterways, and died.

And as the echo to the sound replied,

So in the troubled mind of Hugh was wrought

A reminiscent cry of thought to thought

That, groping, found an unlocked door to life:

The dogs—keen flint to skin one—then the knife

Discovered. Why, that made a flint and steel!

No further with the subtle foe at heel

He fled; for all about him in the rock,

To waken when the needy hand might knock,

A savior slept! He found a flake of flint,

Scraped from his shirt a little wad of lint,

Spilled on it from the smitten stone a shower

Of ruddy seed; and saw the mystic flower

That genders its own summer, bloom anew!

And so capricious luck came back to Hugh;And he was happier than he had beenSince Jamie to that unforgiven sinHad yielded, ages back upon the Grand.Now he would turn the cunning of his handTo carving crutches, that he might arise,Be manlike, lift more rapidly the skiesThat crouched between his purpose and the mark.The warm glow housed him from the frosty dark,And there he wrought in very joyous moodAnd sang by fits—whereat the solitudeSet laggard singers snatching at the tune.The gaunter for their hunt, the dogs came soonTo haunt the shaken fringes of the glow,And, pitching voices to the timeless woe,Outwailed the lilting. So the Chorus singsOf terror, pity and the tears of thingsWhen most the doomed protagonist is gay.The stars swarmed over, and the front of dayWhitened above a white world, and the sunRose on a sleeper with a task well done,Nor roused him till its burning topped the blue.

And so capricious luck came back to Hugh;

And he was happier than he had been

Since Jamie to that unforgiven sin

Had yielded, ages back upon the Grand.

Now he would turn the cunning of his hand

To carving crutches, that he might arise,

Be manlike, lift more rapidly the skies

That crouched between his purpose and the mark.

The warm glow housed him from the frosty dark,

And there he wrought in very joyous mood

And sang by fits—whereat the solitude

Set laggard singers snatching at the tune.

The gaunter for their hunt, the dogs came soon

To haunt the shaken fringes of the glow,

And, pitching voices to the timeless woe,

Outwailed the lilting. So the Chorus sings

Of terror, pity and the tears of things

When most the doomed protagonist is gay.

The stars swarmed over, and the front of day

Whitened above a white world, and the sun

Rose on a sleeper with a task well done,

Nor roused him till its burning topped the blue.

When Hugh awoke, there woke a younger Hugh,Now half a stranger; and ‘twas good to feelWith ebbing sleep the old green vigor steal,Thrilling, along his muscles and his veins,As in a lull of winter-cleansing rainsThe gray bough quickens to the sap a-creep.It chanced the dogs lay near him, sound asleep,Curled nose to buttock in the noonday glow.He killed the larger with a well-aimed blow,Skinned, dressed and set it roasting on a spit;And when ‘twas cooked, ate sparingly of it,For need might yet make little seem a feast.

When Hugh awoke, there woke a younger Hugh,

Now half a stranger; and ‘twas good to feel

With ebbing sleep the old green vigor steal,

Thrilling, along his muscles and his veins,

As in a lull of winter-cleansing rains

The gray bough quickens to the sap a-creep.

It chanced the dogs lay near him, sound asleep,

Curled nose to buttock in the noonday glow.

He killed the larger with a well-aimed blow,

Skinned, dressed and set it roasting on a spit;

And when ‘twas cooked, ate sparingly of it,

For need might yet make little seem a feast.

Fording the river shallows, south by eastHe hobbled now along a withered rillThat issued where old floods had gashed the hill—A cyclopean portal yawning sheer.No storm of countless hoofs had entered here:It seemed a place where nothing ever comesBut change of season. He could hear the plumsPlash in the frosted thicket, over-lush;While, like a spirit lisping in the hush,The crisp leaves whispered round him as they fell.And ever now and then the autumn spellWas broken by an ululating cryFrom where far back with muzzle to the skyThe lone dog followed, mourning. Darkness came;And huddled up beside a cozy flame,Hugh’s sleep was but a momentary flightAcross a little shadow into light.

Fording the river shallows, south by east

He hobbled now along a withered rill

That issued where old floods had gashed the hill—

A cyclopean portal yawning sheer.

No storm of countless hoofs had entered here:

It seemed a place where nothing ever comes

But change of season. He could hear the plums

Plash in the frosted thicket, over-lush;

While, like a spirit lisping in the hush,

The crisp leaves whispered round him as they fell.

And ever now and then the autumn spell

Was broken by an ululating cry

From where far back with muzzle to the sky

The lone dog followed, mourning. Darkness came;

And huddled up beside a cozy flame,

Hugh’s sleep was but a momentary flight

Across a little shadow into light.

So day on day he toiled: and when, afloatAbove the sunset like a stygian boat,The new moon bore the spectre of the old,He saw—a dwindling strip of blue outrolled—The valley of the tortuous Cheyenne.And ere the half moon sailed the night again,Those far lone leagues had sloughed their garb of blue,And dwindled, dwindled, dwindled after Hugh,Until he saw that Titan of the plains,The sinewy Missouri. Dearth of rainsHad made the Giant gaunt as he who saw.This loud Chain-Smasher of a late March thawSeemed never to have bellowed at his banks;And yet, with staring ribs and hollow flanks,The urge of an indomitable willProclaimed him of the breed of giants still;And where the current ran a boiling track,‘Twas like the muscles of a mighty backGrown Atlantean in the wrestler’s craft.

So day on day he toiled: and when, afloat

Above the sunset like a stygian boat,

The new moon bore the spectre of the old,

He saw—a dwindling strip of blue outrolled—

The valley of the tortuous Cheyenne.

And ere the half moon sailed the night again,

Those far lone leagues had sloughed their garb of blue,

And dwindled, dwindled, dwindled after Hugh,

Until he saw that Titan of the plains,

The sinewy Missouri. Dearth of rains

Had made the Giant gaunt as he who saw.

This loud Chain-Smasher of a late March thaw

Seemed never to have bellowed at his banks;

And yet, with staring ribs and hollow flanks,

The urge of an indomitable will

Proclaimed him of the breed of giants still;

And where the current ran a boiling track,

‘Twas like the muscles of a mighty back

Grown Atlantean in the wrestler’s craft.

Hugh set to work and built a little raftOf driftwood bound with grapevines. So it fellThat one with an amazing tale to tellCame drifting to the gates of Kiowa.

Hugh set to work and built a little raft

Of driftwood bound with grapevines. So it fell

That one with an amazing tale to tell

Came drifting to the gates of Kiowa.

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