CHAPTER XXXIII. – A RIDE AMONG SUNFLOWERS
WHEN Mrs. Horton learned of the flight of Lord Avondale and of the death of her friend, Lucy Osborn, she was prostrated with grief and chagrin. The Englishman had sent her a hastily-scrawled note, briefly stating that he released her daughter from their engagement, and that his immediate departure was of the greatest importance.
A few mornings after this, Ethel asked her father if she might go with him on a trip that he had planned to the Cimarron River. “I just feel, daddy,” said she, “like taking a wild ride down the valley. It will do me good. Mamma is much improved, and I can go as well as not.” The cattle king looked at his daughter with delighted astonishment. “Go? Of course you may,” said he. “Why, Ethel, you are beginning to look like yourself again. It will seem like old times to have my little girl galloping over the range with me.”
Soon they mounted their horses, and were off for an all-day jaunt. Ethel rode her horse with queenly grace, and, as they dashed along, the color came back into her velvet cheeks, and her face beamed once more with girlish delight. Occasionally a long-eared jack-rabbit would be startled from his cover, and go skipping away like a deer, while Ethel would rein her horse after him in a wild, mad gallop, not with any expectation of overtaking the rabbit, but simply in a spirit of frolicsome excitement.
“Look at the sunflowers, daddy!” exclaimed Ethel. “What a wonderful wealth of them!”
“Yes,” replied her father, “the sunflower, you know, is the emblem of our State. It grows here in generous profusion, and is certainly as emblematic of plenty, for the cattlemen at least, as the seeds of the pomegranate.”
As they advanced toward the Cimarron River, the fields of sunflowers grew more plentiful, and finally they found themselves in a veritable wilderness of this Kansas emblem. Hundreds of acres stretched away, thickly peopled with these blazing sun-worshipers, ever turning and following with their queenly heads the course of the king of day. The darkened multitude of seeds, like black-eyed-susans, were encircled with bordering crowns of yellowest gold. The gentle wind stirred them into rythmic melody of motion. Every petal seemed to have caught the sunshine of heaven, and to hold within its gracefully nodding head a warmth of welcome to the visitor. The brown stalks were suggestive of brawny health and strength, while their fanlike leaves presented an unrivaled background to the golden grandeur of a waving sea of yellow. They resembled an army of officers with a burnished epaulet on every shoulder.
Then, too, there was a grace in their lithe and willowy undulations expressing a poetry unspoken, which charmed the visitors into admiration and reverence for this floral emblem. Mingled with the beauties of this yellow sheen and graceful harmony, there seemed to be a rare independence and stateliness. A music like the rippling of many waters was suggested by the gently clashing arms and leaves of this wilderness of sunflowers. It was also like an anthem of hope, with liberty as its deathless theme. The soulful music seemed to float lazily, and to rest like a benediction on the shadows beneath the leaves and golden coronets. There was an odor, too, like redolent, languorous ether distilled by the alchemy of Nature, wooing the visitors away from the cares, the trials, the heartaches and the regrets of the great, harsh world.
Here amid the stately sunflowers, bathed in their celestial beauty, with the radiance of the sun deftly gathered and crystallized into crowns of glory, like hammered gold, the vexations of life and its trials were forgotten. The onlookers were lifted into a realm of ecstasy where songs without words abound. O gorgeous sunflower, incomparable in thy beauty, unequaled in thy queenliness, surpassing in thy stateliness, glorious in thy radiance, emblematic of freedom, liberty, and deathless love of justice! Indeed thou art the worthy emblem of a land of freedom, of a commonwealth asserting and establishing “man’s humanity to man.” The rose has its beauty and transcendent fragrance, the hyacinth its charm of color, the columbine its mountain freshness, the lily its stateliness of poise, the dandelion its golden warmth, the daisy its modesty, the honeysuckle its vining tendrils of love; but amid all the realm of the flowery kingdom, thou alone hast robbed the sun of his prismatic rays, and heaven hath crowned thee with a golden sceptre of everlasting superiority and imperishable majesty.
