30

Back along the Solomon River,
  Trailing towards the humble claim
He had lost when love and duty
  Fired his soul to “being game”;
Back, across the beaver fordway,
  Where love first had found the track,
Now returning with the rankling
  Sting of hate to bring him back—­
Hate, that hunger made more bitter
  When his last jerked beef was gone;
Climbing trees to cut off branches
  For his horse to browse upon;
Back, where once the flower-decked prairie,
  Spread its bloom of hope and bliss,
Now a blackened field of mourning,
  From the fire of one sweet kiss.

31

Till one day, he saw beyond him,
  In the distance, purple crowned,
That old monarch of the prairie,
  Guard of ages, North Pole Mound. 
Then the field where Zeb and Simon
  Pulled the old sod-breaking plow
Stretching like a narrow ribbon
  On the land that lay below. 
Now the horse’s steps grew lighter
  As he passed each well-known sign
Of the old familiar landscape,
  And they crossed the eighty’s line,
Where the spring of running waters
  Gave envenomed purpose birth,
As he drank its bubbling offering
  From the pulsing heart of earth.

32

Then, ascending from the hollow,
  Full before his eyes appeared
Home—­his home—­the low-walled sodhouse
  Which his toiling hands had reared. 
Near the straw shed stood the wagon
  He had brought from Wichita,
And beneath the grass-fringed gable
  Hung his trusty crosscut saw. 
In the dooryard, near the window,
  Lay the broken homemade chair,
Where, at evening, love-born fancies
  Revelled, as he rested there;
Love, whose scattered seed had fallen
  On a mystic field of fate,
Where the tangled vine extending
  Bore the bitter fruit of hate.

33

Hurrying nearer, he dismounted,
  Trembling with the rage he felt,
As he cast aside the bridle
  And drew taut his cartridge belt. 
Throwing down his torn sombrero,
  There, before the tight-closed door,
On the cowardly usurper
  Loud and bitter vengeance swore. 
“Come, you dirty, green-scummed scoundrel,
  With your sneaking ‘plan or two’! 
Just come out, you rope-necked buzzard! 
  See how far you’ll put them through. 
You can keep the eighty acres,
  Hell will write your pedigree,
But I’ll rub your crooked nose-piece
  In the dirt you stole from me.

34

“Come outside, you sneaking coyote! 
  If you’ve got a drop of man
In your greasy, thieving carcass,
  Finish up what you began.” 
Fiercer grew his coarse invective,
  Louder yet his taunting calls,
When no answer to his challenge
  Came from out the low sod walls. 
Uncontrolled, his furious anger
  Spoke in quick and murderous roar
As he pumped his old six-shooter
  Through the barred and bolted door. 
When he paused the rude door opened,
  And before its splintered place
Stood the vision of the shadows,
  And he saw Her fearless face.