The rancher watched him till he mounted his pony, picketed down by the river; watched him as, with drooping head and rein flung loose upon the neck of his horse, he rode away into the dusk, hungry, weary and despairing, to face his problem alone. Again, for the thousandth time, the impotence of the Indian's arm and the hopelessness of his fate were shown as perfectly as if two armies had met and soaked the beautiful prairie sod with blood.
"This is all wrong," muttered the settler. "There's land enough for us all, or ought to be. I don't understand——Well, I'll leave it to Uncle Sam anyway." He ended with a sigh.
[PART VIII.]
OLD DADDY DEERING: THE COUNTRY FIDDLER.
|
Like Scotland's harper, Or Irish piper, with his droning lays, Before the spread of modern life and light The country fiddler slowly disappears. |