“Oh, daddy,” exclaimed Ethel, “what a gorgeous forest of flowers. I feel lost in admiration. I am prouder than ever, daddy, indeed I am, of being an American girl and a daughter of Kansas, that has the beautiful sunflower for its emblem.”
It was past noon when they dismounted for dinner at one of Mr. Horton’s ranch-houses on the banks of the river. They did not start on their return trip until late in the afternoon. When the sun had disappeared behind the horizon, they were still several miles down the valley from Horton’s Grove. Their road lay along the banks of the Manaroya, whose cool, purling waters talked incessantly in their flight.
They had reined their horses into a walk.
Ethel had become communicative, and, as she talked and laughed, her father was delighted; indeed, the cattle king was in a humor to be pleased with whatever Ethel might do or say. He told himself that the day had been a treat such as he had not enjoyed since Ethel went away to school.
“Do you know, daddy,” said she, “that I am really glad Lord Avondale has gone.”
Mr. Horton had not expected that his daughter would refer to the painful subject. “Well, Ethel,” said he, “I am glad to see that you are not cut up about it, although I expected you would be from what your mother said.”
“Not a bit, daddy; I did not love him. Could you not see that I was unhappy? But it seemed that there was no escape. Don’t look so scared, daddy, or I won’t talk to you.” Her silvery laugh floated away on the soft night winds, and John Horton tried to disguise his surprise.
“I don’t say, Ethel,” said he, “that it would not have been a great trial to me for you to have gone so far away. I thought it was your wish, however, and you know I am ready at all times to sacrifice all the beeves on the range to add to your happiness.”
“I don’t care to speak disrespectfully of any one, daddy, but I will say that mamma was not to blame as much as others, in this foolish ambition to have me wedded to a title. I am not the sort of American girl to value old English laces and bric-`-brac, simply because they are old.”
“How about your brain-worker, Ethel, that you once told me of?” asked her father, timidly.
“That’s just it, daddy, I love him and can’t stop. I wrote him that you were on our side and told him to come, but he never answered my letter.” She sighed wearily, and her voice was plaintively low. “Well, I’ve had a great day,” she went on, “and here we are at home again.”
As the father and daughter dismounted and walked up the terraced lawn toward the house, he said, “My little girl, you have made me very happy by giving me your confidence, and, under all circumstances, remember that I am, as you put it, always and forever on your side.”
She pressed his hand affectionately. “All right, daddy,” said she, “I may put your promise to a severe test before long.”
As they mounted the steps that led to the wide veranda, they found Mrs. Horton comfortably seated in an easy chair, entertaining Hugh Stanton and another gentleman.
“Why, Mr. Stanton!” exclaimed Ethel, advancing and bidding him welcome, “you are such a stranger at the Grove that I hardly knew you in this uncertain light.”
Mr. Horton grasped Hugh’s hand warmly. “At some other time,” said he, “I shall insist on your giving an account of yourself, and explaining your long absence from our home.”
The girl stood face to face with Hugh’s friend.
“Ethel,” said he, with trembling voice, “can you not bid me welcome?”
“Oh, Jack!” cried she, advancing and placing both her hands in his, “a thousand welcomes. How surprised and glad I am to see you.”
The touch of her hands and the responsive message of love from her eyes were more than Dr. Jack Redfield could stand. He caught her quickly in his arms and tenderly kissed her willing lips. Mrs. Horton was engaged for the moment in a conversation with Hugh, and had not noticed Ethel’s greeting of Doctor Redfield. Not so, however, with her father.
“Oh, daddy,” said she, turning to him, “come and welcome Jack – I mean Doctor Redfield. He is my – my brain-worker; don’t you remember?”
“Welcome, thrice welcome, Doctor Redfield,” said Mr. Horton, cordially, as he extended his hand with all the warmth of greeting of a frontiersman.
That night when Hugh and Doctor Redfield were gone, Ethel excused herself and went to her room. She was humming an old love-song as she left the veranda, and seemed as lighthearted as some bird that had suddenly gained its freedom from a caged bondage.
