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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9264f25 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #67347 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/67347) diff --git a/old/67347-0.txt b/old/67347-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index fb4e41a..0000000 --- a/old/67347-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4714 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Loom of the Desert, by Idah -Meacham Strobridge - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Loom of the Desert - -Author: Idah Meacham Strobridge - -Illustrator: L. Maynard Dixon - -Release Date: February 6, 2022 [eBook #67347] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Carlos Colon, David E. Brown, the University of California - and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at - https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - generously made available by The Internet Archive/American - Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOOM OF THE DESERT *** - - - - - -THE LOOM OF THE DESERT - - - - -To the courtesy of the editors of the “Argonaut,” “Out West,” -“Criterion,” “Arena” and “Munsey’s”--in which publications many of -these sketches have already seen print--is due their reappearance in -more permanent form. - - - - -[Illustration: “The boy swayed backward--backward.”--Page 10] - - - - - The Loom of the Desert - - by - Idah Meacham Strobridge - - LOS ANGELES - MCMVII - - - - - Copyright, 1907, by - Idah Meacham Strobridge - - - Printed by the - Baumgardt Publishing Company - Los Angeles, California - - - - - Of this autographed edition of - “The Loom of the Desert,” one - thousand copies were made; this - one being number 351 - - Idah M. Strobridge - - - - - MARRIED: In Newark, New Jersey, Thursday, evening, June the Second, - 1852, Phebe Amelia Craiger of Newark, to George Washington Meacham of - California. - - - To these--my dearest; - the FATHER and MOTHER who are my comrades still, - I dedicate - these stories of a land where we were pioneers. - - - - -[Illustration] - -FOREWORD - - -There, in that land set apart for Silence, and Space, and the Great -Winds, Fate--a grim, still figure--sat at her loom weaving the -destinies of desert men and women. The shuttles shot to and fro -without ceasing, and into the strange web were woven the threads of -Light, and Joy, and Love; but more often were they those of Sorrow, or -Death, or Sin. From the wide Gray Waste the Weaver had drawn the color -and design; and so the fabric’s warp and woof were of the desert’s -tone. Keeping this always well in mind will help you the better to -understand those people of the plains, whose lives must needs be often -sombre-hued. - - - - -[Illustration] - -MESQUITE - - -Miss Glendower sat on the ranch-house piazza, shading her eyes from the -white glare of the sun by holding above them--in beautiful, beringed -fingers--the last number of a Boston magazine. It was all very new -and delightful to her--this strange, unfinished country, and each -day developed fresh charm. As a spectacle it was perfect--the very -desolation and silence of the desert stirred something within her that -the Back Bay had never remotely roused. Viewed from the front row of -the dress circle, as it were, nothing could be more fascinating to her -art-loving sense than this simple, wholesome life lived out as Nature -teaches, and to feel that, for the time, the big, conventional world -of wise insincerities was completely shut away behind those far purple -mountains out of which rose the desert sun. - -As for becoming an integral part of all this one’s self--Ah, that was a -different matter! The very thought of her cousin, Blanche Madison, and -Roy--her husband--deliberately turning their backs on the refinements -of civilization, and accepting the daily drudgery and routine of life -on a cattle ranch, filled her with wondering amazement. When she -fell to speculating on what their future years here would be, she -shuddered. From the crown of her sleek and perfectly poised little -head, to the hollowed sole of her modishly booted foot, Miss Audrey -Glendower was Bostonian. - -Still, for the short space of time that she waited Lawrence Irving’s -coming, life here was full of charm for her--its ways were alluring, -and not the least among its fascinations was Mesquite. - -She smiled amusedly as she thought of the tall cowboy’s utter -unconsciousness of any social difference between them--at his simple -acceptance of her notice. Miss Glendower was finding vast entertainment -in his honest-hearted, undisguised adoration. She had come West for -experiences, and one of the first (as decidedly the most exciting and -interesting) had been found in Mesquite. Besides, it gave her something -to write of when she sent her weekly letter to Lawrence Irving. -Sometimes she found writing to him a bit of a bore--when topics were -few. - -But Mesquite---- The boy was a revelation of fresh surprises every -day. There was no boredom where he was. Amusing; yes, that was the -word. There he was now!