Ours is a service brute-hateful and grim; Little we love the wild task that we seek; Are they dainty to deal with--the fear-rigid limb, The curse and the struggle, the blasphemous shriek? Nay, but men must endure while their bodies have breath; God made us strong to avenge Him the weak-- To dispense his sure wages of sin--which is death. We stand for our duty: while wrong works its will, Our search shall be stern and our course shall be wide; Retribution shall prove that the just liveth still, And its horrors and dangers our hearts can abide, That safety and honor may tread in our path; The vengeance of Heaven shall speed at our side, As we follow unwearied our mission of wrath. We are the whirlwinds that winnow the West-- We scatter the wicked like straw! We are the Nemeses, never at rest-- We are Justice, and Right, and the Law! _Margaret Ashmun._ THE BANDIT'S GRAVE 'MID lava rock and glaring sand, 'Neath the desert's brassy skies, Bound in the silent chains of death A border bandit lies. The poppy waves her golden glow Above the lowly mound; The cactus stands with lances drawn,-- A martial guard around. His dreams are free from guile or greed, Or foray's wild alarms. No fears creep in to break his rest In the desert's scorching arms. He sleeps in peace beside the trail, Where the twilight shadows play, Though they watch each night for his return A thousand miles away. From the mesquite groves a night bird calls When the western skies grow red; The sand storm sings his deadly song Above the sleeper's head. His steed has wandered to the hills And helpless are his hands, Yet peons curse his memory Across the shifting sands. The desert cricket tunes his pipes When the half-grown moon shines dim; The sage thrush trills her evening song-- But what are they to him? A rude-built cross beside the trail That follows to the west Casts its long-drawn, ghastly shadow Across the sleeper's breast. A lone coyote comes by night And sits beside his bed, Sobbing the midnight hours away With gaunt, up-lifted head. The lizard trails his aimless way Across the lonely mound, When the star-guards of the desert Their pickets post around. The winter snows will heap their drifts Among the leafless sage; The pallid hosts of the blizzard Will lift their voice in rage; The gentle rains of early spring Will woo the flowers to bloom, And scatter their fleeting incense O'er the border bandit's tomb. _Charles Pitt._ THE OLD MACKENZIE TRAIL