“Ethel seems to be very contented and happy over her ride,” observed Mrs. Horton.
“I fancy, my dear, that there are other reasons,” replied her husband.
“Indeed, how is that?” asked his wife. John Horton replied by inquiring about Doctor Redfield.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Horton, “Doctor Redfield is a Chicagoan. He was my physician at Lake Geneva, and for awhile I feared that Ethel really cared for him.”
“And if she had?” observed Mr. Horton, interrogatively.
“Oh, Doctor Redfield was recommended very highly, professionally and otherwise,” replied his wife, “but you know, – well, Lucy and I had planned it differently.” She spoke in a slow and hesitating manner. Mr. Horton made no reply. Presently she said, “The death of Mrs. Osborn has been a great shock to me. I cannot bring myself to believe those shameful rumors about her and Lord Avondale; I really can’t.”
“My dear wife,” replied Mr. Horton, with more firmness than was usual with him, “it is proper to let the dead rest in peace. The atmosphere of strict propriety, as a matter of fact, bristled with interrogation points, though unknown to you. Mrs. Osborn’s death, however, calmed all into silent and mute forgiveness. It is best that it should be so. I do not regard it as strange that you should have been deceived by the machinations of a clever woman and of a consummate scoundrel. Avondale was a mercenary adventurer, and used his newly acquired title as a social ‘jimmy’ to break into the sanctity of our home. Let us be truly grateful for Ethel’s escape. That is one reason, I imagine, why she is so happy to-night.”
“And pray, do you think there are other reasons?” asked Mrs. Horton, apprehensively.
“There is one other reason,” replied her husband, “that I know of. Ethel is in love with Doctor Redfield. I have so much confidence in her judgment that I cannot question the wisdom of her choice. Her wishes and happiness, my dear, must be paramount to all else.”
Mrs. Horton had never before heard her husband speak so decisively about Ethel, and it began to dawn upon her that she had been cruelly deceived by Mrs. Osborn and Lenox Avondale. Even Ethel had not confided in her as a daughter should. It was too much for Mrs. Horton, and genuine tears filled her eyes. In her ambition for her daughter’s place in society, she felt she had been imposed upon, and it cut her deeply.
“Come, come, my dear,” said her husband, observing her tears, “I am sure Ethel does not blame you. She thinks, and, I believe, rightly, that you have been imposed upon by those far more designing than it was possible for you to imagine.”
A little later Mrs. Horton rapped at the door of her daughter’s room. Ethel’s face was flushed with the joy of her great love for Jack. He had given her the letters that had been intercepted by Mrs. Osborn, and also the letter purporting to have been written by her mother. She knew the handwriting, and imagined that her mother was ignorant of the intrigue that had kept Jack from her so long. As Mrs. Horton entered the room, Ethel saw traces of tears on her cheeks. The stately woman came close to her daughter and caressed and kissed her affectionately.
“Oh, Ethel, my child, why did n’t you tell me that you cared so much for Doctor Redfield?” Ethel was astonished. She looked up at her mother and saw the old-time tenderness divested of all ambition. “Oh, mamma,” she cried, resting her head gently upon her mother’s breast, “I have so often wanted to, but you would n’t let me. I can tell you to-night,” she sobbed, “for you are again the mother I knew before I went away to that horrid London school.”
Jack Redfield and Hugh were almost too happy for sleep, and talked far into the night, laying plans for Jack’s future. It was a bright moonlit night, and Jack Redfield declared, with a lover’s enthusiasm, that it was his reciprocated affection for Ethel that was turning the night into day, – a reflex glow of his deathless love lighting up the world.
The next morning when Hugh went to the bank he found Judge Lynn waiting for him. The latter pushed his hat well back on his head, as if in a sort of desperate and determined mood, and said: “Look ‘e ‘ere, Stanton, I want to borrow a thousand dollars. What’s banks for, anyway? I am ‘lowin’ if you’re doin’ a bankin’ business, you nachally want to loan money. Is n’t that so?”
