Molly McDonald: A Tale of the Old FrontierParrish, Randall
General
Molly McDonald: A Tale of the Old Frontier
Parrish, Randall
Women pioneers -- Fiction
"Well, then, they could n't a ben far from the Cimarron when the storm
come. They 'd be safe enough under the bluffs; have wood fer a fire,
and lay thar mighty comfortable. That's whar them bucks are, all
right. Why, damn it, man, we 've got to get through. 'T ain't just
our fool lives that's at stake. Brace up!"
"How far have we come?"
"A good ten miles, an' the compass has kep' us straight."
They drew in closer together, and munched a hard cracker apiece,
occasionally exchanging a muttered word or two, thrashing their limbs
about to keep up circulation, and dampening their lips with snow. They
were but dim, spectral shapes in the darkness, the air filled with
crystal pellets, swept about by a merciless wind, the horses standing
tails to the storm and heads drooping. In spite of the light
refraction of the snow the eyes could scarcely see two yards away
through the smother. Above, about, the ceaseless wind howled, its icy
breath chilling to the bone. Carroll clambered stiffly into his
saddle, crying and swearing from weakness and pain. The others,
stumbling about in the deep snow, which had drifted around them during
the brief halt, stripped the blanket from Wade's dead body, and tucked
it in about Carroll as best they could.
"Now keep kicking and thrashing around, George," ordered the Sergeant
sternly. "For God's sake, don't go to sleep, or you 'll be where Jim
is. We 'll haul you out of this, old man. Sam, you take the rear, and
hit Carroll a whack every few minutes; I'll break trail. Forward! now."
They plunged into it, ploughing a way through the drifts, the reluctant
horses dragging back at first, and drifting before the fierce sweep of
the wind, in spite of every effort at guidance. It was an awful
journey, every step torture, but Hamlin bent to it, clinging grimly to
the bit of his animal, his other arm protecting his eyes from the sting
of the wind. Behind, Wasson wielded a quirt, careless whether its lash
struck the horse's flank or Carroll. And across a thousand miles of
snow-covered plain, the storm howled down upon them in redoubled fury,
blinding their eyes, making them stagger helplessly before its blasts.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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