--crossing the bare and hard beaten square of -gray earth that lay between the ranch house and the corrals. Though he -was looking beyond the piazza to where the other boys were driving a -“bunch” of bellowing, dust-stirring cattle into an enclosure, yet she -felt it was she whom his eyes saw. He was coming straight toward the -house--and her. She knew it. Miss Glendower knew many things, learned -in the varied experience of her eight-and-twenty years. Her worldly -wisdom was more--much more--than his would be at double his present -age. Mesquite was twenty. - -He looked up with unconcealed pleasure in her presence as he seated -himself on the piazza--swinging his spurred heels against each other, -while he leaned his head back against one of the pillars. Miss -Glendower’s eyes rested on the burned, boyish face with delight. There -was something so näive, so sweetly childish about him. It was simply -delicious to hear his “Yes, ma’am,” or his “Which?” Just now his -yellow hair lay in little damp rings on his forehead, like a baby’s -just awakened from sleep. He sat with his big, dust-covered sombrero -shoved back from a forehead guiltless of tan or freckles as the -petals of a white rose. But the lower part of his face was roughened -by wind and burned by the sun to an Indian red, making the blue eyes -the bluer--those great, babyish eyes that looked out with a belying -innocence from under their marvelous fringe of upcurling lashes. The -blue eyes were well used to looking upon sights that would have shocked -Miss Glendower’s New England training, could she have known; and the -babyish lips were quite familiar with language that would have made -her pale with horror and disgust to hear. But then, she didn’t know. -Neither could he have understood her standpoint. - -He was only the product of his environment, and one of the best things -that it had taught him was to have no disguises. So he sat today -looking up at his lady with all his love showing in his face. - -Then, in the late afternoon warmth, as the day’s red ball of burning -wrath dropped down behind the western desert rim of their little world, -he rode beside her, across sand hills where sweet flowers began to open -their snow-white petals to the night wind’s touch, and over barren -alkali flats to the postoffice half a dozen miles away. - -There was only one letter waiting for Miss Glendower that night. It -began: - -“I will be with you, my darling, twenty-four hours after you get this. -Just one more day, Love, and I may hold you in my arms again! Just one -more week, and you will be my wife, Audrey. Think of it!” - -She had thought; she was thinking now. She was also wondering how -Mesquite would take it. She glanced at the boy as she put the letter -away and turned her horse’s head toward home. Such a short time and she -would return to the old life that, for the hour, seemed so strangely -far away! Now--alone in the desert with Mesquite--it would not be hard -to persuade herself that this was all there was of the world or of life. - -As they loped across the wide stretch of desert flats that reached to -the sand hills, shutting the ranch from sight, the twilight fell, and -with it came sharp gusts of wind that now and then brought a whirl of -desert dust. Harder and harder it blew. Nearer and nearer--then it -fell upon them in its malevolence, to catch them--to hold them in its -uncanny clasp an instant--and then, releasing them, go madly racing off -to the farther twilight, moaning in undertone as it went. Then heat -lightning struck vividly at the horizon, and the air everywhere became -surcharged with the electric current of a desert sand storm. They -heard its roar coming up the valley. Audrey Glendower felt her nerves -a-tingle. This, too, was an experience! In sheer delight she laughed -aloud at the excitement showing in the quivering horses--their ears -nervously pointing forward, and their nostrils distended, as with long, -eager strides they pounded away over the wind-beaten levels. - -Then the storm caught them at its wildest. Suddenly a tumble-weed, dry -and uprooted from its slight moorings somewhere away on the far side -of the flats, came whirling toward them broadside in the vortex of a -mad rush of wind in which--without warning--they were in an instant -enveloped. As the great, rolling, ball-like weed struck her horse, Miss -Glendower took a tighter grip on the reins and steadied herself for the -runaway rush into the dust storm and the darkness. The wild wind caught -her, shrieked in her ears, tore at her habit as though to wrest it from -her body, dragged at the braids of heavy hair