Hugh replied that it was if the bank had money to loan and the borrower had proper security.
“Well,” said the judge, “I want to borrow a thousand dollars.”
“What security have you to offer?” asked Hugh, looking up from his bank ledger.
“My own name, sir; jist the individual name of Linus Lynn,” said the judge. “Speakin’ deep down an’ continuous-like, I am thinkin’ my own personal’ty is good enough for a thousand any day; bet yer life.”
Hugh looked up and saw that the judge was in earnest. After a moment he said, “Well, Judge, I am only the cashier of this banking-house, and I would rather refer important matters of this kind to the president. Now, if you had time to wait a little while, until Captain Osborn comes in, I will mention the matter to him. Understand, Judge, personally I would like very much to accommodate you. Can you wait?”
“Can I wait? Well, if you think I can’t, you’re strugglin’ in the coils of error. I should say I could. Hav’ n’t a suit on the docket that’s half as important as tendin’ to this here little bankin’ matter.” With this, the judge tucked his thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest, crossed one foot over the other, and leaned his back against the railings of the bank – and waited.
Captain Osborn came in, and Hugh, giving him a knowing look, stated Judge Lynn’s wishes.
“Well,” said Captain Osborn, “I have no objections, personally, that I know of, but we usually have security.”
“Now, look ‘e ‘ere, Captain,” said the judge, “I’m assoomin’ that a note with my name signed to it is jist ‘bout as good as a gover’ment bond, and don’t you furgit it. I’ve never borrowed a dollar in this ‘ere bank in my life, and there is no use talkin’, I have jist got to have the money or I’ll be plumb locoed.”
“Well, Judge,” said the captain, laughing softly to himself, “if you can wait until we talk with Mr. Edward Doole, our vice-president, we will see what can be done for you. He will be here in a few minutes, and I would rather defer to his judgment in passing upon loans, once in awhile.”
“All right, Captain,” said the judge, “I’m ‘lowin’ I can wait jist as well as not, – bet yer life I can.”
When the vice-president came in, Hugh, with a forewarning nod, explained to him Judge Lynn’s wants.
“Well,” said Mr. Doole, “you are the cashier and Captain Osborn is the president. I should think, if you do not wish to assume the responsibility of loaning the judge a thousand dollars on his individual name, that you had better refer it to the directors. I understand we are to have a directors’ meeting this forenoon.”
“Mr. Vice-President,” said the judge, as he shut one eye and looked intently at Mr. Doole, “I’m not projectin’ ‘round here for fan, an’ I’d like to ask, how do you feel person’ly ‘bout lettin’ me have the money? That’s the question I’m hankerin’ to have answered pow’rfal quick.”
“Personally? Oh, personally,” said Mr. Doole, hesitating a moment, and catching a mischievous twinkle in Captain Osborn’s eye, “I would like to let you have it, of course.”
“Very well,” said the judge, with a flourish of his greasy coat-sleeve, “I’ll jist wait till you-alls, as directors of this financial institootion, pass jedgment. Oh, I’ve got time to spread ‘round profase-like; I’m in no hurry; bet yer life, I ain’t.”
The directors had been in session but a short time when Hugh Stanton was delegated to report adversely to Judge Lynn’s application. Coming out of the directors’ room, Hugh said, “Say, Judge, the directors have looked over the bank’s business and have concluded that we are pretty well loaned up, and they do not care to increase our discounts, especially since the country has been burned up with the hot winds and collections are very hard to make. A little later – next week or next month, you know – things may be different. Well, good-day, Judge.”
“Not quite so fast, Stanton,” said Judge
Lynn, “I’m not stampedin’ yit; I am sort of a stayer, I am, an’ I’m assoomin’ I’ll not be satisfied till I speak jist a word an’ onboosomin’ myself like to the board of directors.”
“All right,” said Hugh, “step in,” and, with this, Judge Lynn was ushered into the directors’ room.
