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Updated: May 29, 2025
A story of hard night-rides, when weary bodies fought with watchful minds the grim struggle that drowsiness can wage, though sleep, we knew, meant death. It is a story of fevered limbs and bursting pulse in hospitals whose walls were prairie distances. A story of hunger, and exhausted rations; of choking thirst, with only alkali water mocking at us. And never could the story all be told.
She had her night-rides, her plots and combinations to relate how this parish would have sent so many, but could not have them up to time how another set of good lads were terrorized by a wrathful overlord. From Stair she would sit and listen to the story of the defence of the Bothy on the Wild.
Bill, too, got on well enough with his pony, and Jess was taken no more night-rides. No ducks were lost; and Dolly gave her milk quite comfortably to whoever milked her. Alas! this was either Bill or the Gardener's wife now.
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