until--loosened--the -strands whipped about her head, a tangled mass of stinging lashes. - -She was alone--drawn into the maelstrom of the mad element; alone--with -the fury of the desert storm; alone--in the awful darkness it wrapped -about her, the darkness of the strange storm and the darkness of the -coming night. The frightened, furious horse beneath her terrified her -less than the weird, rainless storm that had so swiftly slipped in -between her and Mesquite, carrying her away into its unknown depths. -Where was he? In spite of the mastering fear that was gaining upon -her, in spite of her struggle for courage, was a consciousness which -told her that more than all else--that more than everyone else in the -world--it was Mesquite she wanted. Had others, to the number of a great -army, ridden down to her rescue she would have turned away from them -all to reach out her arms to the boy vaquero. Perhaps it was because -she had seen his marvelous feats of daring in the saddle (for Mesquite -was the star rider of the range), and she felt instinctively that he -could help her as none other; perhaps it was because of the past days -that had so drawn him toward her; perhaps (and most likely) it was -because he had but just been at her side. However it might be, she was -praying with all her soul for his help--for him to come to her--while -mile after mile she rode on, unable to either guide or slacken the -stride of her horse. His pace had been terrific; and not until it had -carried him out of the line of the storm, and up from the plain into -the sand hills, did he lessen his speed. Then the hoofs were dragged -down by the heavy sand, and the storm’s strength--all but spent--was -left away back on the desert. - -She felt about her only the softest of West winds; the dust that had -strangled her was gone, and in its place was the syringa-like fragrance -of the wild, white primroses, star-strewing the earth, as the heavens -were strewn with their own night blossoms. - -Just above the purple-black bar of the horizon burned a great blood-red -star in the sky. It danced and wavered before her--rising and falling -unsteadily--and she realized that her strength was spent--that she was -falling. Then, just as the loosened girth let the saddle turn with her -swaying body, a hand caught at her bridle-rein, and---- - -Ah, she was lying sobbing and utterly weak, but unutterably happy, on -Mesquite’s breast--Mesquite’s arms about her! She made no resistance to -the passionate kisses the boyish lips laid half fearfully on her face. -She was only glad of the sweetness of it all; just as the sweetness of -the evening primroses (so like the fragrance of jasmine, or tuberose, -or syringa) sunk into her senses. So she rested against his breast, -seeing still--through closed eyelids--the glowing, red star. She was -unstrung by the wild ride and the winds that had wrought on her nerves. -It made yielding so easy. - -At last she drew back from him; and instantly his arms were unlocked. -She was free! Not a second of time would he clasp her unwillingly. -Neither had spoken. Nor, after resetting the saddle, when he took her -again in his arms and lifted her, as he would a little child, upon her -horse, did they speak. Only when the ranch buildings--outlined against -the darkness--showed dimly before them, and they knew that the ride was -at an end, did he voice what was uppermost in his mind. - -“Yo’ don’t---- Yo’ ain’t---- Oh, my pretty, yo’ ain’t mad at me, are -yo’?” - -“No, Mesquite,” came the softly whispered answer. - -“I’m glad o’ that. Shore, I didn’t mean fur to go an’ do sech a thing; -but---- Gawd! I couldn’t help it.” - - * * * * * - -But when lifting her down at the ranch-house gate he would have again -held her sweetness a moment within his clasp, Miss Glendower (she was -once again Miss Glendower of the great world) let her cool, steady -voice slip between: - -“The letter I got tonight is from the man I am to marry in a week. He -will be here tomorrow. But, I want to tell you---- Mesquite---- I want -you to know that I--I shall always remember this ride of ours. Always.” - -Mesquite did not answer. - -“Good-night, Mesquite.” She waited. Still there was no reply. - -Mesquite led the horses away and Miss Glendower turned and went into -the house. Being an uneducated cowboy he was remiss in many matters of -courtesy. - - * * * * * - -When Lawrence Irving arrived at the Madison ranch, his host, in the -list of entertainment he was offering the Bostonian, promised an -exhibition of bronco riding that would stir even the beat of that -serene gentleman’s well regulated pulse. - -“This morning,” said Madison, “I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to -get my star bronco buster out for your edification, Lawrence, for the -boys have been telling me that he has been ‘hitting the jug’ pretty -lively down at the store for