News and citizen. [volume] (Morrisville, Vt. ;) 1881-current, 1886-04-15
IN THE CLUTCH.
Story of the Prairies of the Far West,
by NJ. Quad.

1t is a mid-winter day, clear and sun
shiny, and the two or three inches of
snow under foot is slowly melting. Two
| or three more such days as this and the
southern sides of the little hillocks
would show the short grass which has
| been hidden so long.
A traveller on horseback is jogging
slowly homewards over the trail which
stretches out across the broad prairie
like a never ending serpent. He
! whistles and sings, and has no fear.
Why should he? A dozen miles away,
just where the snow capped plain has a
faint fringe of green is his home. 1t is
a plain trail, and there is no one to mo-
lest him. The sound of his voice, as he
huns an old familiar air, is stin family
sounding in our. ears when a shiver
seems to pass through the air. 1t is a
sort of magic touch that chills you for
the moment. There are a dozen rabbits
in sight, and each one is making for the
timber fringed creek, eight or nine
miles away. They run as if greatly
alarmed, and yet no one has frightened
them. There is a second SILVER, and
we instinctively turn to the west You
may ride fifty miles in that direction
and not meet with tree or bush or fence.
Two or three miles away is a stray
horse. A moment ago he was staring
at us as if he had never seen human be-
fore. That second shiver started him
off for the timber at wild gallop. He
looks back as he runs, as if he feared
that wolves were on his trail.
Seel AS if coming up out of the
rrro,,n1 n hlaol- nlnI11 hQc
caught the western sky and is climbing
up. At first sight 1t was no larger than
blanket, IN twenty seconds it is mile
long. 1t is hardly a minute by the
watch before the whole west is gray
black, and the cloud is driving faster
than locomotive runs.
The traveller still whistles and sings.
The sun is warm upon him and the
black cloud has yet sent out no sign.
Of sudden the sun goes out of sight,
as if a funeral pail had been drawn over
its face, and the horse wheels and faces
the west. There is no need of signal
now. There is an icy breath rushing
along which crisps the melting snow as
1t touches, and the whole west is white
with snow-fakes The horse holds his
head high and snorts in alarm. The
rider utters an exclamation of surprise
"a groan of despair, and then the race
begins. Race? No! The blizzard is
tearing along at the rate of sixty miles
an hour. Instinct warns the horse to
push for shelter. Wife and children in
the cabin on the creek are calling for
the rider.
No man is brave who will not strug-
I'll DID, hA1,
Midday has been turned to night. The |
clear atmosphere is so oppressed with
? hiring snow that one must breath by |
yasps. The wind bowls, raves, shrieks,
The breath of the newborn
blizzard cuts, stabs, thrusts, withers.
The trail is blotted out in an instant.
Instinct is baliled by cold and hurri
,ane.
The horse has not run two miles be-
ore he is bewildcred. After that he
AN run no more on account of the
lepth of snow. He stops, turns his
read from the biting blasts, and says
~ his attitude: 81 can do no more"
The rider leans forward on his saddle
md feels his blood chilling and his
limbs growing useless. There is
iercer, more exultant shrek to the
blast, but the traveller smiles at it. He
s growing warmer now. The wind
lon't cut and slash as it did. The biz
lard will soon pass. and the sun will
shine again. He will sleep for quar-
;er of an hour-ten minutes-ive. He
must sleep.
And days after, when the walls and
ears of widows and orphans have given
olace to grief which lasts through a
lifetime, the soft south winds will melt
he drift and reveal horse and rider
rozen stiff and stark. There will be
words of regret to-day-scarcely a re-
tomorrow. The prairies of
he West are as the great lakes of the
East. The awful storms of winter
lain their victims on the one; the
caring gales of summer demand their
ound of flesh on the other.