He struck an attitude of great dignity, thrusting one hand deep into his waistcoat, and, with the other resting upon his hip, he said, “Gentlemen, you-alls ‘ll pardon me, but I’m desirin’ to jist ask two or three questions.”
The directors nodded their heads, as much as to say, “Go on.”
“Captain Osborn,” said the judge, “did n’t I onderstand you to say that person’ly you’d like to ‘commodate me with the loan of a thousand dollars?”
“I believe I did,” replied the captain.
“Mr. Vice-President,” said the judge, turning to Mr. Doole, “did n’t I onderstand you to say that person’ly you’d no objections to loanin’ me the money?”
“I think I made such an observation, – yes!” replied Mr. Doole.
“Stanton,” continued the judge, with awful seriousness, “is n’t it a fact that you said you’d be glad to ‘commodate me if it was a personal matter of your own?”
“Yes, I think I said something like that, Judge,” replied Hugh.
“Well, gentlemen, person’ly each and every one of you would like to ‘commodate me, but collectively you’ve turned me down; is n’t that ‘bout it?”
The directors nodded their heads.
“But you see – ” said the captain.
“Never mind, Captain,” interrupted the judge, “explainin’ don’t count. Here’s what I want to say to you-alls. I jist want to say that person’ly I think you’re a mighty nice lot o’ fellers, but collectively I’m assoomin’ you’re the darndest lot of skates I ever run up agin’.”
And, with this parting shot, the judge hastily left the room, muttering dire vengeance against bloated bondholders and coupon-clippers.
CHAPTER XXXIV. – THE PRAIRIE-FIRE
A KANSAS prairie is a veritable inland sea. From Meade to the northwest a broad expanse of buffalo-grass lands stretched away for many miles, almost as level as the top of a table, without even a single gully or rill to break its tiresome monotony. Often, at night, I have walked along some quiet roadway far into the country, listening to the silence that enveloped me. Sometimes the very air that, seemingly, pulsed with monotonous stillness, would be startled by the sharp, quick bark of a wolf in the distance. I have looked out across these flat table-lands, dimly lighted by the moon in its last quarter, and for hours watched half-formed shadows of passing clouds flit vaguely on across this vast sea of silence, while others followed in countless numbers, until vision became confused and imagination triumphed over knowledge. At such times, in fancy I stood on the beach of a mighty ocean, and each shadow was a sable-shrouded sail-boat carrying my hopes away to some unknown shore of mystery.
The hot winds had dried and browned the buffalo-grass. Then the rain came and freshened the landscape into a new life. Several weeks of warm, windy weather had now intervened. The country was becoming parched and dry again. The thick, matted buffalo-grass was cured as effectually as is the Eastern farmer’s hay when it is cut into swaths and dried before it is bunched into windrows. It, however, retained its nutritiousness. Indeed, it was said to be more fattening for the vast herds of cattle than prior to the hot winds.
One afternoon a thin line of smoke was discernible afar in the western horizon. It seemed like a black ribbon reaching from No-Man’s-Land, on the south, to the sand-hills, a distance of almost a hundred miles to the north. These remarkable mounds of sand, in width from five to fifteen miles, border the Arkansas River on its south bank. They separate the river from the table-lands lying farther to the south. To the inexperienced observer, the dark border in the western horizon had more the appearance of dust-clouds, caused by innumerable whirlwinds, than of smoke, but the older frontiersmen recognized in the menacing dark border, a prairie-fire.
As Hugh Stanton was walking along the street, his attention was called to this distant cloud, by Judge Lynn.
“I say, Stanton,” said he, “do you see that line of smoke? Onless I don’t know a thing or two, the cattlemen will have to shift their herds to a new range. You bet yer life they will. Reckon I knows a thing or two.”
“Why, is that smoke?” asked Hugh. “Looks like a whirlwind of dust to me.”
“Yes, sirree, that’s smoke, and one of the tarnallest, biggest prairie-fires is ragin’ over there that ever scorched dry buffalo-grass. Things’ll be sizzin’ hot ‘round here soon. You bet I know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.”