the past twenty-four hours (he’s never -been much of a drinker, either), but when I told him Miss Glendower -wanted to show you the convolutions of a bucking horse, it seemed to -sober him up a bit, and he not only promised to furnish the thrills, -but to do the business up with all the trimmings on--for he’s going -to ride ‘Sobrepaso,’ a big, blaze-face sorrel that they call ‘the -man killer,’ and that every vaquero in the country has given up -unconquered. Mesquite himself refused to mount him again, some time -ago; but today he is in a humor that I can’t quite understand--even -allowing for all the bad whiskey that he’s been getting away with--and -seems not only ready but eager to tackle anything.” - -“I’m grateful to you, Rob,” began Irving, “for----” - -“Oh, you’ll have to thank Audrey for the show! Mesquite is doing it -solely for her sake. He has been her abject slave ever since she came.” - -Both men laughed and looked at Miss Glendower, who did not even smile. -It might have been that she did not hear them. They rose and went out -to the shaded piazza where it was cooler. The heat was making Miss -Glendower look pale. - - * * * * * - -They, and the ranch hands who saw “Sobrepaso” (“the beautiful red -devil,” Mrs. Madison called him) brought out into the gray, hard beaten -square that formed the arena, felt a thrill of nervous expectancy--a -chilling thrill--as Mesquite made ready to mount. The horse was -blindfolded ere the saddle was thrown on; but with all the fury of a -fiend he fought--in turn--blanket, and saddle, and cincha. The jaquima -was slipped on, the stirrups tied together under the horse’s belly, -and all the while his squeals of rage and maddened snorts were those -of an untamed beast that would battle to the death. The blind then was -pulled up from his eyes, and--at the end of a sixty-foot riata--he was -freed to go bucking and plunging in a fury of uncontrolled wrath around -the enclosure. At last sweating and with every nerve twitching in his -mad hatred of the meddling of Man he was brought to a standstill, and -the blind was slipped down once more. He stood with all four feet -braced stiffly, awkwardly apart, and his head down, while Mesquite -hitched the cartridge belt (from which hung his pistol’s holster) in -place; tightened the wide-brimmed, battered hat on his head; slipped -the strap of a quirt on his wrist; looked at the fastenings of his -big-rowelled, jingling spurs; and then (with a quick, upward glance at -Miss Glendower--the first he had given her) he touched caressingly a -little bunch of white primroses he had plucked that morning from their -bed in the sand hills and pinned to the lapel of his unbuttoned vest. - -Mesquite had gathered the reins into his left hand, and was ready for -his cat-like spring into place. His left foot was thrust into the -stirrup--there was the sweep of a long leg thrown across the saddle--a -sinuous swing into place, and Mesquite--“the star rider of the range” -had mounted the man killer. Quickly the blind was whipped up from the -blood-shot eyes, the spurred heels gripped onto the cincha, there was a -shout from his rider and a devilish sound from the mustang as he made -his first upward leap, and then went madly fighting his way around and -around the enclosure. - -Mesquite sat the infuriated animal as though he himself were but a -part of the sorrel whirlwind. His seat was superb. Miss Glendower felt -a tremor of pride stir her as she watched him--pride that her lover -should witness this matchless horsemanship. She was panting between -fear and delight while she watched the boy’s face (wearing the sweet, -boyish smile--like, yet so unlike--the smile she had come to know in -the past weeks), and the yellow curls blowing back from the bared -forehead. - -“Sobrepaso” rose in his leaps to great heights--almost falling -backward--to plunge forward, with squeals of rage that he could not -unseat his rider. The boy sat there, a king--king of his own little -world, while he slapped at the sorrel’s head and withers with the -sombrero that swung in his hand. Plunging and leaping, round and -round--now here and now there--about the enclosure they went, the horse -a mad hurricane and his rider a centaur. Mesquite was swayed back and -forth, to and fro, but no surge could unseat him. Miss Glendower grew -warm in her joy of him as she looked. - -Then, somehow (as the “man killer” made another great upward leap) -the pistol swinging from Mesquite’s belt was thrown from its holster, -and--striking the cantle of the saddle as it fell--there was a sharp -report, and a cloud-like puff (not from the dust raised by beating -hoofs), and a sound (not the terrible sounds made by a maddened horse), -and the boy swayed backward--backward--with the boyish smile chilled -on his lips, and the wet, yellow curls blowing back from his white -forehead that soon would