VJAMIE
The Country of the Crows,Through which the Big Horn and the Rosebud run,Sees over mountain peaks the setting sun;And southward from the Yellowstone flung wide,It broadens ever to the morning sideAnd has the Powder on its vague frontier.About the subtle changing of the year,Ere even favored valleys felt the stirOf Spring, and yet expectancy of herWas like a pleasant rumor all repeatYet none may prove, the sound of horses’ feetWent eastward through the silence of that land.For then it was there rode a little bandOf trappers out of Henry’s Post, to bearDispatches down to Atkinson, and thereTo furnish out a keelboat for the Horn.And four went lightly, but the fifth seemed wornAs with a heavy heart; for that was heWho should have died but did not.SilentlyHe heard the careless parley of his men,And thought of how the Spring should come again,That garish strumpet with her world-old lure,To waken hope where nothing may endure,To quicken love where loving is betrayed.Yet now and then some dream of Jamie madeSlow music in him for a little while;And they who rode beside him saw a smileGlimmer upon that ruined face of gray,As on a winter fog the groping dayPours glory through a momentary rift.Yet never did the gloom that bound him, lift;He seemed as one who feeds upon his heartAnd finds, despite the bitter and the smart,A little sweetness and is glad for that.Now up the Powder, striking for the PlatteAcross the bleak divide the horsemen went;Attained that river where its course is bentFrom north to east: and spurring on apaceAlong the wintry valley, reached the placeWhere from the west flows in the Laramie.Thence, fearing to encounter with the Ree,They headed eastward through the barren landTo where, fleet-footed down a track of sand,The Niobrara races for the morn—A gaunt-loined runner.Here at length was bornUpon the southern slopes the baby Spring,A timid, fretful, ill-begotten thing,A-suckle at the Winter’s withered paps:Not such as when announced by thunder-clapsAnd ringed with swords of lightning, she would ride,The haughty victrix and the mystic bride,Clad splendidly as never Sheba’s Queen,Before her marching multitudes of greenIn many-bannered triumph! Grudging, slow,Amid the fraying fringes of the snowThe bunch-grass sprouted; and the air was chill.Along the northern slopes ‘twas winter still,And no root dreamed what Triumph-over-DeathWas nurtured now in some bleak NazarethBeyond the crest to sunward.On they spurredThrough vacancies that waited for the bird,And everywhere the Odic Presence dwelt.The Southwest blew, the snow began to melt;And when they reached the valley of the Snake,The Niobrara’s ice began to break,And all night long and all day long it madeA sound as of a random cannonadeWith rifles snarling down a skirmish line.The geese went over. Every tree and vineWas dotted thick with leaf-buds when they sawThe little river of KeyapahaGrown mighty for the moment. Then they came,One evening when all thickets were aflameWith pale green witch-fires and the windflowers blew,To where the headlong Niobrara threwHis speed against the swoln Missouri’s flankAnd hurled him roaring to the further bank—A giant staggered by a pigmy’s sling.Thence, plunging ever deeper into Spring,Across the greening prairie east by southThey rode, and, just above the Platte’s wide mouth,Came, weary with the trail, to Atkinson.There all the vernal wonder-work was done:No care-free heart might find aught lacking there.The dove’s call wandered in the drowsy air;A love-dream brooded in the lucent haze.Priapic revellers, the shrieking jaysHeld mystic worship in the secret shade.Woodpeckers briskly plied their noisy tradeAlong the tree-boles, and their scarlet hoodsFlashed flamelike in the smoky cottonwoods.What lacked? Not sweetness in the sun-lulled breeze;The plum bloom murmurous with bumblebeesWas drifted deep in every draw and slough.Not color; witcheries of gold and blueThe dandelion and the violetWove in the green. Might not the sad forget,The happy here have nothing more to seek?Lo, yonder by that pleasant little creek,How one might loll upon the grass and fishAnd build the temple of one’s wildest wish‘Twixt nibbles! Surely there was quite enoughOf wizard-timber and of wonder-stuffTo rear it nobly to the blue-domed roof!Yet there was one whose spirit stood aloofFrom all this joyousness—a gray old man,No nearer now than when the quest beganTo what he sought on that long winter trail.Aye, Jamie had been there; but when the taleThat roving trappers brought from KiowaWas told to him, he seemed as one who sawA ghost, and could but stare on it, they said:Until one day he mounted horse and fledInto the North, a devil-ridden man.“I’ve got to go and find him if I can,”Was all he said for days before he left.And what of Hugh? So long of love bereft,So long sustained and driven by his hate,A touch of ruth now made him desolate.No longer eager to avenge the wrong,With not enough of pity to be strongAnd just enough of love to choke and sting,A gray old hulk amid the surge of SpringHe floundered on a lee-shore of the heart.But when the boat was ready for the startUp the long watery stairway to the Horn,Hugh joined the party. And the year was shornOf blooming girlhood as they forged amainInto the North; the late green-mantled plainGrew sallow; and the ruthless golden showerOf Summer wrought in lust upon the flowerThat withered in the endless martyrdomTo seed. The scarlet quickened on the plumAbout the Heart’s mouth when they came thereto;Among the Mandans grapes were turning blue,And they were purple at the Yellowstone.A frosted scrub-oak, standing out aloneUpon a barren bluff top, gazing farAbove the crossing at the Powder’s bar,Was spattered with the blood of Summer slain.So it was Autumn in the world again,And all those months of toil had yielded noughtTo Hugh. (How often is the seeker soughtBy what he seeks—a blind, heart-breaking game!)For always had the answer been the sameFrom roving trapper and at trading post:Aye, one who seemed to stare upon a ghostAnd followed willy-nilly where it led,Had gone that way in search of Hugh, they said—A haggard, blue-eyed, yellow-headed chap.And often had the old man thought, ‘MayhapHe’ll be at Henry’s Post and we shall meet;And to forgive and to forget were sweet:‘Tis for its nurse that Vengeance whets the tooth!And oh the golden time of Jamie’s youth,That it should darken for a graybeard’s whim!’So Hugh had brooded, till there came on himThe pity of a slow rain after drouth.But at the crossing of the Rosebud’s mouthA shadow fell upon his growing dream.A band of Henry’s traders, bound down stream,Who paused to traffic in the latest word—Down-river news for matters seen and heardIn higher waters—had not met the lad,Not yet encountered anyone who had.Alas, the journey back to yesterwhiles!How tangled are the trails! The stubborn miles,How wearily they stretch! And if one winThe long way back in search of what has been,Shall he find aught that is not strange and new?Thus wrought the melancholy news in Hugh,As he turned back with those who brought the news;For more and more he dreaded now to loseWhat doubtful seeking rendered doubly dear.And in the time when keen winds stripped the yearHe came with those to where the Poplar joinsThe greater river. There Assinoboines,Rich from the Summer’s hunting, had come downAnd flung along the flat their ragged town,That traders might bring goods and winter there.So leave the heartsick graybeard. OtherwhereThe final curtain rises on the play.