Rensselaer Republican, Volume 23, Number 15, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 11 December 1890 — “TURNED OUT.” [ARTICLE]

“TURNED OUT.”

Another Monument Marks the March of Death on the Plains. Detroit Free Press. “Turn him out!” ••Shoot him!” ‘ ’Now move on again!” One of the four horses drawing a government supply wagon over the plains of Southern hnd jatag--gered, pulled himse.' u.. 'i-.r—he.d his place for ten rods uu •. . d then fallen in a heap. He v. - -* i 'ed and trembled as they strip,-.. .. . ness off. He made an effort to i. but fell back with a groan and moa—his eyes. Six wagons—fifty men—cause for haste, A substitute was put into the team, the order given to go ahead, and the horse was leit lying where he fell. If he recovered he would follow the trail; if he died it was only the loss of a horse. As the tram moved off, the horse raised his head, whimpered in a coaxing way, and at last neighed shrilly. Never a one even looked back. He fell back again, stretched out at full length on the grass. And he lay so quiet for the next hour that one riding by would have said that he was dead. “S-w-i-s-h. L ” ■ •‘Growl!” The horse raised his head, and what he saw caused him to struggle to his feet. Circling above him were half a dozen great buzzards. Facing him, and only ten feet away, was a wolf which had crept out of his den in the roeky ledge a quarter of a mile away —a gaunt, fierce beast whose shedding coat hung in long strings IO give him a fiercer look. The buzzards had sighted the carcass first. The swish of their wings had reached the ears of the wolf as he lay in his bed, and he had crept out to claim his share of the prize. The dead had suddenly come to life. The buzzards lifted themselves higher in the air, and the wolf shambled off a few yards and then stopped to growl in anger and disappointment. Tne horse had terror in his eyes as they first lighted upon his enimies. By and by something like hope glimmered there. The rest had done him good. There was still three hours of daylight, and he would take the trail of the wagons and follow on. He was trembly and weak, and his eyes ached as he threw up his head and looked over the ground to the east in hopes to see the wagons. A gorgeous picture. Artists have reproduced it in steel and on canvas—only a third of it. They have left out the flocks of greedy buzzards sailing in circles above the horse as he limps painfully along—they do not show the shaggy, hungry beast following at a distance of ten yards. I It is not a race. When a man or beast staggers and limps it is not a race —not a march—hardly progress. But for Fear the horse would never have got upon his feet again. But for Ter* ror he could not have moved a yard. But for Hope—that hope which is , born in desperation and despair his eyes would be so blinded that he could not see the trail.

Three miles to the south the trail crosses a creek. There is a grove there. The grass along the banks of the creek .is fresh and green. The horse had been two and fro over this trail until he remembers every rod of it. If he can reach the grove the shade and the water will give him strength. But can he reach it? He has not advanced five hundred feet' when he halts to groan in despair— to weave to and fro like a drunken man in his pain and Weakness. I ‘ ‘Swish!” “U*r-r-r-r!” The buzzards are flying lower, the wolf growls savagely as he notes the fugitive’s weakness. The ominous sounds strike the horse' like an electric shock. Wolves and buzzards are not strange sights to him. In following this trail he has come upon many a half-devoured bodymany a heap of bones from which the wolves slunk grudgingly away, and from which the heavy-bodied buzzards rose lazily with hoarse notes of anger. Ah! now, he is better. He is stronger. The pain has gone, Courage conies to him and he throws up his head, utters a glad neigh, and starts off on a trot. He will cheat his foes—he wRI once more take his place beside his mate. “Hohe! Hohe!” “Ur-r-r! U-r-r-r!” The buzzards cry out in anger. The wolf growls more fiercely as he trots along over the baked earth in pursuit. What! Halted! Trembling again? Weaving to the right and the left? Eyes glazed and blinded? Down at last—groaning like a man who falls to the earth with a mortal wound. He hears the flap of broad wings—he hears the patter of the wolf’s feet and his growls of satisfaction, and he Stretches out and dies—his bis bones to be another monument to mark the march of Death on the lonely and sterile plains.