Where was he? What was he doing there?
Ah, yes, he was after those stampeded horses. Well, he would never come
up with them now. He had done his best, and he had failed.
Taking out his notebook, as well as his benumbed powers would let him,
Jim scrawled a few words in the darkness. The powers of nature had been
too strong for him. What was a man to set himself against that tempest?
But stay! there was One stronger than the gale. Man was beyond hearing,
but was not God everywhere? Now, if ever, was the time to call upon Him.
No words would come but the familiar "Our Father," which Jim had said
every night for longer than he could remember. He had no power to think
out any other petition. "Our Father," he muttered drowsily, "which art
in heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name, Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done. . . ."
The murmur ceased; the speaker was asleep.
They found him a few days later, when the snow had ceased to fall, and
the wind swept over the prairie, stripping off the deadly white
covering, and leaving the khaki jacket a conspicuous object. The
sergeant saw it, and pointed--he could not trust his voice to speak.
Eagerly the little band bent over the body of their comrade.
"Why, he's smiling! And see here! he's been writing something in his
notebook. What is it?"
Reverently they took the book from the brown hand, and the sergeant read
the words aloud:
"Lost, horse dead.
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