Hugh gazed intently while the Judge was speaking, and then observed, “Well, if it were n’t so far away I should like to drive over and see a genuine prairie-fire.”
“See a prairie-fire! Why, dang my buttons, man, I’m lowin’ you ‘re liable to see enough prairie-fire afore mornin’ to last you the rest of your nach’al days. You bet if it once gets started this way things’ll be poppin’ ‘round here, an’ the whole country will be locoed:”
“Why, how so?” asked Hugh. “That dust line, or smoke, or whatever it is, must be fully a hundred miles away.”
Lynn laughed in derision. “Gee, Stanton, not speakin’ onfeelin’ or careless-like, but you’re tender. You’re dead easy. ‘Course it’s a hundred miles away, maybe more, but if the wind gets a-comin’ an’ a-blowin’ this way, you’ll see the all-firedest time in these diggin’s you ever heerd tell of, an’ somethin’ mighty thrillin’ will happen. You bet I’m not ‘round makin’ a virtue out of duty, but, speakin’ onrestrained-like, every able-bodied man’ll have a duty to perform if that fire gets to racin’ this way, an’ I’m not assoomin’ any spechul knowledge in sayin’ it. I reckon I can tell a fire when I see smoke, an’ there’s no misonderstandin’ ‘bout that.”
It was not long until several hundred townspeople were on the street, discussing the great prairie-fire that was raging in the western counties. Some of the more timid expressed alarm, but the majority had never experienced a Kansas prairie-fire, and even in the dullest soul there was a pronounced novelty in anticipation of so grand a sight.
The smoke-cloud grew blacker and thicker near the earth, and gradually rose higher and higher. A strong wind set in from the west, and, before five o’clock, the ominous-looking pillars of smoke had so dimmed the sun that it appeared like a great shield of bronze. The earth was overcast with a yellow, subdued light; and the winds in their onward sweeping seemed surcharged with presentiment – burdened with dread. To the onlookers it did not seem possible that danger to them lurked in this unchained fire demon, so far away. Some one suggested that it might be well to plow furrows around the western limits of the town, and back-fire, but he was quickly laughed into silence for his fears. The increasing throng seemed to enjoy a scene that all the while was growing plainer and grander in the western horizon.
It was perhaps eight o’clock that night when the residents of Meade discovered a thin glow of fire cutting the dark belt near the earth, like a blood-red sickle. The line reached for miles from north to south. The sight was novel and inspiring. The rapidly-moving smoke-clouds, in their spiral twistings, had floated far to the east, and they now presented an appearance as spectacular as an aurora borealis. Great, reddened banks of clouds mounted almost to the zenith, while on either side were interspersed columns of rolling smoke of inky blackness.
The people ceased jesting now, for the scene was awe-inspiring. A stillness fell over the assemblage. Presently the rumble of wagons was heard on the different country roads leading into Meade. The country folks had taken alarm, and, with well-filled wagons containing their more valuable belongings, were hastening away from their lonely dugouts to the protection of the town.
Some of the townspeople were inclined, at first, to jeer at the fears of the farmers and ranchmen; but beneath their jeering there had anchored a universal lodestone of depression and apprehension. Arrangements were hastily made to protect the town by back-firing, and by plowing furrows in the prairie sod on its western, southern, and northern limits. Hundreds of willing hands volunteered to do this work. The fireline grew plainer as it continued its eastward advance. The shifting banks of smoke now resembled a seething ocean of tumult. Some of the clouds were as yellow as molten gold, while others appeared blood-stained, and fearful to look upon. The entire western sky was aglow; and even high in the heavens were restless, shifting banks of rose-tinted clouds, that feathered and paled into a fringe of dissolving pink and white.
The streets were crowded with the inhabitants of the surrounding country. By midnight a quiver of fear had shot through every heart, and the weird light of the fire was casting a deathlike pallor over every face. A dull, threatening roar could be heard. The flames were leaping one upon another, like the incoming waves of the billowy deep, ever changing and seething like an army of hissing serpents. Their forked tongues shot high into the emblazoned clouds, fantastically lighting up the landscape.
