LORD AVONDALE took up his residence, as before, at the Osborn Hotel. He called frequently at the Hortons’, and was also much in Mrs. Osborn’s society. The tongue of gossip was again beginning to wag. She and the Englishman renewed their relations afresh, and went on with a boldness that might almost cause one to doubt the truthfulness of the rumors.

Lord Avondale’s self-conceit and audacity were more apparent than on his former visit. He felt sure that Ethel Horton would soon become his wife; and he not only entreated, but commanded Lucy Osborn to hasten the affair along, as he was impatient to return to England.

Hugh, in the meantime, was following Ethel’s advice, and deliberating most earnestly as to what was best to do. He could not understand why his old friend, Jack Redfield, whom he had always regarded as the personification of honor, had acted in such an inexplicable manner toward Ethel Horton. If Ethel had not told him of her love for Jack Redfield, the way out of the dilemma might have been very simple. In that event, he would have married her at once, and sent the English lord about his business.

It was nearing the last days of June. The cool night breeze, so exhilarating in the Southwest, died away each morning as the dawn streaked the east, and the sun climbed above the horizon. The limitless sky bent above the earth in silence and grandeur. No breath of air stirred leaf, or flower, or grass-blade. It was but one of a hundred such quiet, perfect days, on any one of which you might have searched the heavens from horizon to horizon and found neither cloud nor the semblance of one; silent, hazy Indian summer days. The bountiful fields of wheat and barley were beginning to yellow with golden promise. The farmers said that the wheat and arley were almost out of “the milk,” and in the “dough,” and, while the dry weather would prevent the kernels from filling as in former years, yet, after all, there would be a fair yield. The cattlemen laughed and said, “Wait, and you’ll see whether the Southwest is an agricultural paradise or a cattle range.”

The farmers, however, were not easily discouraged. They pointed with pride to the thousands of acres of growing corn, and said, “See how rapidly it is growing. It is not firing, even at the roots, to speak of, and its color is such a dark healthy green; it is so luxuriant and tall, with its broad bending blades,—so stately, indeed that a squadron of cavalry might ride a few rods into the edge of the field and be hidden from view.” The farmers expressed a firm belief that the corn, which was beginning to “tassel” and “silk,” would have plenty of rain to make it “ear” well, and that an abundant yield would reward their labors, even though the small grain should happen to prove a light crop.

It was, perhaps, ten o’clock one morning when Hugh walked down the street from the hotel to the bank. Major Buell Hampton and Captain Osborn were discussing the weather. They were standing on the sidewalk in front of the banking-house, and several townspeople, cattlemen, and farmers had congregated around them; and the discussion of a possible crop failure became general.

“‘Pears to be mighty sultry on the range these ‘ere days,” said Dan Spencer, as he borrowed a chew of tobacco from his neighbor. “Speakin’ careless-like, I don’t reckon this dog-goned dry weather kin loaf ‘round much longer. I’m ‘lowin’ the water’s sure ‘nuff all dried up in Crooked Creek; dang my buttons if it ain’t.”

“Mighty sorry fur you farmer fellers,” observed Bill Kinneman, patronizingly. “I’m not hankerin’ to be onpop’lar, but you jist wait an’ you-alls ‘ll see what kind uv a farmin’ country this is.”

“It is either a farming country,” said Hugh to Captain Osborn, “or else our bank is located in the wrong part of the world.”

“Country’s all right, my boy,” replied Captain Osborn. “Don’t get disheartened. We’ll have rain before many days.”

“Now, look ‘e ‘ere, boys,” said Judge Linus Lynn, who had joined the group a few minutes before and caught the drift of their conversation. “Let me tell you what’s goin’ to happen. I am no tenderfoot—say, what’s all you fellers laughin’ at, anyway? Can’t a graduate of a jagcure make a few sober remarks without bein’ giggled at, I’d like to know. If you fellers had just a little wit—but you hain’t got it—to put with yer giggles, you’d have sarcasm. You bet!”

“Hain’t you tasted no corn-juice yit, Jedge, fur sure?” asked Dan Spencer, laughing.