‘Tis dead of Winter now. For day on dayThe blizzard wind has thundered, sweeping wideFrom Mississippi to the Great DivideOut of the North beyond Saskatchewan.Brief evening glimmers like an inverse dawnAfter a long white night. The tempest dies;The snow-haze lifts. Now let the curtain riseUpon Milk River valley, and revealThe stars like broken glass on frosted steelAbove the Piegan lodges, huddled deepIn snowdrifts, like a freezing flock of sheep.A crystal weight the dread cold crushes downAnd no one moves about the little townThat seems to grovel as a thing that fears.But see! a lodge-flap swings; a squaw appears,Hunched with the sudden cold. Her footsteps creakShrill in the hush. She stares upon the bleak,White skyline for a moment, then goes in.We follow her, push back the flap of skin,Enter the lodge, inhale the smoke-tanged airAnd blink upon the little faggot-flareThat blossoms in the center of the room.Unsteady shadows haunt the outer gloomWherein the walls are guessed at. Upward, far,The smoke-vent now and then reveals a starAs in a well. The ancient squaw, a-stoop,Her face light-stricken, stirs a pot of soupThat simmers with a pleasant smell and sound.A gnarled old man, cross-legged upon the ground,Sits brooding near. He feeds the flame with sticks;It brightens. Lo, a leaden crucifixUpon the wall! These heathen eyes, though dim,Have seen the white man’s God and cling to Him,Lest on the sunset trail slow feet should err.But look again. From yonder bed of furBeside the wall a white man strives to rise.He lifts his head, with yearning sightless eyesGropes for the light. A mass of golden hairFalls round the face that sickness and despairSomehow make old, albeit he is young.His weak voice, stumbling to the mongrel tongueOf traders, flings a question to the squaw:“You saw no Black Robe? Tell me what you saw!”And she, brief-spoken as her race, replies:“Heaped snow—sharp stars—a kiote on the rise.”The blind youth huddles moaning in the furs.The firewood spits and pops, the boiled pot purrsAnd sputters. On this little isle of soundThe sea of winter silence presses round—One feels it like a menace.Now the croneDips out a cup of soup, and having blownUpon it, takes it to the sick man thereAnd bids him eat. With wild, unseeing stareHe turns upon her: “Why are they so long?I can not eat! I’ve done a mighty wrong;It chokes me! Oh no, no, I must not dieUntil the Black Robe comes!” His feeble crySinks to a whisper. “Tell me, did they go—Your kinsmen?”“They went south before the snow.”“And will they tell the Black Robe?”“They will tell.”The crackling of the faggots for a spellSeems very loud. Again the sick man moansAnd, struggling with the weakness in his bones,Would gain his feet, but can not. “Go again,And tell me that you see the bulks of menDim in the distance there.”The squaw obeys;Returns anon to crouch beside the blaze,Numb-fingered and a-shudder from the night.The vacant eyes that hunger for the lightAre turned upon her: “Tell me what you saw!Or maybe snowshoes sounded up the draw.Quick, tell me what you saw and heard out there!”“Heaped snow—sharp stars—big stillness everywhere.”One clutching at thin ice with numbing gripCries while he hopes; but when his fingers slip,He takes the final plunge without a sound.So sinks the youth now, hopeless. All aroundThe winter silence presses in; the wallsGrow vague and vanish in the gloom that crawlsClose to the failing fire.The Piegans sleep.Night hovers midway down the morning steep.The sick man drowses. Nervously he startsAnd listens; hears no sound except his heart’sAnd that weird murmur brooding stillness makes.But stealthily upon the quiet breaks—Vague as the coursing of the hearer’s blood—A muffled, rhythmic beating, thud on thud,That, growing nearer, deepens to a crunch.So, hungry for the distance, snowshoes munchThe crusted leagues of Winter, stride by stride.A camp-dog barks; the hollow world outsideBrims with the running howl of many curs.Now wide-awake, half risen in the furs,The youth can hear low voices and the creakOf snowshoes near the lodge. His thin, wild shriekStartles the old folk from their slumberings:“He comes! The Black Robe!”Now the door-flap swings,And briefly one who splutters Piegan, barsThe way, then enters. Now the patch of starsIs darkened with a greater bulk that bendsBeneath the lintel. “Peace be with you, friends!And peace with him herein who suffers pain!”So speaks the second comer of the twain—A white man by his voice. And he who liesBeside the wall, with empty, groping eyesTurned to the speaker: “There can be no peaceFor me, good Father, till this gnawing cease—The gnawing of a great wrong I have done.”The big man leans above the youth: “My son—”(Grown husky with the word, the deep voice breaks,And for a little spell the whole man shakesAs with the clinging cold) “—have faith and hope!‘Tis often nearest dawn when most we grope.Does not the Good Book say, Who seek shall find?”“But, Father, I am broken now and blind,And I have sought, and I have lost the way.”To which the stranger: “What would Jesus say?Hark! In the silence of the heart ‘tis said—By their own weakness are the feeble sped;The humblest feet are surest for the goal;The blind shall see the City of the Soul.Lay down your burden at His feet to-night.”Now while the fire, replenished, bathes in lightThe young face scrawled with suffering and care,Flinging ironic glories on the hairAnd glinting on dull eyes that once flashed blue,The sick one tells the story of old HughTo him whose face, averted from the glow,Still lurks in gloom. The winds of battle blowOnce more along the steep. Again one seesThe rescue from the fury of the Rees,The graybeard’s fondness for the gay lad; thenThe westward march with Major Henry’s menWith all that happened there upon the Grand.“And so we hit the trail of Henry’s band,”The youth continues; “for we feared to die:And dread of shame was ready with the lieWe carried to our comrades. Hugh was deadAnd buried there beside the Grand, we said.Could any doubt that what we said was true?They even praised our courage! But I knew!The nights were hell because I heard his criesAnd saw the crows a-pecking at his eyes,The kiotes tearing at him. O my God!I tried and tried to think him under sod;But every time I slept it was the same.And then one night—I lay awake—he came!I say he came—I know I hadn’t slept!Amid a light like rainy dawn, he creptOut of the dark upon his hands and knees.The wound he got that day among the ReesWas like red fire. A snarl of bloody hairHung round the eyes that had a pleading stare,And down the ruined face and gory beardBig tear-drops rolled. He went as he appeared,Trailing a fog of light that died away.And I grew old before I saw the day.O Father, I had paid too much for breath!The Devil traffics in the fear of death,And may God pity anyone who buysWhat I have bought with treachery and lies—This rat-like gnawing in my breast!“I knewI couldn’t rest until I buried Hugh;And so I told the Major I would goTo Atkinson with letters, ere the snowHad choked the trails. Jules wouldn’t come along;He didn’t seem to realize the wrong;He called me foolish, couldn’t understand.I rode alone—not south, but to the Grand.Daylong my horse beat thunder from the sod,Accusing me; and all my prayers to GodSeemed flung in vain at bolted gates of brass.And in the night the wind among the grassHissed endlessly the story of my shame.“I do not know how long I rode: I cameUpon the Grand at last, and found the place,And it was empty. Not a sign or traceWas left to show what end had come to Hugh.And oh that grave! It gaped upon the blue,A death-wound pleading dumbly for the slain.I filled it up and fled across the plain,And somehow came to Atkinson at last.And there I heard the living Hugh had passedAlong the river northward in the Fall!O Father, he had found the strength to crawlThat long, heart-breaking distance back to life,Though Jules had taken blanket, steel and knife,And I, his trusted comrade, had his gun!“They said I’d better stay at Atkinson,Because old Hugh was surely hunting me,White-hot to kill. I did not want to fleeOr hide from him. I even wished to die,If so this aching cancer of a lieMight be torn out forever. So I went,As eager as the homesick homeward bent,In search of him and peace.But I was cursed.For even when his stolen rifle burstAnd spewed upon me this eternal night,I might not die as any other might;But God so willed that friendly Piegans cameTo spare me yet a little unto shame.O Father, is there any hope for me?”“Great hope indeed, my son!” so huskilyThe other answers. “I recall a caseLike yours—no matter what the time and place—‘Twas somewhat like the story that you tell;Each seeking and each sought, and both in hell;But in the tale I mind, they met at last.”The youth sits up, white-faced and breathing fast:“They met, you say? What happened? Quick! Oh quick!”“The old man found the dear lad blind and sickAnd both forgave—‘twas easy to forgive—For oh we have so short a time to live—”Whereat the youth: “Who’s here? The Black Robe’s gone!Whose voice is this?”The gray of winter dawnNow creeping round the door-flap, lights the placeAnd shows thin fingers groping for a faceDeep-scarred and hoary with the frost of yearsWhereover runs a new springtide of tears.“O Jamie, Jamie, Jamie—I am Hugh!There was no Black Robe yonder—Will I do?”