grow yet whiter. - - * * * * * - -Miss Glendower did not faint, neither did she scream; she was one with -her emotions held always well in hand, and she expressed the proper -amount of regret the occasion required--shuddering a little over its -horror. But to this day (and she is Mrs. Lawrence Irving now) she -cannot look quite steadily at a big, red star that sometimes burns -in the West at early eve; and the scent of tuberoses, or jasmine, or -syringa makes her deathly sick. - - - - -[Illustration] - -THE REVOLT OF MARTHA SCOTT - - -There was nothing pleasing in the scene. It was in that part of the -vast West where a gray sky looked down upon the grayer soil beneath; -where neither brilliant birds nor bright blossoms, nor glittering -rivulets made lovely the place in which human beings went up and down -the earth daily performing those labors that made the sum of what they -called life. Neither tree nor shrub, nor spear of grass showed green -with the healthy color of plant-life. As far as the eye could reach -was the monotonous gray of sagebrush, and greasewood, and sand. The -muddy river, with its myriad curves, ran between abrupt banks of soft -alkali ground, where now and then as it ate into the confining walls, -portions would fall with a loud splash into the water. A hurrying, -treacherous river--with its many silent eddies--it turned and twisted -and doubled on itself a thousand times as it wound its way down the -valley. Here, where it circled in a great curve called “Scott’s Bend,” -the waters were always being churned by the ponderous wheel of a little -quartz-mill, painted by storm and sunshine in the leaden tones of its -sad-colored surroundings. - -On the bluff above, near the ore platform, were grouped a dozen houses. -Fenceless, they faced the mill, which day after day pounded away at -the ore with a maddening monotony. All day, all night, the stamps kept -up their ceaseless monotone. The weather-worn mill and drab adobe -houses had stood there, year after year, through the heat of summer -days, when the sun blistered and burned the whole valley, and in -winter, when the winds of the desert moaned and wailed at the windows. - -Today the air is quiet, save for the tiny whirlwinds that, running over -the tailings below the mill, have caught up the fine powder and carried -bits of it away with them, a white cloud, as they went. The sun, too, -is shining painfully bright and burning. By the well a woman stands, -her eyes intently following a chance wayfarer who has turned into the -Sherman road--in all the waste, the only moving thing. - -How surely human beings take on themselves the reflection of their -surroundings! Living in the dull solitude of this valley that woman’s -life has become but a gray reflection of its never-ending sameness. As -we look, we fall a-wondering. Has she never known what it is to live -in the way we understand it? Has nothing ever set her pulses tingling -with the exultation of Life? Does she know only an existence which is -but the compulsory working of a piece of human machinery? Has she never -known what it is to feel hope, or joy, or love, in the way we feel -it--never experienced one single stirring emotion in the whole round of -her pitifully barren life? Is it possible that she has never realized -the poverty of her existence? - -Yet, she was a creature meant for Life. What a beautiful woman she -is, too, with all that brilliance of coloring--that copper-hued hair, -and those great, velvety eyes, lovely in spite of their apathetic -stare. What a model for some painter’s brush! Such beauty and such -apathy combined; such expressionless perfection of feature; “faultily -faultless, icily regular, splendidly null--dead perfection.” - -Martha Scott is one of those women whose commanding figure and -magnificent coloring are always sufficient to attract the admiration of -even the most indifferent. No doubt now in her maturity she is far more -beautiful than when, nearly twenty years ago, she became Old Scott’s -wife. A tall, unformed girl then, she gave no promise of her later -beauty, except in the velvety softness of the great eyes that never -seemed to take heed of anything in the world about her, and the great -mass of shining hair that had the red-gold of a Western sunset in it. - -There had been a courtship so brief that they were still strangers when -he took her to the small, untidy house where he had come to realize -that the presence of a woman was needed. He wanted a wife to cook for -him; to wash--to sew. And so they were married. - -The sheep which numbered thousands, the little mill--always grinding -in its jaws the ores brought down the mountain by the snail-paced -teams to fill its hungry maw, these added daily to the hoard Old Scott -clutched with gripping, penurious fingers. Early and late, unceasingly, -he worked, and chose that Martha should labor as