Abilene weekly reflector. [volume] (Abilene, Kan.) 1888-1935, 1888-10-04

So much for the wolves know: so much
for wolves whose hearts are broken and
whose sides have ached often enough under
the heavy whip of their master. SO much
for the tame wolves who do clumsy tricks
and have learned the beauty of obedience,
forgetting, at the same time, the watch
word of all wolves, that union is strength.
Return we to my pack, which is moving
like one big machine, and the component
parts of which are together giving tongue
The snow, for them, is in perfect order;
but somebody ahead may perchance find
his horses crushing through the thin frozen
surface at every stride. The darkness suits
the hunters well, but somebody ahead may
be praying for that moonlight which, at
present, only shows silver fringes on black
cloud. To them, their wolf music is their
dinner gong; but somebody ahead may
hear nothing more beautiful than his own
passing bell in the distant Mutations, rising
and falling and coming over the snow.
Fortunately thought and a pen travel
quicker than even gray wolves; therefore
though not knowing with certainty
whether it can catch us again before the
end of the story-we will leave the racing
pack and draw level with the sledge.
Here it is, sure enough, blowing through
the snow and spinning out those two paral-
lei lines as it goes. The stout brown horses
are galloping steadily and the solitary man
sitting behind them does not use whip or
word at present. He must be some miles
nearer home ere the last struggle begins,
and he not only knows the road well, but
can also guess with tolerable accuracy
at the distance which still lends en-
chantment to the wolf music in the dark
ness behind him. Physically, Rollo
Svantsen is a typical Norwegian-strong
and in the prime Of life. He has
been in passing peril from the wolves
before to-day; the rug now wrapped about
him, one corner of which flaps and rustles
in the snow, is made of wolf skins Tonight
he appears anxious, however; his horses are
powerful but not feet, and in his Judgment,
when the journey is ended, there will be a
very short quarter of mile between his
sledge and its pursuers. AS though to en-
courage him, the moon at last rises free of
the far-stretching cloud that, till the pres
ent, has hidden it. A clear white light
floods the darkness, and the snowy plain
begins to widen out upon every side as the
driver, rising in his seat, casts one search
ing glance ahead, looks to the fastening of
big leathern bag which is tied to the floor
of the sledge, and then gazes long and care
fully behind him. Yes, there they are, Just
little dark shadow on the waste, a shadow
which one less experienced might have
overlooked altogether, but a shadow that is
moving hardly less quickly than those
cast by the rack of broken clouds, drifting
across the moon.
What Svantsen had seen in front of him
was black line on the horison and a tall
finger post, still far ahead, where two roads
met. What he had not seen, was a figure on
foot, travelling toward the same black line
upon the horison.
The pedestrian is moving but slowly, and
has very little more running left in him.
The snow retards every step, and clogs in
Jumps upon the heels of his boots. There
is no track to go by, but he keeps straight as
he can for the tall finger post. To reach the
black line before those flying feet in the
rear have closed with him, is, he knows, i'm
possible; and yet he staggers forward. He
can not help himself. The instinct of self
preservation would make him struggle on
even though safety were hundred miles
distant instead of scarce five. And on he
will drag his tired body till he drops, or till
the wolves put him down.
Then comes-think of 1.-THE sound of
sledge-bells in his ears, the one earthly
melody he knows that, in his present sore
strait, can mean succor and salvation. He
heeds it not at first. The Norwegians are a
superstitious folk, and our poor wretch
thinks that the night demons are abroad,
dancing in the drifting snow-wreaths, laugh
ing at his agony and tuning the distant howl
ings into the sound of bells
Sledge-bells do not always make music
There is nothing to suggest pleasure and
plumes and nodding of proud equine heads
in the harsh jangle that now rushes down
upon the traveller. Svantsen's horses have
long since caught the distant chorus and
their ears are beginning to lie back and their
necks to stretch out. Jangle, jangle thud,
thud, thud, go hoofs and bells. A hot steam
streams away from the animals, and the
bright red ray of little lampin front of the
sledge casts a glow upon their sweating
TANKS. The driver is standing up now, and
unwinds the lash of his long whip. His hat
is off and he looks with frown behind him.
To us, horses and man and vehicle seem but
the incarnation of flying terror; to him on
foot. chariot sent straight from God.
And thus they meet, these men, than
whom Norway could not show two enemies
more bitter. They are jewellers in the little
village of Joksdal, in Finmark, the most
northern division of Tromso, or Northern
Norway. There had their fathers lived be-
fore them, and there had Svantsen, rich
proud and the autOcrat of his birthplace,
cruelty wronged Eric Skien, young herds
man and poor one.
An old, stale story it was of two men low
ing the same woman. Young Eric had been
every thing to her until the other came
creeping into her heart, ousting the old love
and replacing it with one ten times as power
full. She dare not tell her betrothed, and upon
the eve of her marriage Svantsen had stolen
the girl away with her own consent. married
her in distan hamlet, and then, returning
braved the black storm of rage that swept
over him. All believed this step to be one
of most lawless abduction upon the mans
part, and he only thinking for his wife and
her reputation, was content that in such
belief Joksdal should remain. Eric Skien.
however, was wiser. He had long noted
the change in his sweetheart, and the blow
did not fall so heavily upon him, therefore,
as his friends supposed He was a good
hearted, easy-going, loutish fellow, not over
quick of comprehension, but popular man
among his comrades and one with kind
soul ir him. That he would nurse his re
venge until it grew into something strong
and terrible. and could walk alone, was the
general opinion in Joksdal. But Skien
breatheG no word of his future intentions to
any body, and went on living and work
ing tamely enough, though with most
Of the laughter and rough frolic blot
ted out of his life. 1t is improbable that he |
would ever have seriously set about retalia- |
lion or gone far out of his way to get it. |
Dwellers in northern lands, all things being |
equal, are not so fruitful of violence and the |
Knife as hot-blooded men of the south Nor |
have ther nuite snch lcaannass and no hill. |