The Hound From The North

by Ridgwell Cullum

“Going to get married, ain’t he?” said the sheriff shortly, as Grey departed.

“Yes.” And the two men walked off in the direction of Chillingwood’s office.

And Grey drove off to his wedding alone. He was denied even the support of the only man who, out of sheer good-heartedness, would have accompanied him. The life of a man is more surely influenced by the peculiarities of his own disposition than anything else. When a man takes to himself a wife, it is naturally a time for the well-wishes of his friends. This man set out alone. Not one God-speed went with him. And yet he was not disturbed by the lack of sympathy. He looked at life from an uncommon standpoint, measuring its scope for the attainment of happiness by his own capacity for doing, not by any association with his kind. He was one of those men 109 who need no friendship from his fellows, preferring rather to be without it. Thus he considered he was freer to follow his own methods of life. Position was his goal––position in the walk of life he had chosen. Could he not attain this solely by his own exertions, then he would do without it.

The crisp, morning air smote his cheeks with the sting of a whip-lash as he drove down the bush-lined trail which led from the Rodney House to the railway depôt. It was necessary for him to cross the track at this point before he would find himself upon the prairie road to the Leonville school-house, at which place the ceremony was to be performed. The “gush” of the horses’ nostrils sounded refreshingly in his ears as the animals fairly danced over the smooth, icy trail. The sleigh-bells jangled with a confused clashing of sounds in response to the gait of the eager beasts. But Grey thought little of these things. He thought little of anything just now but his intended despoiling of the owner of Lonely Ranch. All other matters were quite subsidiary to his one chief object.

Once out in the open, the horses settled down into their long-distance stride. Here the trail was not so good as in the precincts of the village. The snow was deeper and softer. Now and then the horses’ hoofs would break through the frozen crust and sink well above the fetlocks into the under-snow.

Now the thick bush, which surrounded the village, gave place to a sparser covering of scattered bluffs, and the grey-white aspect of the country became apparent. The trail was well marked as far as the eye could reach––two great furrows ploughed by the passage of horses and the runners of the farmers’ 110 heavy “double-bobs.” Besides this, the colour was different. There was a strong suggestion of earthiness about the trail which was not to be observed upon the rolling snow-fields of the surrounding prairie.

The air was still though keen, and the morning sun had already risen well above the mist of grey clouds which still hovered above the eastern horizon. There was a striking solemnity over all. It was the morning promise of a fair day, and soon the dazzling sunshine upon the snow would become blinding to eyes unused to the winter prairie.

But Grey was no tenderfoot. Such things had no terrors for him. His half-closed eyes faced the glare of light defiantly. It is only the inexperienced who gaze across the snow-bound earth, at such a time, with wide-open eyes.

The bluffs became scarcer as mile after mile was covered by the long, raking strides of the hardy horses. Occasionally Grey was forced to pull off the trail into the deep snow to allow the heavy-laden hay-rack of some farmer to pass, or a box-sleigh, weighted down with sacks of grain, toiling on its way to the Ainsley elevator. These inconveniences were the rule of the road, the lighter always giving way to the heavier conveyance.

Ten miles from Ainsley and the wide open sea of snow proclaimed the prairie in its due form. Not a tree in sight, not a rock, not a hill to break the awful monotony. Just one vast rolling expanse of snow gleaming beneath the dazzling rays of a now warming sun. A hungry coyote and his mate prowling in search of food at a distance of half-a-mile looked 111 large by reason of their isolation. An occasional covey of prairie chicken, noisily winging their way to a far-distant bluff, might well be startling both to horses and driver. A dark ribbon-like flight of ducks or geese, high up in the heavens, speeding from the south to be early in the field when the sodden prairie should be open, was something to distract the attention of even the most pre-occupied. But Grey was oblivious to everything except the trail beneath him, the gait of his team, and his scheme for advancement. The sun mounted higher, and the time passed rapidly to the traveller. And, as the record of mileage rose, the face of the snow-clad earth began again to change its appearance. The undulations of the prairie assumed vaster proportions. The waves rose to the size of hills, and the gentle hollows sank deeper until they declined into gaping valleys. Here and there trees and small clumps of leafless bush dotted the view. A house or two, with barn looming largely in the rear, and spidery fencing, stretching in rectangular directions, suggested homesteads; the barking of dogs––life. These signs of habitation continued, and became now more frequent, and now, again, more rare. The hills increased in size and the bush thickened. Noon saw the traveller in an “up-and-down” country intersected by icebound streams and snow-laden hollows. The timber became more heavy, great pine trees dominating the more stunted growths, and darkening the outlook by reason of their more generous vegetation. On the eastern extremity of this belt of country stood the school-house of Leonville; beyond that the undulating prairie again on to Loon Dyke Farm.