| OCR Text |
Show Little Journeys inf Americana By LESTER B. COLBY Pelathe, the Eagle PELATHE, the Eagle, ride. Pity the ehestnut mare. Pelathe rides to warn a city of Impending disaster. He ride to warn sleeping Lawrence, Kansas, of massacre at dawn. For Quantrlll, bushwhacker, wholesale murder In his heart. Is riding west In a rage to burn and destroy. All night Quantrlll has been riding at the head of his 400 men. He bas routed farmers out of bed to act his guide. When be Is done with a guide be shoots blra. Dead men are safe and silent History says be murdered mur-dered ten guides that night Qulndaro Is an outpost of Kansas City. Theodore Battles, scout holds the head of bis chestnut mare. She Is fleet stout of heart, deep chested, a thoroughbred. Scout Bartlea loves that mare but he Is about to sacrlBce her. Pelathe, the Eagle, tosses a light blanket across her back. He needs no saddle. Every ounce of extra weight will count on this ride. The chestnut mare breaks Into a full run. Pelathe, the Eagle, Is riding. And Quantrlll bas a long head start Ten miles out of Qulndaro and the little mare's breath Is coming In sobs. Pelathe, the Eagle, talks soothingly. He caresses her; urges her on. Another An-other mile or two and she begins to falter. Ah, a stream! Pelathe, the Eagle, slips to the ground. He wets the end of his blanket nnd wipes ber foaming mouth. He runs the damp cloth Into her nostrils; nos-trils; over her head. Then he takes the dry end of the blanket and wipes her dripping 1pi;s and heaving flanks. He gives her a drink of water, just a drink the last drink she shall ever have I Pelathe takes her by the bridle, leads ber to the top of the rise-gently. rise-gently. Pelathe, slender, bold, brave Shawnee Indian, knows horses ; he knows how to get the Inst ounce of strength out of them. And this ride Is to warn a city of Impending doom. Lightly the Eagle vaults to the back of the chestnut mare. She breaks Into a run for the second time. Stronger now. She has gained her second wind. On, on, on to Lawrence, Kan., the doomed city. Can he make It ahead of Quantrlll t Mile after mile. Brave little mare. Only a few more miles now. She Is faltering. Her sides tremble. Her legs weaken. She Is going down. But Pelathe, the Eagle, knows a trick I Cruel, Inhuman I Tes, but a sleeping sleep-ing city must be warned of Its doom. Pelathe, the Eagle, draws his knife. He rips the shoulders of Scout Bar-ties' Bar-ties' beloved chestnut mare. Blood gushes and spatters on the ground. Pelathe rubs raw gunpowder Into the flowing wounds. Tain more Intense than the pain from her bursting lungs flashes through the body of the gasping animal. ani-mal. Perhaps some chemical action on her blood gives strength. With a groan the chestnut mare springs forward. for-ward. There Is new power In her faltering legs. And a mile or so further furth-er Is the village of the Dels wares. - Will she make It! Bravely she runs. No, she falters again and with a moan drops dead I ' I'elnthe, the Eagle, lands on his feet running. He dashes like a sprinter to the Delaware village. With a war-whoop to arouse the camp, he rushes to the corral. He cannot afford af-ford to be shot as a horsethlef. A word and he is on a fresh steed, a sturdy Indian pony. The quarter-moon quarter-moon Is growing dimmer. Soon the sun will rise. Quantrlll will strike at dawn. Now the dawn begins to come. Cod In Heaven I . Pelathe, the Eagle, looks down Into In-to the valley on Lawrence. His ride has been In vain. Miles back, on the road from Qulndoro, the little chestnut mare lies still In darkening blood. Too latel In the light of the dawn Pelathe, the Eagle, looks upon burning houses. The screams of weeping women mingle with fierce oaths. Guns roar. Villagers, white lipped, see their last sunrise. Tbe butchery that cost thnt August morning In 1803, not fewer than 150 lives, Is on, Quantrlll and his men are making a shambles of Lawrence. Their cry to the ashen-faced, weeping, new-made widows Is: "We are devils from hell I" Pelathe, the Eagle, sits on his pony, a statue in the dawn. His fuce is burled In his hands. (3, MM. Lester B. Colby.) |
