Prairie FlowersHendryx, James B. (James Beardsley)
General
Prairie Flowers
Hendryx, James B. (James Beardsley)
Western stories
He stood up and surveyed his surroundings. At the water's edge, not a
hundred feet below the spot where the horse had dragged them against the
rocks, the flat-boat lay heavily aground. Relieved of its burden, it had
been caught in the slowly revolving back current that circled the tiny
bay, and had drifted ashore. Removing the scarf from his wrist, he
knotted it into place and descended to the boat where he fished his hat
from the half-filled hull. The handle of the ax caught his eye and
searching his pockets, he examined his supply of matches, and cast the
worthless sticks from him with an oath: "Heads plumb soaked off, or I
could build her a fire!"
As he ascended the bank the sun just topped the rim of the bench. Its
rays felt grateful to the chilled man as he stood looking down at the
sleeping girl. "It'll dry her, an' warm her up, while I'm huntin' that
damn cayuse," he muttered. "The quicker she gets to some ranch house,
the better it'll be. I wish I knew where I'm at."
Once more he descended to the water's edge, and searched the ground. It
was but the work of a moment to pick up the trail of the galloping
horse, and he followed it up the coulee, making his way gingerly in his
stockinged feet among the loose stones and patches of prickly pears.
"Wish I'd left my boots in the boat, but I figured old Powder Face
would stop when he got to shore instead of smashin' us again' the rocks
an' lightin' out like the devil was after him--he's old enough to know
better. An' I wonder how in hell she come to be ridin' him? Powder Face
is one of Dad's own special horses."
The coulee wound interminably. The cowboy glanced at his feet where a
toe protruded from a hole in his sock, and seating himself on a boulder
he removed the socks and crammed them into his pocket. "Wouldn't be
nothin' left of 'em but legs in a little bit," he grumbled, and
instinctively felt for his tobacco and papers. He scowled at the soggy
mass and replaced them. "Ain't got a match even if I did dry the
tobacco. I sure feel like I'd died an' went to hell!"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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