The Country of the Crows,Through which the Big Horn and the Rosebud run,Sees over mountain peaks the setting sun;And southward from the Yellowstone flung wide,It broadens ever to the morning sideAnd has the Powder on its vague frontier.About the subtle changing of the year,Ere even favored valleys felt the stirOf Spring, and yet expectancy of herWas like a pleasant rumor all repeatYet none may prove, the sound of horses’ feetWent eastward through the silence of that land.For then it was there rode a little bandOf trappers out of Henry’s Post, to bearDispatches down to Atkinson, and thereTo furnish out a keelboat for the Horn.And four went lightly, but the fifth seemed wornAs with a heavy heart; for that was heWho should have died but did not.SilentlyHe heard the careless parley of his men,And thought of how the Spring should come again,That garish strumpet with her world-old lure,To waken hope where nothing may endure,To quicken love where loving is betrayed.Yet now and then some dream of Jamie madeSlow music in him for a little while;And they who rode beside him saw a smileGlimmer upon that ruined face of gray,As on a winter fog the groping dayPours glory through a momentary rift.Yet never did the gloom that bound him, lift;He seemed as one who feeds upon his heartAnd finds, despite the bitter and the smart,A little sweetness and is glad for that.Now up the Powder, striking for the PlatteAcross the bleak divide the horsemen went;Attained that river where its course is bentFrom north to east: and spurring on apaceAlong the wintry valley, reached the placeWhere from the west flows in the Laramie.Thence, fearing to encounter with the Ree,They headed eastward through the barren landTo where, fleet-footed down a track of sand,The Niobrara races for the morn—A gaunt-loined runner.Here at length was bornUpon the southern slopes the baby Spring,A timid, fretful, ill-begotten thing,A-suckle at the Winter’s withered paps:Not such as when announced by thunder-clapsAnd ringed with swords of lightning, she would ride,The haughty victrix and the mystic bride,Clad splendidly as never Sheba’s Queen,Before her marching multitudes of greenIn many-bannered triumph! Grudging, slow,Amid the fraying fringes of the snowThe bunch-grass sprouted; and the air was chill.Along the northern slopes ‘twas winter still,And no root dreamed what Triumph-over-DeathWas nurtured now in some bleak NazarethBeyond the crest to sunward.On they spurredThrough vacancies that waited for the bird,And everywhere the Odic Presence dwelt.The Southwest blew, the snow began to melt;And when they reached the valley of the Snake,The Niobrara’s ice began to break,And all night long and all day long it madeA sound as of a random cannonadeWith rifles snarling down a skirmish line.The geese went over. Every tree and vineWas dotted thick with leaf-buds when they sawThe little river of KeyapahaGrown mighty for the moment. Then they came,One evening when all thickets were aflameWith pale green witch-fires and the windflowers blew,To where the headlong Niobrara threwHis speed against the swoln Missouri’s flankAnd hurled him roaring to the further bank—A giant staggered by a pigmy’s sling.Thence, plunging ever deeper into Spring,Across the greening prairie east by southThey rode, and, just above the Platte’s wide mouth,Came, weary with the trail, to Atkinson.There all the vernal wonder-work was done:No care-free heart might find aught lacking there.The dove’s call wandered in the drowsy air;A love-dream brooded in the lucent haze.Priapic revellers, the shrieking jaysHeld mystic worship in the secret shade.Woodpeckers briskly plied their noisy tradeAlong the tree-boles, and their scarlet hoodsFlashed flamelike in the smoky cottonwoods.What lacked? Not sweetness in the sun-lulled breeze;The plum bloom murmurous with bumblebeesWas drifted deep in every draw and slough.Not color; witcheries of gold and blueThe dandelion and the violetWove in the green. Might not the sad forget,The happy here have nothing more to seek?Lo, yonder by that pleasant little creek,How one might loll upon the grass and fishAnd build the temple of one’s wildest wish‘Twixt nibbles! Surely there was quite enoughOf wizard-timber and of wonder-stuffTo rear it nobly to the blue-domed roof!Yet there was one whose spirit stood aloofFrom all this joyousness—a gray old man,No nearer now than when the quest beganTo what he sought on that long winter trail.Aye, Jamie had been there; but when the taleThat roving trappers brought from KiowaWas told to him, he seemed as one who sawA ghost, and could but stare on it, they said:Until one day he mounted horse and fledInto the North, a devil-ridden man.“I’ve got to go and find him if I can,”Was all he said for days before he left.And what of Hugh? So long of love bereft,So long sustained and driven by his hate,A touch of ruth now made him desolate.No longer eager to avenge the wrong,With not enough of pity to be strongAnd just enough of love to choke and sting,A gray old hulk amid the surge of SpringHe floundered on a lee-shore of the heart.But when the boat was ready for the startUp the long watery stairway to the Horn,Hugh joined the party. And the year was shornOf blooming girlhood as they forged amainInto the North; the late green-mantled plainGrew sallow; and the ruthless golden showerOf Summer wrought in lust upon the flowerThat withered in the endless martyrdomTo seed. The scarlet quickened on the plumAbout the Heart’s mouth when they came thereto;Among the Mandans grapes were turning blue,And they were purple at the Yellowstone.A frosted scrub-oak, standing out aloneUpon a barren bluff top, gazing farAbove the crossing at the Powder’s bar,Was spattered with the blood of Summer slain.So it was Autumn in the world again,And all those months of toil had yielded noughtTo Hugh. (How often is the seeker soughtBy what he seeks—a blind, heart-breaking game!)For always had the answer been the sameFrom roving trapper and at trading post:Aye, one who seemed to stare upon a ghostAnd followed willy-nilly where it led,Had gone that way in search of Hugh, they said—A haggard, blue-eyed, yellow-headed chap.And often had the old man thought, ‘MayhapHe’ll be at Henry’s Post and we shall meet;And to forgive and to forget were sweet:‘Tis for its nurse that Vengeance whets the tooth!And oh the golden time of Jamie’s youth,That it should darken for a graybeard’s whim!’So Hugh had brooded, till there came on himThe pity of a slow rain after drouth.But at the crossing of the Rosebud’s mouthA shadow fell upon his growing dream.A band of Henry’s traders, bound down stream,Who paused to traffic in the latest word—Down-river news for matters seen and heardIn higher waters—had not met the lad,Not yet encountered anyone who had.Alas, the journey back to yesterwhiles!How tangled are the trails! The stubborn miles,How wearily they stretch! And if one winThe long way back in search of what has been,Shall he find aught that is not strange and new?Thus wrought the melancholy news in Hugh,As he turned back with those who brought the news;For more and more he dreaded now to loseWhat doubtful seeking rendered doubly dear.And in the time when keen winds stripped the yearHe came with those to where the Poplar joinsThe greater river. There Assinoboines,Rich from the Summer’s hunting, had come downAnd flung along the flat their ragged town,That traders might bring goods and winter there.So leave the heartsick graybeard. OtherwhereThe final curtain rises on the play.