of old, resuscitated on the prairies of Texas, leading a measure after some wild carousal in the company of Bacchus!
In the proximity of phenomena never observed before—unearthly in their aspect—unknown to every individual of the party—it was but natural these should be inspired with alarm.
And such was the fact. A sense of danger pervaded every bosom. All were impressed with a belief: that they were in the presence of some peril of the prairies.
A general halt had been made on first observing the strange objects: the negroes on foot, as well as the teamsters, giving utterance to shouts of terror. The animals—mules as well as horses, had come instinctively to a stand—the latter neighing and trembling—the former filling the air with their shrill screams.
These were not the only sounds. From the sable towers could be heard a hoarse swishing noise, that resembled the sough of a waterfall—at intervals breaking into reverberations like the roll of musketry, or the detonations of distant thunder!
These noises were gradually growing louder and more distinct. The danger, whatever it might be, was drawing nearer!
Consternation became depicted on the countenances of the travellers, Calhoun’s forming no exception. The ex-officer no longer pretended levity. The eyes of all were turned towards the lowering sky, and the band of black columns that appeared coming on to crush them!
At this crisis a shout, reaching their ears from the opposite side, was a source of relief—despite the unmistakable accent of alarm in which it was uttered.
Turning, they beheld a horseman in full gallop—riding direct towards them.
The horse was black as coal: the rider of like hue, even to the skin of his face. For all that he was recognized: as the stranger, upon the trail of whose lazo they had been travelling.
The perceptions of woman are quicker than those of man: the young lady within the carriole was the first to identify him.
“Onward!” he cried, as soon as within speaking distance. “On—on! as fast as you can drive!”
“What is it?” demanded the planter, in bewildered alarm. “Is there a danger?”
“There is. I did not anticipate it, as I passed you. It was only after reaching the river, I saw the sure signs of it.”
“Of what, sir?”
“The norther.”
“You mean the storm of that name?”
“I do.”
“I never heard of its being dangerous,” interposed Calhoun, “except to vessels at sea. It’s precious cold, I know; but”
“You'll find it worse than cold, sir,” interrupted the young horseman, “if you’re not quick in getting out of its way. Mr. Poindexter,” he continued, turning to the planter, and speaking
