The Bossier banner. [volume] (Bellevue, Bossier Parish, La.) 1859-1952, 1893-09-14
THE MAGNET OF DEATH.
A Sad and Impenetrable Mystery of tho
Staked Plains.


Staked Plains.
Oh. Listen to that cry.
No, it is not the howl of coyote or
wClf-not the half-human cry of
panther-not a signal from Indians
creeping up on opposite sides of the
camp.
1t is not a cry, but note-a long
drawn, quavering note-half song, half
lament-the saddeSt, loneliest note that
ever fell upon human ear in the dark
ness. 1t does not come from the cedar
thickets of the foothills, but from out
yonder--from some point on that
dreary waste of sand and serpent and
cactus which was once a great lake,
but which is now called the staked
plains. 1t is mighty desert in which
Lake Erie would be lost in sight-a
waste which would swallow every drop
of water in Lake Michigan and thirst
for more.
Some soldier or hunter who sees the
glimmer of our campfire afar off and
whose thirsting lips involuntarily part
to utter that sound?
No! Some woman lost from train or
camp days ago, and now calling out in
the frenzy of despair? No! Men have
whispered to each other that it was
the voice of child. Men have pointed
out there to the blacker night and
called it the note of a night bird-of
some bird which rested in the silent
thickets by day and stretched it's wings
over the sandy waste after darkness
had come to add to it's loneliness. No
one knows. No man has ever beheld it.
No man ever will.
There it is again! 1t may be hum
dred yards or mile away. 1t is a soft,
clear note, loud enough to catch the
ear of every man awake, but not loud
enough to waken those who slumber
after the hard days march. 1t is like
signal 1t is signal 1t has drawn
scores of men away from their camp
fires and out upon that lonely plain to
be heard of no more. You cannot see
the chain of sentinels posted on that
side of the camp, their backs to the
Comanche mountains and their faces to
the Rio Pecos river, two hundred miles
across this plain of death. AS the soft,
sad notes come futtering up from the
sands still hot from the August sun,
one of them starts up and listens with
bated breath, the others shake them
selves and mutter curses.
''Come! Come! Gomez
The sentinel looks about him in a
dazed, wild way. Ten minutes ago his
breath came faster as he thought of
the-serpents crawling about out there
with their eyes glistening in the dark
ness-of the bleaching skulls and bones
strewn about to testify to thirst and
hunger and worse-of the tales he had
heard at the campfire of companies of
soldiers wiped off the muster-rolls as
they attempted the crossing.
Come! Come! Gomez
He has forgotten everything. He
looks about him as one in a dream. He
is no longer a soldier-no longer a
sentinel. His eyes have that queer,
puzzled look of one mesmerized. His
limbs have the uncertain movements of
wounded man seeking shelter. His
carbine slips from his grasp, but he
does not realize it. Some one is calling
to him; power which he cannot resist
is dragging him from his post
Soft and low and plaintive. He has
no dread of the serpents-no thought of
the bristling cactus-no fear of the
great lizards which dig their retreats
under the bones his feet will kick aside.
On-on-on-deserti his post-leav-
ing camp behind-straight out upon
the desert until the darkness swallows
him up forever. Before him. unseen.
but its soft notes enticing him on, is
that something which no man has ever
beheld and returned to his fellow-men.
1t cries: Come! Come! Gomez and he
follows blindly after
Daylight comes. There is no trail to
follow. A puff of wind has obliterated
the footprints as if they had been made
on the surface of the water. There are
the ugly cactuses-the serpents and
lizards, the hideous skulls which
seemed to grin at us as the sun went
down and our camp-fres played upon
them with ghostly light Where is the
missing sentinel? Out there somewhere,
miles and miles away. The darkness
has gone, but he still hears that some
thing calling him, and he is still follow
ing. To-night-to-m orrow-next dav
he will sink down and die, and the
Field of Desolation will have more
bones to hold up to the sun and shower
to bleach and whiten and crumble
away to death But the mystery of the
Staked Plains will still remain a mvs-
terry. Detroit Free Press.