‘Tis dead of Winter now. For day on dayThe blizzard wind has thundered, sweeping wideFrom Mississippi to the Great DivideOut of the North beyond Saskatchewan.Brief evening glimmers like an inverse dawnAfter a long white night. The tempest dies;The snow-haze lifts. Now let the curtain riseUpon Milk River valley, and revealThe stars like broken glass on frosted steelAbove the Piegan lodges, huddled deepIn snowdrifts, like a freezing flock of sheep.A crystal weight the dread cold crushes downAnd no one moves about the little townThat seems to grovel as a thing that fears.But see! a lodge-flap swings; a squaw appears,Hunched with the sudden cold. Her footsteps creakShrill in the hush. She stares upon the bleak,White skyline for a moment, then goes in.We follow her, push back the flap of skin,Enter the lodge, inhale the smoke-tanged airAnd blink upon the little faggot-flareThat blossoms in the center of the room.Unsteady shadows haunt the outer gloomWherein the walls are guessed at. Upward, far,The smoke-vent now and then reveals a starAs in a well. The ancient squaw, a-stoop,Her face light-stricken, stirs a pot of soupThat simmers with a pleasant smell and sound.A gnarled old man, cross-legged upon the ground,Sits brooding near. He feeds the flame with sticks;It brightens. Lo, a leaden crucifixUpon the wall! These heathen eyes, though dim,Have seen the white man’s God and cling to Him,Lest on the sunset trail slow feet should err.But look again. From yonder bed of furBeside the wall a white man strives to rise.He lifts his head, with yearning sightless eyesGropes for the light. A mass of golden hairFalls round the face that sickness and despairSomehow make old, albeit he is young.His weak voice, stumbling to the mongrel tongueOf traders, flings a question to the squaw:“You saw no Black Robe? Tell me what you saw!”And she, brief-spoken as her race, replies:“Heaped snow—sharp stars—a kiote on the rise.”The blind youth huddles moaning in the furs.The firewood spits and pops, the boiled pot purrsAnd sputters. On this little isle of soundThe sea of winter silence presses round—One feels it like a menace.Now the croneDips out a cup of soup, and having blownUpon it, takes it to the sick man thereAnd bids him eat. With wild, unseeing stareHe turns upon her: “Why are they so long?I can not eat! I’ve done a mighty wrong;It chokes me! Oh no, no, I must not dieUntil the Black Robe comes!” His feeble crySinks to a whisper. “Tell me, did they go—Your kinsmen?”“They went south before the snow.”“And will they tell the Black Robe?”“They will tell.”The crackling of the faggots for a spellSeems very loud. Again the sick man moansAnd, struggling with the weakness in his bones,Would gain his feet, but can not. “Go again,And tell me that you see the bulks of menDim in the distance there.”The squaw obeys;Returns anon to crouch beside the blaze,Numb-fingered and a-shudder from the night.The vacant eyes that hunger for the lightAre turned upon her: “Tell me what you saw!Or maybe snowshoes sounded up the draw.Quick, tell me what you saw and heard out there!”“Heaped snow—sharp stars—big stillness everywhere.”One clutching at thin ice with numbing gripCries while he hopes; but when his fingers slip,He takes the final plunge without a sound.So sinks the youth now, hopeless. All aroundThe winter silence presses in; the wallsGrow vague and vanish in the gloom that crawlsClose to the failing fire.The Piegans sleep.Night hovers midway down the morning steep.The sick man drowses. Nervously he startsAnd listens; hears no sound except his heart’sAnd that weird murmur brooding stillness makes.But stealthily upon the quiet breaks—Vague as the coursing of the hearer’s blood—A muffled, rhythmic beating, thud on thud,That, growing nearer, deepens to a crunch.So, hungry for the distance, snowshoes munchThe crusted leagues of Winter, stride by stride.A camp-dog barks; the hollow world outsideBrims with the running howl of many curs.Now wide-awake, half risen in the furs,The youth can hear low voices and the creakOf snowshoes near the lodge. His thin, wild shriekStartles the old folk from their slumberings:“He comes! The Black Robe!”Now the door-flap swings,And briefly one who splutters Piegan, barsThe way, then enters. Now the patch of starsIs darkened with a greater bulk that bendsBeneath the lintel. “Peace be with you, friends!And peace with him herein who suffers pain!”So speaks the second comer of the twain—A white man by his voice. And he who liesBeside the wall, with empty, groping eyesTurned to the speaker: “There can be no peaceFor me, good Father, till this gnawing cease—The gnawing of a great wrong I have done.”The big man leans above the youth: “My son—”(Grown husky with the word, the deep voice breaks,And for a little spell the whole man shakesAs with the clinging cold) “—have faith and hope!‘Tis often nearest dawn when most we grope.Does not the Good Book say, Who seek shall find?”“But, Father, I am broken now and blind,And I have sought, and I have lost the way.”To which the stranger: “What would Jesus say?Hark! In the silence of the heart ‘tis said—By their own weakness are the feeble sped;The humblest feet are surest for the goal;The blind shall see the City of the Soul.Lay down your burden at His feet to-night.”Now while the fire, replenished, bathes in lightThe young face scrawled with suffering and care,Flinging ironic glories on the hairAnd glinting on dull eyes that once flashed blue,The sick one tells the story of old HughTo him whose face, averted from the glow,Still lurks in gloom. The winds of battle blowOnce more along the steep. Again one seesThe rescue from the fury of the Rees,The graybeard’s fondness for the gay lad; thenThe westward march with Major Henry’s menWith all that happened there upon the Grand.“And so we hit the trail of Henry’s band,”The youth continues; “for we feared to die:And dread of shame was ready with the lieWe carried to our comrades. Hugh was deadAnd buried there beside the Grand, we said.Could any doubt that what we said was true?They even praised our courage! But I knew!The nights were hell because I heard his criesAnd saw the crows a-pecking at his eyes,The kiotes tearing at him. O my God!I tried and tried to think him under sod;But every time I slept it was the same.And then one night—I lay awake—he came!I say he came—I know I hadn’t slept!Amid a light like rainy dawn, he creptOut of the dark upon his hands and knees.The wound he got that day among the ReesWas like red fire. A snarl of bloody hairHung round the eyes that had a pleading stare,And down the ruined face and gory beardBig tear-drops rolled. He went as he appeared,Trailing a fog of light that died away.And I grew old before I saw the day.O Father, I had paid too much for breath!The Devil traffics in the fear of death,And may God pity anyone who buysWhat I have bought with treachery and lies—This rat-like gnawing in my breast!“I knewI couldn’t rest until I buried Hugh;And so I told the Major I would goTo Atkinson with letters, ere the snowHad choked the trails. Jules wouldn’t come along;He didn’t seem to realize the wrong;He called me foolish, couldn’t understand.I rode alone—not south, but to the Grand.Daylong my horse beat thunder from the sod,Accusing me; and all my prayers to GodSeemed flung in vain at bolted gates of brass.And in the night the wind among the grassHissed endlessly the story of my shame.“I do not know how long I rode: I cameUpon the Grand at last, and found the place,And it was empty. Not a sign or traceWas left to show what end had come to Hugh.And oh that grave! It gaped upon the blue,A death-wound pleading dumbly for the slain.I filled it up and fled across the plain,And somehow came to Atkinson at last.And there I heard the living Hugh had passedAlong the river northward in the Fall!O Father, he had found the strength to crawlThat long, heart-breaking distance back to life,Though Jules had taken blanket, steel and knife,And I, his trusted comrade, had his gun!“They said I’d better stay at Atkinson,Because old Hugh was surely hunting me,White-hot to kill. I did not want to fleeOr hide from him. I even wished to die,If so this aching cancer of a lieMight be torn out forever. So I went,As eager as the homesick homeward bent,In search of him and peace.But I was cursed.For even when his stolen rifle burstAnd spewed upon me this eternal night,I might not die as any other might;But God so willed that friendly Piegans cameTo spare me yet a little unto shame.O Father, is there any hope for me?”“Great hope indeed, my son!” so huskilyThe other answers. “I recall a caseLike yours—no matter what the time and place—‘Twas somewhat like the story that you tell;Each seeking and each sought, and both in hell;But in the tale I mind, they met at last.”The youth sits up, white-faced and breathing fast:“They met, you say? What happened? Quick! Oh quick!”“The old man found the dear lad blind and sickAnd both forgave—‘twas easy to forgive—For oh we have so short a time to live—”Whereat the youth: “Who’s here? The Black Robe’s gone!Whose voice is this?”The gray of winter dawnNow creeping round the door-flap, lights the placeAnd shows thin fingers groping for a faceDeep-scarred and hoary with the frost of yearsWhereover runs a new springtide of tears.“O Jamie, Jamie, Jamie—I am Hugh!There was no Black Robe yonder—Will I do?”
