The Price of the Prairie: A Story of KansasMcCarter, Margaret Hill
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The Price of the Prairie: A Story of Kansas
McCarter, Margaret Hill
Kansas -- Fiction; Western stories
I was in Jean's land now. I had come to my final hour with him. The
Baronets were never cowardly. Was it inherited courage, or was it the
spirit of power in that letter, Marjie's message of love to me, that
gave me grace there? Followed then a battle royal, brute strength
against brute strength. All the long score of defeated effort, all the
jealousy and hate of years, all the fury of final conflict, all the mad
frenzy of the instinct of self-preservation, all the savage lust for
blood (most terrible in the human tiger), were united in Jean. He
combined a giant's strength and an Indian's skill with the dominant
courage and coolness of a son of France. Against these things I put my
strength in that strange struggle on the rocky ledge in the gathering
twilight of that February day. The little cove on the bluff-side, was
not more than fifteen feet across at its widest place. The shelf of
sloping stone made a fairly even floor. In this little retreat I had
been bound and unable to move for an hour. My muscles were tense at
first. I was dazed, too, by a sudden deliverance from the slow torture
that had seemed inevitable for me. The issue, however, was no less awful
than swift. I had just cause for wreaking vengeance on my foeman. Twice
he had attempted to take O'mie's life. The boy might be dead from the
headlong fall at this very minute, for all I knew. The clods were only
two days old on Bud Anderson's grave. Nothing but the skill and
sacrifice of O'mie had saved Marjie from this brute's lust six years
before. While he lived, my own life was never for one moment safe. And
more than everything else was the possibility of a fate for Marjie too
horrible for me to dwell upon. All these things swept through my mind
like a lightning flash.
If ever the Lord in the moment of supreme peril gave courage and
self-control, these good and perfect gifts were mine in that evening's
strife. With the first plunge he had thrown me, and he was struggling to
free his hand from my grasp to get at my throat; his knee was on my
chest.
"You're in my land now," he hissed in my ear.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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