“Not a dangnation swallow!” replied Judge Lynn, emphatically. “I took my friend Major Hampton’s advice, availed myself of the gold cure at his expense, an’ by the great horn spoon, I’ll never drink nary another drop; no, sirree. Bin shakin’ hands with the back end of drug stores, partin’ company with my good cash, an’ bein’ bit with the same old snake long enough. Oh, I know when I’ve got enough of even a bad thing. Bet yer life I do. Now as I was goin’ to say, I’m no tenderfoot. I’ve lived in Kansas twenty years. Uster gather up buffalo-bones from these prairies with a yoke of oxen, haul ‘em two hundred miles an’ sell ‘em’ at ten dollars a load. Yes, sir; think I don’t know what I’m talkin’ about? Bet yer life I do.”

“I should nach’ally hev thought you’d bin a rich man afore this, Jedge,” said Bill Kinneman.

“Oh, you’d thought that, would you?” replied the judge. “I’ve heard you tell how to get rich, Kinneman, fur the las’ ten years. Fact is, if every man was to get rich who believes he knows how, we’d have no paupers.”

“Say, Jedge, we’re goin’ to hev hot winds, ain’t we?” asked Dan Spencer, grinning. “Thet’s what you’ve bin preachin’ fur the last three years, ain’t it, boys?”

“Gee whillikens!” exclaimed the judge, “did you feel that? That’s a hot wind, sure as you’re born.”

“Oh, no, Judge,” said Captain Osborn, “that could hardly be called a hot wind. Still, it is rather warm.”

“Gentlemen,” said Major Hampton, as he moved along with the crowd on the sidewalk to a point somewhat sheltered from the wind, “if Judge Lynn is correct, and we do not have rain soon, the growing crops will be seriously injured.”

Judge Linus Lynn walked on down to the corner of the building, where the wind was unobstructed, and, hastily returning, said, “The jig’s up, boys, an’ bets are all off. The hot winds of hell are sweepin’ the plains; bet yer life they are. The wolves will sure’nuff scratch the varnish off the front door of the new town hall and dig holes in the public square this winter, if this dangnation holycaust of hot wind keeps on Mowin’ very long. You bet I know a thing or two.”

The hot wind began blowing a regular gale, and soon the crowd disappeared. All feeling of merriment gave way before the contemplation of the ravaging blast that was hourly doing irreparable damage to the growing crops. As the day advanced, the wind became hotter and hotter, until not a soul was visible on the streets of Meade. People hastened to their homes, offices, and stores for shelter, and shut themselves away from the intensely suffocating air. A few minutes’ exposure would blister the face and hands of the hardiest farmer.

On rushed the scorching wave,—its wilting breath shriveling up every growing thing as effectually as a prairie fire,—everything excepting the native buffalo-grass, the cacti, and the sunflowers. The grass it cured, and made more sweet and fattening for the cattlemen’s herds.

The thermometer registered 102 degrees in the shade. The following day it ran up to 108 degrees,—next day it registered 114 degrees, while on the fourth day of this terribly heated blast of parching, burning winds, the mercury reached 119 degrees in the shade.

It was a suffocation indescribable, dealing relentless death to the agricultural hopes of the great Southwest. It was like some intense heat driven from thousands of furnaces, where limitless quantities of anthracite burn with blue and forked flames, creating heat sufficient to change even the very rocks into liquid. For a hundred hours this stifling, burning breath belched forth from the jaws of calamitous destruction. Utter devastation followed.

On the first day, the fields of growing corn seemed to shrink in timidity; on the second day the proud plumage of tassels drooped on the stalks; on the third day the blades whitened and shriveled and became like some aged and decrepit thing; while on the fourth day the tassels, blades, and even the stalks were snapped off in their parched brittleness and scattered by the winds of this terrific tornado of heat.

The fields were swept of every vestige of growing grain. The entire country became a desolate waste. For a hundred miles in every direction no living vegetation, planted by the hand of man, survived. The hopes, the labors, and the achievements of years were alike swept into the vortex of absolute ruin; and these farmers in the Southwest beheld the Great American Desert, as depicted by the earlier geographers, in all its primitive awfulness.

Farmers became mendicants; business men, paupers; while notes and bonds in the bankers’ hands turned into worthless assets. A cry went up from the starving thousands, and once more train-loads of provisions came from the East for the relief of the Kansas sufferers.

John B. Horton, the cattle king, caused hundreds of beeves to be brought in from the range, and he opened a free market on the public square of Meade, to feed the destitute and hungry.