The Country of the Crows,Through which the Big Horn and the Rosebud run,Sees over mountain peaks the setting sun;And southward from the Yellowstone flung wide,It broadens ever to the morning sideAnd has the Powder on its vague frontier.About the subtle changing of the year,Ere even favored valleys felt the stirOf Spring, and yet expectancy of herWas like a pleasant rumor all repeatYet none may prove, the sound of horses’ feetWent eastward through the silence of that land.For then it was there rode a little bandOf trappers out of Henry’s Post, to bearDispatches down to Atkinson, and thereTo furnish out a keelboat for the Horn.And four went lightly, but the fifth seemed wornAs with a heavy heart; for that was heWho should have died but did not.SilentlyHe heard the careless parley of his men,And thought of how the Spring should come again,That garish strumpet with her world-old lure,To waken hope where nothing may endure,To quicken love where loving is betrayed.Yet now and then some dream of Jamie madeSlow music in him for a little while;And they who rode beside him saw a smileGlimmer upon that ruined face of gray,As on a winter fog the groping dayPours glory through a momentary rift.Yet never did the gloom that bound him, lift;He seemed as one who feeds upon his heartAnd finds, despite the bitter and the smart,A little sweetness and is glad for that.
The Country of the Crows,
Through which the Big Horn and the Rosebud run,
Sees over mountain peaks the setting sun;
And southward from the Yellowstone flung wide,
It broadens ever to the morning side
And has the Powder on its vague frontier.
About the subtle changing of the year,
Ere even favored valleys felt the stir
Of Spring, and yet expectancy of her
Was like a pleasant rumor all repeat
Yet none may prove, the sound of horses’ feet
Went eastward through the silence of that land.
For then it was there rode a little band
Of trappers out of Henry’s Post, to bear
Dispatches down to Atkinson, and there
To furnish out a keelboat for the Horn.
And four went lightly, but the fifth seemed worn
As with a heavy heart; for that was he
Who should have died but did not.
Silently
He heard the careless parley of his men,
And thought of how the Spring should come again,
That garish strumpet with her world-old lure,
To waken hope where nothing may endure,
To quicken love where loving is betrayed.
Yet now and then some dream of Jamie made
Slow music in him for a little while;
And they who rode beside him saw a smile
Glimmer upon that ruined face of gray,
As on a winter fog the groping day
Pours glory through a momentary rift.
Yet never did the gloom that bound him, lift;
He seemed as one who feeds upon his heart
And finds, despite the bitter and the smart,
A little sweetness and is glad for that.
Now up the Powder, striking for the PlatteAcross the bleak divide the horsemen went;Attained that river where its course is bentFrom north to east: and spurring on apaceAlong the wintry valley, reached the placeWhere from the west flows in the Laramie.Thence, fearing to encounter with the Ree,They headed eastward through the barren landTo where, fleet-footed down a track of sand,The Niobrara races for the morn—A gaunt-loined runner.
Now up the Powder, striking for the Platte
Across the bleak divide the horsemen went;
Attained that river where its course is bent
From north to east: and spurring on apace
Along the wintry valley, reached the place
Where from the west flows in the Laramie.
Thence, fearing to encounter with the Ree,
They headed eastward through the barren land
To where, fleet-footed down a track of sand,
The Niobrara races for the morn—
A gaunt-loined runner.
Here at length was bornUpon the southern slopes the baby Spring,A timid, fretful, ill-begotten thing,A-suckle at the Winter’s withered paps:Not such as when announced by thunder-clapsAnd ringed with swords of lightning, she would ride,The haughty victrix and the mystic bride,Clad splendidly as never Sheba’s Queen,Before her marching multitudes of greenIn many-bannered triumph! Grudging, slow,Amid the fraying fringes of the snowThe bunch-grass sprouted; and the air was chill.Along the northern slopes ‘twas winter still,And no root dreamed what Triumph-over-DeathWas nurtured now in some bleak NazarethBeyond the crest to sunward.On they spurredThrough vacancies that waited for the bird,And everywhere the Odic Presence dwelt.The Southwest blew, the snow began to melt;And when they reached the valley of the Snake,The Niobrara’s ice began to break,And all night long and all day long it madeA sound as of a random cannonadeWith rifles snarling down a skirmish line.
Here at length was born
Upon the southern slopes the baby Spring,
A timid, fretful, ill-begotten thing,
A-suckle at the Winter’s withered paps:
Not such as when announced by thunder-claps
And ringed with swords of lightning, she would ride,
The haughty victrix and the mystic bride,
Clad splendidly as never Sheba’s Queen,
Before her marching multitudes of green
In many-bannered triumph! Grudging, slow,
Amid the fraying fringes of the snow
The bunch-grass sprouted; and the air was chill.
Along the northern slopes ‘twas winter still,
And no root dreamed what Triumph-over-Death
Was nurtured now in some bleak Nazareth
Beyond the crest to sunward.
On they spurred
Through vacancies that waited for the bird,
And everywhere the Odic Presence dwelt.
The Southwest blew, the snow began to melt;
And when they reached the valley of the Snake,
The Niobrara’s ice began to break,
And all night long and all day long it made
A sound as of a random cannonade
With rifles snarling down a skirmish line.
The geese went over. Every tree and vineWas dotted thick with leaf-buds when they sawThe little river of KeyapahaGrown mighty for the moment. Then they came,One evening when all thickets were aflameWith pale green witch-fires and the windflowers blew,To where the headlong Niobrara threwHis speed against the swoln Missouri’s flankAnd hurled him roaring to the further bank—A giant staggered by a pigmy’s sling.Thence, plunging ever deeper into Spring,Across the greening prairie east by southThey rode, and, just above the Platte’s wide mouth,Came, weary with the trail, to Atkinson.
The geese went over. Every tree and vine
Was dotted thick with leaf-buds when they saw
The little river of Keyapaha
Grown mighty for the moment. Then they came,
One evening when all thickets were aflame
With pale green witch-fires and the windflowers blew,
To where the headlong Niobrara threw
His speed against the swoln Missouri’s flank
And hurled him roaring to the further bank—
A giant staggered by a pigmy’s sling.
Thence, plunging ever deeper into Spring,
Across the greening prairie east by south
They rode, and, just above the Platte’s wide mouth,
Came, weary with the trail, to Atkinson.
There all the vernal wonder-work was done:No care-free heart might find aught lacking there.The dove’s call wandered in the drowsy air;A love-dream brooded in the lucent haze.Priapic revellers, the shrieking jaysHeld mystic worship in the secret shade.Woodpeckers briskly plied their noisy tradeAlong the tree-boles, and their scarlet hoodsFlashed flamelike in the smoky cottonwoods.What lacked? Not sweetness in the sun-lulled breeze;The plum bloom murmurous with bumblebeesWas drifted deep in every draw and slough.Not color; witcheries of gold and blueThe dandelion and the violetWove in the green. Might not the sad forget,The happy here have nothing more to seek?Lo, yonder by that pleasant little creek,How one might loll upon the grass and fishAnd build the temple of one’s wildest wish‘Twixt nibbles! Surely there was quite enoughOf wizard-timber and of wonder-stuffTo rear it nobly to the blue-domed roof!
There all the vernal wonder-work was done:
No care-free heart might find aught lacking there.
The dove’s call wandered in the drowsy air;
A love-dream brooded in the lucent haze.
Priapic revellers, the shrieking jays
Held mystic worship in the secret shade.
Woodpeckers briskly plied their noisy trade
Along the tree-boles, and their scarlet hoods
Flashed flamelike in the smoky cottonwoods.
What lacked? Not sweetness in the sun-lulled breeze;
The plum bloom murmurous with bumblebees
Was drifted deep in every draw and slough.
Not color; witcheries of gold and blue
The dandelion and the violet
Wove in the green. Might not the sad forget,
The happy here have nothing more to seek?
Lo, yonder by that pleasant little creek,
How one might loll upon the grass and fish
And build the temple of one’s wildest wish
‘Twixt nibbles! Surely there was quite enough
Of wizard-timber and of wonder-stuff
To rear it nobly to the blue-domed roof!
Yet there was one whose spirit stood aloofFrom all this joyousness—a gray old man,No nearer now than when the quest beganTo what he sought on that long winter trail.
Yet there was one whose spirit stood aloof
From all this joyousness—a gray old man,
No nearer now than when the quest began
To what he sought on that long winter trail.
