CHAPTER XXIV.

"Who's here besides foul weather?"

SHAKESPEARE.


Far away stretched the prairie, bounded, ocean-like, only by the
horizon; the monotony occasionally relieved by clumps of aged live
oaks, which tossed their branches to and fro in summer breezes and
in wintry blasts, and lent a mournful cadence to the howlings of the
tempest. Now and then a herd of deer, lifting proudly their antlered
heads, seemed to scorn danger from the hand of man, as they roamed
so freely over the wide, desolate waste which possessed no visible
limits. And groups of cattle, starting at the slightest sound, tossed
their horns in defiance, and browsed along the mosquit, in many places
so luxuriant as well-nigh to conceal their forms. The day had been
unusually warm for January, and the sun beamed down with a sickening
intensity which made the blood tingle in the veins. Toward noon the
sky assumed a dull, leaden cast, and light flakes of cloud, like
harbingers of evil, scudded ominously overhead. The sun passed the
zenith, and a low sighing breeze swept moaningly across the wide
waste, even as the wail of lost spirits floats out on the midnight
air, and then is hushed forever.

The cattle that stood leisurely cropping about, and now and then
moving a few paces, lifted their heads, snuffed the air, and, with
a simultaneous lowing, started at full speed to the timbered tracts,
where they were wont to resort for shelter from the winds of winter.