The hoarse, doleful bellowing of cattle was heard in the distance. A smell of burning grass filled the air with stifling odor. The cattle came nearer, and the sound of their trampling hoofs resembled the sullen mutterings of thunder. A command was given to turn the herds from the principal streets, but it was unavailing. Before the people realized the danger, nearly a thousand beeves, bellowing in stampeded terror, rushed pell-mell through the streets of Meade, horning each other in their fury, and trampling to death any unfortunate who happened to get in their way. They finally corralled themselves in the public square.
Captain Osborn’s sonorous voice was heard above the tumult, calling for additional volunteers to help fight the oncoming flames.
Horses were hastily hitched to wagons in which barrels of water were placed. Blankets, old coats, quilts, gunny-sacks, and every conceivable kind of cast-off garments were hastily secured and fastened to hoe and fork handles and poles, to be used by the brave men in fighting the fire. These recruits hastened to the limits of the town, and joined the fire-fighters, who were now begrimed with soot and smoke even beyond recognition. They continued back-firing, but it was practically unavailing. The fire would burn in the buffalo-grass only when going with the wind. The teams and breaking-plows were hastily transferred to a point nearer the town, and here wide, deep furrows were plowed. The firemen then burned the grass between these headlands, but their efforts were to prove futile in checking the sweeping flames.
Then a wildly novel scene occurred. Flocks of prairie-hens, quails, meadow-larks, and thrushes, all blinded, singed, and frightened, began flying against the buildings, many of them falling to the earth either crippled or dead. The entire town echoed with fluttering wings. Wolves, driven from their dens and haunts by the prostrating heat, rushed by the fire-fighters in frantic fright. Soon the town was fairly besieged by these frenzied animals. Their advent seemed to madden the already infuriated cattle, and a general mjlie and warfare to the death ensued. The yelps and barking cries of this bedlam were at once pitiful and terrible. Dozens of wolves were gored to death.
Hundreds of jack-rabbits, their long ears lying flat upon their backs, came bounding in from the burning prairie. The wolves had been intimidated by the sharp horns of the terrified cattle, but now they turned, with many a snarl and growl, upon the rabbits, and killed scores of these helpless habituis of the Great Southwest.
The people had taken refuge in the upper stories, and on the roofs of buildings, to protect themselves from the savage arena below. As the fire drew nearer, and the light and heat became more intensified, a spectral hue fell over the blanched faces of all.
A suffocating fear, far exceeding even that of the hot winds, enveloped the beleaguered town of Meade. The situation was desperate. The flames, in their maddened fury of triumph, were rushing on the wings of the wind toward their defenseless victims. The brave battalion of firefighters was forced to retire in haste before the stifling heat. The western fronts of the buildings were as light as noonday, while to the eastward the long shadows danced, grew less distinct, and then darkened, as the scarlet smoke rose and fell, producing strange and weird phantoms.
The rapidly-gliding columns of smoke, resting “one upon another – one upon another,” seemed to have ignited and become a surging sea – a pyrotechnical display of fire waves. A few buildings on the outskirts caught fire from the great heat. Millions of flying sparks, as countless as the stars, filled the air, threatening complete annihilation. The menacing flames were advancing upon their helpless prey with a fierceness that seemed to partake of hellish glee. The cries of rabbits, the yelps of coyotes, the moaning howl of wolves, the frantic roarings of cattle, and the wail of hysterical and fainting women, – all produced the wildest pandemonium. Above this terrible tumult could be heard the hissing, crackling, seething laugh of the undulating, death-dealing labyrinth of flames, – on they rushed, in awful fury. Extinction seemed imminent. The burning buildings were already crumbling into charred ruins; while others were being enveloped with roaring, swirling sheets of fire. Like prophets, they seemed to be foretelling, by example, a certain destruction. The cattle, the wolves, the jack-rabbits and the people, were alike demoralized and stampeded by an overpowering fear.