Aye, Jamie had been there; but when the taleThat roving trappers brought from KiowaWas told to him, he seemed as one who sawA ghost, and could but stare on it, they said:Until one day he mounted horse and fledInto the North, a devil-ridden man.“I’ve got to go and find him if I can,”Was all he said for days before he left.
Aye, Jamie had been there; but when the tale
That roving trappers brought from Kiowa
Was told to him, he seemed as one who saw
A ghost, and could but stare on it, they said:
Until one day he mounted horse and fled
Into the North, a devil-ridden man.
“I’ve got to go and find him if I can,”
Was all he said for days before he left.
And what of Hugh? So long of love bereft,So long sustained and driven by his hate,A touch of ruth now made him desolate.No longer eager to avenge the wrong,With not enough of pity to be strongAnd just enough of love to choke and sting,A gray old hulk amid the surge of SpringHe floundered on a lee-shore of the heart.
And what of Hugh? So long of love bereft,
So long sustained and driven by his hate,
A touch of ruth now made him desolate.
No longer eager to avenge the wrong,
With not enough of pity to be strong
And just enough of love to choke and sting,
A gray old hulk amid the surge of Spring
He floundered on a lee-shore of the heart.
But when the boat was ready for the startUp the long watery stairway to the Horn,Hugh joined the party. And the year was shornOf blooming girlhood as they forged amainInto the North; the late green-mantled plainGrew sallow; and the ruthless golden showerOf Summer wrought in lust upon the flowerThat withered in the endless martyrdomTo seed. The scarlet quickened on the plumAbout the Heart’s mouth when they came thereto;Among the Mandans grapes were turning blue,And they were purple at the Yellowstone.A frosted scrub-oak, standing out aloneUpon a barren bluff top, gazing farAbove the crossing at the Powder’s bar,Was spattered with the blood of Summer slain.So it was Autumn in the world again,And all those months of toil had yielded noughtTo Hugh. (How often is the seeker soughtBy what he seeks—a blind, heart-breaking game!)For always had the answer been the sameFrom roving trapper and at trading post:Aye, one who seemed to stare upon a ghostAnd followed willy-nilly where it led,Had gone that way in search of Hugh, they said—A haggard, blue-eyed, yellow-headed chap.
But when the boat was ready for the start
Up the long watery stairway to the Horn,
Hugh joined the party. And the year was shorn
Of blooming girlhood as they forged amain
Into the North; the late green-mantled plain
Grew sallow; and the ruthless golden shower
Of Summer wrought in lust upon the flower
That withered in the endless martyrdom
To seed. The scarlet quickened on the plum
About the Heart’s mouth when they came thereto;
Among the Mandans grapes were turning blue,
And they were purple at the Yellowstone.
A frosted scrub-oak, standing out alone
Upon a barren bluff top, gazing far
Above the crossing at the Powder’s bar,
Was spattered with the blood of Summer slain.
So it was Autumn in the world again,
And all those months of toil had yielded nought
To Hugh. (How often is the seeker sought
By what he seeks—a blind, heart-breaking game!)
For always had the answer been the same
From roving trapper and at trading post:
Aye, one who seemed to stare upon a ghost
And followed willy-nilly where it led,
Had gone that way in search of Hugh, they said—
A haggard, blue-eyed, yellow-headed chap.
And often had the old man thought, ‘MayhapHe’ll be at Henry’s Post and we shall meet;And to forgive and to forget were sweet:‘Tis for its nurse that Vengeance whets the tooth!And oh the golden time of Jamie’s youth,That it should darken for a graybeard’s whim!’So Hugh had brooded, till there came on himThe pity of a slow rain after drouth.
And often had the old man thought, ‘Mayhap
He’ll be at Henry’s Post and we shall meet;
And to forgive and to forget were sweet:
‘Tis for its nurse that Vengeance whets the tooth!
And oh the golden time of Jamie’s youth,
That it should darken for a graybeard’s whim!’
So Hugh had brooded, till there came on him
The pity of a slow rain after drouth.
But at the crossing of the Rosebud’s mouthA shadow fell upon his growing dream.A band of Henry’s traders, bound down stream,Who paused to traffic in the latest word—Down-river news for matters seen and heardIn higher waters—had not met the lad,Not yet encountered anyone who had.
But at the crossing of the Rosebud’s mouth
A shadow fell upon his growing dream.
A band of Henry’s traders, bound down stream,
Who paused to traffic in the latest word—
Down-river news for matters seen and heard
In higher waters—had not met the lad,
Not yet encountered anyone who had.
Alas, the journey back to yesterwhiles!How tangled are the trails! The stubborn miles,How wearily they stretch! And if one winThe long way back in search of what has been,Shall he find aught that is not strange and new?
Alas, the journey back to yesterwhiles!
How tangled are the trails! The stubborn miles,
How wearily they stretch! And if one win
The long way back in search of what has been,
Shall he find aught that is not strange and new?
Thus wrought the melancholy news in Hugh,As he turned back with those who brought the news;For more and more he dreaded now to loseWhat doubtful seeking rendered doubly dear.And in the time when keen winds stripped the yearHe came with those to where the Poplar joinsThe greater river. There Assinoboines,Rich from the Summer’s hunting, had come downAnd flung along the flat their ragged town,That traders might bring goods and winter there.
Thus wrought the melancholy news in Hugh,
As he turned back with those who brought the news;
For more and more he dreaded now to lose
What doubtful seeking rendered doubly dear.
And in the time when keen winds stripped the year
He came with those to where the Poplar joins
The greater river. There Assinoboines,
Rich from the Summer’s hunting, had come down
And flung along the flat their ragged town,
That traders might bring goods and winter there.
So leave the heartsick graybeard. OtherwhereThe final curtain rises on the play.‘Tis dead of Winter now. For day on dayThe blizzard wind has thundered, sweeping wideFrom Mississippi to the Great DivideOut of the North beyond Saskatchewan.Brief evening glimmers like an inverse dawnAfter a long white night. The tempest dies;The snow-haze lifts. Now let the curtain riseUpon Milk River valley, and revealThe stars like broken glass on frosted steelAbove the Piegan lodges, huddled deepIn snowdrifts, like a freezing flock of sheep.A crystal weight the dread cold crushes downAnd no one moves about the little townThat seems to grovel as a thing that fears.
So leave the heartsick graybeard. Otherwhere
The final curtain rises on the play.
‘Tis dead of Winter now. For day on day
The blizzard wind has thundered, sweeping wide
From Mississippi to the Great Divide
Out of the North beyond Saskatchewan.
Brief evening glimmers like an inverse dawn
After a long white night. The tempest dies;
The snow-haze lifts. Now let the curtain rise
Upon Milk River valley, and reveal
The stars like broken glass on frosted steel
Above the Piegan lodges, huddled deep
In snowdrifts, like a freezing flock of sheep.
A crystal weight the dread cold crushes down
And no one moves about the little town
That seems to grovel as a thing that fears.
But see! a lodge-flap swings; a squaw appears,Hunched with the sudden cold. Her footsteps creakShrill in the hush. She stares upon the bleak,White skyline for a moment, then goes in.We follow her, push back the flap of skin,Enter the lodge, inhale the smoke-tanged airAnd blink upon the little faggot-flareThat blossoms in the center of the room.Unsteady shadows haunt the outer gloomWherein the walls are guessed at. Upward, far,The smoke-vent now and then reveals a starAs in a well. The ancient squaw, a-stoop,Her face light-stricken, stirs a pot of soupThat simmers with a pleasant smell and sound.A gnarled old man, cross-legged upon the ground,Sits brooding near. He feeds the flame with sticks;It brightens. Lo, a leaden crucifixUpon the wall! These heathen eyes, though dim,Have seen the white man’s God and cling to Him,Lest on the sunset trail slow feet should err.
But see! a lodge-flap swings; a squaw appears,
Hunched with the sudden cold. Her footsteps creak
Shrill in the hush. She stares upon the bleak,
White skyline for a moment, then goes in.
