He never failed to search the plains
on either side, but chiefly in the south, with the eager, intent gaze
that missed nothing. But the lonesome gray land, cut by the coiling
yellow river, still rolled before him, and its desolation and chill
struck to his heart. It was the depth of the Texan winter, and, at
times, icy gusts, born in far mountains, swept across the plains.
The rider presently turned his horse toward the river and stopped on a
low bluff overlooking it. His face showed a tinge of disappointment, as
if his eyes failed to find objects for which they sought. Again he gazed
long and patiently into the south, but without reward.
He resumed his ride parallel with the river, but soon stopped a second
time, and held up an open hand, like one who tests the wind. The air was
growing perceptibly colder. The strong gusts were now fusing into a
steady wind. The day, which had not been bright at any time, was turning
darker. The sun was gone and in the far north banks of mists and vapor
were gathering. A dreary moaning came over the plain.
Ned Fulton, tried and brave though he was, beheld the omens with alarm.
He knew what they portended, and in all that vast wilderness he was
alone.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25