Page:How Marcus Whitman Saved Oregon.djvu/205

 183

Back at a sunbeam's dazzling ray,

Fearless as plated steel of old

Before that slender lance of gold.

It is December as they ride

Slowly across the Great Divide;

The blinding storm turns day to night,

And clogs their feet; the snowflakes roll

The winding sheet about them; sight

Is darkened; faint the despairing soul.

No trail before or behind them. Spur

His horse? Nay, child, it were death to stir!

Motionless horse and rider stand,

Turning to stone; till one poor mule,

Pricking his ears as if to say

If they gave him rein he would find the way,

Found it and led them back, poor fool,

To last night's camp in that lonely land.

It was February when he rode

Into St. Louis. The gaping crowd

Gathered about him with questions loud

And eager. He raised one frozen hand

With a gesture of silent, proud command;

"I am here to ask, not answer! Tell

Me quick, is the Treaty signed?" "Why yes!

In August, six months ago or less!"

Six months ago! Two months before

The gay young priest at the fortress showed

The English hand! Two months before,

Four months ago at his cabin door,

He had saddled his horse! Too late then. "Well,

But Oregon? Have they signed the State

Away?" "Of course not. Nobody cares

About Oregon." He in silence bares

His head. "Thank God! I am not too late."

It was March when he rode at last

Into the streets of Washington. 184