We follow her, push back the flap of skin,
Enter the lodge, inhale the smoke-tanged air
And blink upon the little faggot-flare
That blossoms in the center of the room.
Unsteady shadows haunt the outer gloom
Wherein the walls are guessed at. Upward, far,
The smoke-vent now and then reveals a star
As in a well. The ancient squaw, a-stoop,
Her face light-stricken, stirs a pot of soup
That simmers with a pleasant smell and sound.
A gnarled old man, cross-legged upon the ground,
Sits brooding near. He feeds the flame with sticks;
It brightens. Lo, a leaden crucifix
Upon the wall! These heathen eyes, though dim,
Have seen the white man’s God and cling to Him,
Lest on the sunset trail slow feet should err.
But look again. From yonder bed of furBeside the wall a white man strives to rise.He lifts his head, with yearning sightless eyesGropes for the light. A mass of golden hairFalls round the face that sickness and despairSomehow make old, albeit he is young.His weak voice, stumbling to the mongrel tongueOf traders, flings a question to the squaw:“You saw no Black Robe? Tell me what you saw!”And she, brief-spoken as her race, replies:“Heaped snow—sharp stars—a kiote on the rise.”
But look again. From yonder bed of fur
Beside the wall a white man strives to rise.
He lifts his head, with yearning sightless eyes
Gropes for the light. A mass of golden hair
Falls round the face that sickness and despair
Somehow make old, albeit he is young.
His weak voice, stumbling to the mongrel tongue
Of traders, flings a question to the squaw:
“You saw no Black Robe? Tell me what you saw!”
And she, brief-spoken as her race, replies:
“Heaped snow—sharp stars—a kiote on the rise.”
The blind youth huddles moaning in the furs.The firewood spits and pops, the boiled pot purrsAnd sputters. On this little isle of soundThe sea of winter silence presses round—One feels it like a menace.Now the croneDips out a cup of soup, and having blownUpon it, takes it to the sick man thereAnd bids him eat. With wild, unseeing stareHe turns upon her: “Why are they so long?I can not eat! I’ve done a mighty wrong;It chokes me! Oh no, no, I must not dieUntil the Black Robe comes!” His feeble crySinks to a whisper. “Tell me, did they go—Your kinsmen?”“They went south before the snow.”“And will they tell the Black Robe?”“They will tell.”
The blind youth huddles moaning in the furs.
The firewood spits and pops, the boiled pot purrs
And sputters. On this little isle of sound
The sea of winter silence presses round—
One feels it like a menace.
Now the crone
Dips out a cup of soup, and having blown
Upon it, takes it to the sick man there
And bids him eat. With wild, unseeing stare
He turns upon her: “Why are they so long?
I can not eat! I’ve done a mighty wrong;
It chokes me! Oh no, no, I must not die
Until the Black Robe comes!” His feeble cry
Sinks to a whisper. “Tell me, did they go—
Your kinsmen?”
“They went south before the snow.”
“And will they tell the Black Robe?”
“They will tell.”
The crackling of the faggots for a spellSeems very loud. Again the sick man moansAnd, struggling with the weakness in his bones,Would gain his feet, but can not. “Go again,And tell me that you see the bulks of menDim in the distance there.”The squaw obeys;Returns anon to crouch beside the blaze,Numb-fingered and a-shudder from the night.The vacant eyes that hunger for the lightAre turned upon her: “Tell me what you saw!Or maybe snowshoes sounded up the draw.Quick, tell me what you saw and heard out there!”“Heaped snow—sharp stars—big stillness everywhere.”
The crackling of the faggots for a spell
Seems very loud. Again the sick man moans
And, struggling with the weakness in his bones,
Would gain his feet, but can not. “Go again,
And tell me that you see the bulks of men
Dim in the distance there.”
The squaw obeys;
Returns anon to crouch beside the blaze,
Numb-fingered and a-shudder from the night.
The vacant eyes that hunger for the light
Are turned upon her: “Tell me what you saw!
Or maybe snowshoes sounded up the draw.
Quick, tell me what you saw and heard out there!”
“Heaped snow—sharp stars—big stillness everywhere.”
One clutching at thin ice with numbing gripCries while he hopes; but when his fingers slip,He takes the final plunge without a sound.So sinks the youth now, hopeless. All aroundThe winter silence presses in; the wallsGrow vague and vanish in the gloom that crawlsClose to the failing fire.The Piegans sleep.Night hovers midway down the morning steep.The sick man drowses. Nervously he startsAnd listens; hears no sound except his heart’sAnd that weird murmur brooding stillness makes.But stealthily upon the quiet breaks—Vague as the coursing of the hearer’s blood—A muffled, rhythmic beating, thud on thud,That, growing nearer, deepens to a crunch.So, hungry for the distance, snowshoes munchThe crusted leagues of Winter, stride by stride.A camp-dog barks; the hollow world outsideBrims with the running howl of many curs.
One clutching at thin ice with numbing grip
Cries while he hopes; but when his fingers slip,
He takes the final plunge without a sound.
So sinks the youth now, hopeless. All around
The winter silence presses in; the walls
Grow vague and vanish in the gloom that crawls
Close to the failing fire.
The Piegans sleep.
Night hovers midway down the morning steep.
The sick man drowses. Nervously he starts
And listens; hears no sound except his heart’s
And that weird murmur brooding stillness makes.
But stealthily upon the quiet breaks—
Vague as the coursing of the hearer’s blood—
A muffled, rhythmic beating, thud on thud,
That, growing nearer, deepens to a crunch.
So, hungry for the distance, snowshoes munch
The crusted leagues of Winter, stride by stride.
A camp-dog barks; the hollow world outside
Brims with the running howl of many curs.
Now wide-awake, half risen in the furs,The youth can hear low voices and the creakOf snowshoes near the lodge. His thin, wild shriekStartles the old folk from their slumberings:“He comes! The Black Robe!”Now the door-flap swings,And briefly one who splutters Piegan, barsThe way, then enters. Now the patch of starsIs darkened with a greater bulk that bendsBeneath the lintel. “Peace be with you, friends!And peace with him herein who suffers pain!”So speaks the second comer of the twain—A white man by his voice. And he who liesBeside the wall, with empty, groping eyesTurned to the speaker: “There can be no peaceFor me, good Father, till this gnawing cease—The gnawing of a great wrong I have done.”
Now wide-awake, half risen in the furs,
The youth can hear low voices and the creak
Of snowshoes near the lodge. His thin, wild shriek
Startles the old folk from their slumberings:
“He comes! The Black Robe!”
Now the door-flap swings,
And briefly one who splutters Piegan, bars
The way, then enters. Now the patch of stars
Is darkened with a greater bulk that bends
Beneath the lintel. “Peace be with you, friends!
And peace with him herein who suffers pain!”
So speaks the second comer of the twain—
A white man by his voice. And he who lies
Beside the wall, with empty, groping eyes
Turned to the speaker: “There can be no peace
For me, good Father, till this gnawing cease—
The gnawing of a great wrong I have done.”
The big man leans above the youth: “My son—”(Grown husky with the word, the deep voice breaks,And for a little spell the whole man shakesAs with the clinging cold) “—have faith and hope!‘Tis often nearest dawn when most we grope.Does not the Good Book say, Who seek shall find?”
The big man leans above the youth: “My son—”
(Grown husky with the word, the deep voice breaks,
And for a little spell the whole man shakes
As with the clinging cold) “—have faith and hope!
‘Tis often nearest dawn when most we grope.
Does not the Good Book say, Who seek shall find?”
“But, Father, I am broken now and blind,And I have sought, and I have lost the way.”To which the stranger: “What would Jesus say?Hark! In the silence of the heart ‘tis said—By their own weakness are the feeble sped;The humblest feet are surest for the goal;The blind shall see the City of the Soul.Lay down your burden at His feet to-night.”
“But, Father, I am broken now and blind,
And I have sought, and I have lost the way.”
