Part 8 (1/2)

”They went off sou'-west,” shouted the sergeant. ”I should----” A furious blast as the gale recommenced carried away whatever else he might have said, and Jim was alone with his good horse on the prairie.

There was no hesitancy in his mind. South-west he would push as hard as he could go. The animals had probably not gone far; he must soon come up with them, and the sooner the better.

Gallantly his steed stepped out through the deepening snowdrifts. Fain would the sensible animal have turned and made his way back to his stable, but Jim's credit was at stake, and no turning back was allowed.

Mile after mile was covered; where could those animals be in this storm?

Ha! a sudden furious rush of wind brought Jim's horse nearly to its knees. How the gale roared, and how the snow drove in his face! Up and on again, south-west after those horses!

But which _was_ the south-west? The daylight had completely faded; not a gleam showed where the sun had set. Jim felt for his pocket-compa.s.s; it was gone! The wind, blowing apparently from every quarter in succession, was no guide at all. Nothing was visible more than a yard away; nothing within that distance but driving snowflakes. Any tracks of the runaways would be covered up in a few moments; in any case there was no light to discern them.

[Sidenote: Lost!]

However, it was of no use to stand still. By pressing on he might overtake his quarry, and after fright had driven them away, instinct might lead them home. That was now the only chance of safety. Would he ever find them?

Deeper and deeper sank his horse into the snow; harder and harder it became to raise its hoofs clear for the next step. Snorting with fear, and trembling in every limb, the gallant beast struggled on. He _must_ go on! To stop would be fatal. Benumbed as he was by the intense cold, bewildered by the storm, with hand and voice Jim cheered on his steed, and n.o.bly it responded.

Suddenly it sank under him. A hollow, treacherously concealed by the snow, had received them both into its chilly depths.

”Up again, old boy!” cried Jim, springing from the saddle, and tugging at the rein, sinking to the waist in the soft snow as he did so. ”Now then, one more try!”

The faithful horse struggled desperately to respond to the words. But its strength was spent; its utmost exertions would not suffice to extricate it. The soft snow gave way under its hoofs; deeper and deeper it sank. With a despairing scream it made a last futile effort, then it stretched its neck along the snow, and with a sob lay down to die.

Further efforts to move it would be thrown away, and Jim knew it. In a few minutes it would be wrapped in its winding-sheet.

With a lump in his throat Jim turned away--whither? His own powers had nearly ebbed out. Of what use was it to battle further against the gale, when he knew not in which direction to go?

With a sharp setting of the teeth he set himself to stimulate into activity his benumbed faculties. Where was he? What was he doing there?

Ah, yes, he was after those stampeded horses. Well, he would never come up with them now. He had done his best, and he had failed.

Taking out his notebook, as well as his benumbed powers would let him, Jim scrawled a few words in the darkness. The powers of nature had been too strong for him. What was a man to set himself against that tempest?

But stay! there was One stronger than the gale. Man was beyond hearing, but was not G.o.d everywhere? Now, if ever, was the time to call upon Him.

No words would come but the familiar ”Our Father,” which Jim had said every night for longer than he could remember. He had no power to think out any other pet.i.tion. ”Our Father,” he muttered drowsily, ”which art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name, Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done. . . .”

The murmur ceased; the speaker was asleep.

They found him a few days later, when the snow had ceased to fall, and the wind swept over the prairie, stripping off the deadly white covering, and leaving the khaki jacket a conspicuous object. The sergeant saw it, and pointed--he could not trust his voice to speak.

Eagerly the little band bent over the body of their comrade.

”Why, he's smiling! And see here! he's been writing something in his notebook. What is it?”

Reverently they took the book from the brown hand, and the sergeant read the words aloud:

”Lost, horse dead. Am trying to push on. Have done my best.”

”That he did. There was good stuff in him, lads, and perhaps he was wanted up aloft!”