To which the stranger: “What would Jesus say?
Hark! In the silence of the heart ‘tis said—
By their own weakness are the feeble sped;
The humblest feet are surest for the goal;
The blind shall see the City of the Soul.
Lay down your burden at His feet to-night.”
Now while the fire, replenished, bathes in lightThe young face scrawled with suffering and care,Flinging ironic glories on the hairAnd glinting on dull eyes that once flashed blue,The sick one tells the story of old HughTo him whose face, averted from the glow,Still lurks in gloom. The winds of battle blowOnce more along the steep. Again one seesThe rescue from the fury of the Rees,The graybeard’s fondness for the gay lad; thenThe westward march with Major Henry’s menWith all that happened there upon the Grand.
Now while the fire, replenished, bathes in light
The young face scrawled with suffering and care,
Flinging ironic glories on the hair
And glinting on dull eyes that once flashed blue,
The sick one tells the story of old Hugh
To him whose face, averted from the glow,
Still lurks in gloom. The winds of battle blow
Once more along the steep. Again one sees
The rescue from the fury of the Rees,
The graybeard’s fondness for the gay lad; then
The westward march with Major Henry’s men
With all that happened there upon the Grand.
“And so we hit the trail of Henry’s band,”The youth continues; “for we feared to die:And dread of shame was ready with the lieWe carried to our comrades. Hugh was deadAnd buried there beside the Grand, we said.Could any doubt that what we said was true?They even praised our courage! But I knew!The nights were hell because I heard his criesAnd saw the crows a-pecking at his eyes,The kiotes tearing at him. O my God!I tried and tried to think him under sod;But every time I slept it was the same.And then one night—I lay awake—he came!I say he came—I know I hadn’t slept!Amid a light like rainy dawn, he creptOut of the dark upon his hands and knees.The wound he got that day among the ReesWas like red fire. A snarl of bloody hairHung round the eyes that had a pleading stare,And down the ruined face and gory beardBig tear-drops rolled. He went as he appeared,Trailing a fog of light that died away.And I grew old before I saw the day.O Father, I had paid too much for breath!The Devil traffics in the fear of death,And may God pity anyone who buysWhat I have bought with treachery and lies—This rat-like gnawing in my breast!
“And so we hit the trail of Henry’s band,”
The youth continues; “for we feared to die:
And dread of shame was ready with the lie
We carried to our comrades. Hugh was dead
And buried there beside the Grand, we said.
Could any doubt that what we said was true?
They even praised our courage! But I knew!
The nights were hell because I heard his cries
And saw the crows a-pecking at his eyes,
The kiotes tearing at him. O my God!
I tried and tried to think him under sod;
But every time I slept it was the same.
And then one night—I lay awake—he came!
I say he came—I know I hadn’t slept!
Amid a light like rainy dawn, he crept
Out of the dark upon his hands and knees.
The wound he got that day among the Rees
Was like red fire. A snarl of bloody hair
Hung round the eyes that had a pleading stare,
And down the ruined face and gory beard
Big tear-drops rolled. He went as he appeared,
Trailing a fog of light that died away.
And I grew old before I saw the day.
O Father, I had paid too much for breath!
The Devil traffics in the fear of death,
And may God pity anyone who buys
What I have bought with treachery and lies—
This rat-like gnawing in my breast!
“I knewI couldn’t rest until I buried Hugh;And so I told the Major I would goTo Atkinson with letters, ere the snowHad choked the trails. Jules wouldn’t come along;He didn’t seem to realize the wrong;He called me foolish, couldn’t understand.I rode alone—not south, but to the Grand.Daylong my horse beat thunder from the sod,Accusing me; and all my prayers to GodSeemed flung in vain at bolted gates of brass.And in the night the wind among the grassHissed endlessly the story of my shame.
“I knew
I couldn’t rest until I buried Hugh;
And so I told the Major I would go
To Atkinson with letters, ere the snow
Had choked the trails. Jules wouldn’t come along;
He didn’t seem to realize the wrong;
He called me foolish, couldn’t understand.
I rode alone—not south, but to the Grand.
Daylong my horse beat thunder from the sod,
Accusing me; and all my prayers to God
Seemed flung in vain at bolted gates of brass.
And in the night the wind among the grass
Hissed endlessly the story of my shame.
“I do not know how long I rode: I cameUpon the Grand at last, and found the place,And it was empty. Not a sign or traceWas left to show what end had come to Hugh.And oh that grave! It gaped upon the blue,A death-wound pleading dumbly for the slain.I filled it up and fled across the plain,And somehow came to Atkinson at last.And there I heard the living Hugh had passedAlong the river northward in the Fall!O Father, he had found the strength to crawlThat long, heart-breaking distance back to life,Though Jules had taken blanket, steel and knife,And I, his trusted comrade, had his gun!
“I do not know how long I rode: I came
Upon the Grand at last, and found the place,
And it was empty. Not a sign or trace
Was left to show what end had come to Hugh.
And oh that grave! It gaped upon the blue,
A death-wound pleading dumbly for the slain.
I filled it up and fled across the plain,
And somehow came to Atkinson at last.
And there I heard the living Hugh had passed
Along the river northward in the Fall!
O Father, he had found the strength to crawl
That long, heart-breaking distance back to life,
Though Jules had taken blanket, steel and knife,
And I, his trusted comrade, had his gun!
“They said I’d better stay at Atkinson,Because old Hugh was surely hunting me,White-hot to kill. I did not want to fleeOr hide from him. I even wished to die,If so this aching cancer of a lieMight be torn out forever. So I went,As eager as the homesick homeward bent,In search of him and peace.But I was cursed.For even when his stolen rifle burstAnd spewed upon me this eternal night,I might not die as any other might;But God so willed that friendly Piegans cameTo spare me yet a little unto shame.O Father, is there any hope for me?”
“They said I’d better stay at Atkinson,
Because old Hugh was surely hunting me,
White-hot to kill. I did not want to flee
Or hide from him. I even wished to die,
If so this aching cancer of a lie
Might be torn out forever. So I went,
As eager as the homesick homeward bent,
In search of him and peace.
But I was cursed.
For even when his stolen rifle burst
And spewed upon me this eternal night,
I might not die as any other might;
But God so willed that friendly Piegans came
To spare me yet a little unto shame.
O Father, is there any hope for me?”
“Great hope indeed, my son!” so huskilyThe other answers. “I recall a caseLike yours—no matter what the time and place—‘Twas somewhat like the story that you tell;Each seeking and each sought, and both in hell;But in the tale I mind, they met at last.”
“Great hope indeed, my son!” so huskily
The other answers. “I recall a case
Like yours—no matter what the time and place—
‘Twas somewhat like the story that you tell;
Each seeking and each sought, and both in hell;
But in the tale I mind, they met at last.”
The youth sits up, white-faced and breathing fast:“They met, you say? What happened? Quick! Oh quick!”
The youth sits up, white-faced and breathing fast:
“They met, you say? What happened? Quick! Oh quick!”
“The old man found the dear lad blind and sickAnd both forgave—‘twas easy to forgive—For oh we have so short a time to live—”Whereat the youth: “Who’s here? The Black Robe’s gone!Whose voice is this?”
“The old man found the dear lad blind and sick
And both forgave—‘twas easy to forgive—
For oh we have so short a time to live—”
Whereat the youth: “Who’s here? The Black Robe’s gone!
Whose voice is this?”
The gray of winter dawnNow creeping round the door-flap, lights the placeAnd shows thin fingers groping for a faceDeep-scarred and hoary with the frost of yearsWhereover runs a new springtide of tears.
The gray of winter dawn
Now creeping round the door-flap, lights the place
And shows thin fingers groping for a face
Deep-scarred and hoary with the frost of years
Whereover runs a new springtide of tears.
“O Jamie, Jamie, Jamie—I am Hugh!There was no Black Robe yonder—Will I do?”
“O Jamie, Jamie, Jamie—I am Hugh!
There was no Black Robe yonder—Will I do?”