he labored, live as -he lived. But, as she mechanically took up her burden of life, there -came to the sweet, uncomplaining mouth a droop at the corners that grew -with the years, telling to those who had the eyes to see, that while -accepting with mute lips the unhappy conditions of her lot, she longed -with all her starved soul for something different from her yearly round -of never-ending toil. - -Once--only once--in a whirlwind of revolt, she felt that she could -endure it no longer--that she must break away from the dull routine -which made the measure of her days; felt that she must go out among -happy human beings--to be in the rush and whirl of life under -Pleasure’s sunshine--to bask in its warmth as others did. She longed to -enjoy life as Youth enjoys; herself to be young once more. Yes, even to -dance as she had danced when a girl! In the upheaval of her passionate -revolt, flushed and trembling, she begged her husband to take her to -one of the country balls of the neighborhood. - -“Take me wunst!” she pleaded, her eyes glistening with unshed tears; -“only this wunst; I won’t never ask you no more. But I do want to have -one right good time. You never take me nowheres. Please take me, Fred, -won’t you?” - -Old Scott straightened himself from the task over which he was bending -and looked at her in incredulous wonder. For more than a minute he -stared at her; then, breaking into a loud laugh, he mocked: - -“You’d look pretty, now, wouldn’t you, a-goin’ and a-toein’ it like you -was a young gal!” - -She shrank from him as though he had raised a lash over her, and the -light died out of her face. Without a word she turned and went back to -her work. - - * * * * * - -Martha Scott never again alluded to the meagre pleasures of her life. -She went back to her work of cooking the coarse food which was their -only fare; of mending the heavy, uncouth clothing which week-day and -Sunday alike, was her husband’s only apparel; of washing and ironing -the cheap calicoes, and coarse, unbleached muslins of her own poor, -and scanty wardrobe, fulfilling her part as a bread-winner. The man -never saw that he failed in performing the part of a good and loving -husband; and if anyone had pointed out to him that her existence was -impoverished by his indifference and neglect, he still would have been -unable to see wherein he had erred. He would have argued that she -had enough to eat, enough to wear; that they owned their home--their -neighbors having no better, nor any larger; he was laying aside money -all the time; he did not drink; he never struck her. What more could -any woman ask? - -That the home which suited him, and the life to which he was used, -could be other than all she desired, had never once occurred to him. -As a boy, “back East” in the old days, he had never cared for the -sports and pleasures enjoyed by other young people. How much less, now -that the natural pleasure-time of life was past, could he tolerate -pleasure-seeking in others! - -“Folks show better sense to work an’ save their money,” he would say, -“than to go gaddin’ about havin’ a good time an’ comin’ home broke.” - -Together they lived in the house which through all their married life -they had called “home;” together they worked side by side through all -their years of youth and middle age. But not farther are we from the -farthest star than were these two apart in their real lives. Yet she -was his wife; this woman for whom he had no dearer name than “Marth’,” -and to whom--for years--he had given no caress. She looked the -incarnation of indifference and apathy. Ah! but was she? - - * * * * * - -A few years ago there came a mining expert from San Francisco to -examine the Yellow Bird mine; and with him came a younger man, who -appeared to have no particular business but to look around at the -country, and to fish and hunt. There is the finest kind of sport for -the hunter over in the Smoky Range; and this fellow, Baird--Alfred -Baird was his name--spent much of his time there shooting antelope and -deer. - -He was courteous and gentle mannered; he was finely educated--polished -in address; he spoke three or four languages, and was good to look -at. He stayed with the Scotts for a time--and a long time it proved -to be; a self-invited guest, whether or no. Yet all the while he did -not fail to reiterate his intentions to “handsomely remunerate them -for their generous hospitality in a country where there were so few -or no hotels.” He assured them he was “daily expecting a remittance -from home. The delay was inexcusable--unless the mail had miscarried. -Very annoying! So embarrassing!” And so on. It was the old stereotyped -story which that sort of a fellow always carries on the tip of his -tongue. And the wonder of it all was that Scott--surly and gruff to all -others--was so completely under the scamp’s will, and ready to humor -his slightest wish. Baird used without question his saddle and best -horse; and it was Scott who fitted him out whenever he went hunting -deer over in the Smokies. - -By and by there came a time when Scott himself had to go away on a -trip into the Smoky Range, and which would keep him from home a week. -He left his wife behind, as was his custom. He also left Alfred Baird -there--for Baird was still “boarding” at Scott’s. - -When old Fred Scott came back, it was to find the house in as perfect -order as ever, with every little detail of house work faithfully -performed up to the last moment of her staying, but the wife was gone. -Neither wife, nor the money--hidden away in an old powder-can behind -the corner cupboard--were there. - -Both were gone--the woman and the gold pieces; and it was -characteristic of Old Scott that his first feelings of grief and rage -were not for the loss of his wife, but for the coins she had taken from -the powder-can. He was like a maniac--breaking everything he had ever -seen his wife use; tearing to pieces with his strong, sinewy hands -every article of her clothing his eyes fell upon. He raved like a -madman, and cursed like a fiend. Then he found her letter. - -“Dear Fred:-- - -Now I’m a going away, and I’m a going to stay a year. The money will -last us two just about that long. I asked Mr. Baird to go with me, -so you needn’t blame him. I ain’t got nothing against you, only you -wouldn’t never take me nowheres; and I just couldn’t stand it no -longer. I’ve been a good wife, and worked hard, and earned money for -you; but I ain’t never had none of it myself to spend. So I’m a going -to have it now; for some of it is mine anyway. It has been work--work -all the time, and you wouldn’t take me nowheres. So I’m a going now -myself. I don’t like Mr. Baird better than I do you--that ain’t it--and -if you want me to come back to you in a year I will. And I’ll be a good -wife to you again, like I was before. Only you needn’t expect for me to -say that I’ll be sorry because I done it, for I won’t be. I won’t never -be sorry I done it; never, never! So, good-by. - - Your loving wife, - - Martha J. Scott.” - -If, through the long years, he had not been blind, he could have -saved her from it. Not a vicious woman--not a wantonly sinning woman; -only one who--weak and ignorant--was dazed and bewildered by the -possibilities she saw in just one year of unrestricted freedom to enjoy -all the pleasures that might come within her reach. - -To be sure, it did seem preposterous that a young and handsome man, -with refined tastes and education, should go away with a woman years -older than himself, and one, too, who was uncouth in manner and in -speech. However strange it looked to the world, the fact remained that -they eloped. But both were well away before it was suspected that they -had gone together. Old Scott volunteered no information to the curious; -and his grim silence forbade the questions they would have asked. It -was long before the truth was known, for people were slow to credit so -strange a story. - -The two were seen in San Francisco one day as they were buying their -tickets on the eve of sailing for Honolulu. She looked very lovely, and -was as tastefully and becomingly gowned as any woman one might see. -Baird, no doubt, had seen to that; for he had exquisite taste, and he -was too wise to challenge adverse criticism by letting her dress in -the glaring colors and startling styles she would have chosen, had she -been allowed to follow her own tastes. In her pretty, new clothes, with -her really handsome face all aglow from sheer joy in the new life she -was beginning, she looked twenty years younger, and attracted general -attention because of her unusual eyes and her magnificently-colored -hair. - -She was radiant with happiness; and there was no apparent consciousness -of wrong-doing. Baird always showed a gracious deference to all -women, and to her he was devotion itself. The little attentions that -will charm and captivate any woman--attentions to which she was so -unused--fed her starved nature, and for the time satisfied without -sating her. They sailed for the Islands, and were there a year. -They kept to themselves, seeking no acquaintance with those around -them--living but for one another. And those who saw them, told they -seemed thoroughly fond of each other. He was too much in love with -himself and the surroundings which catered to his extravagant tastes, -to have a great love for any woman; and she was scarcely the person, in -spite of her beauty--the beauty of some magnificent animal--to inspire -lasting affection in a man like Baird. He was shrewd enough to keep -people at a distance, for unless one entered into conversation with her -she might easily be taken for the really cultivated woman she looked. -Yet the refined and aesthetic side of Alfred Baird’s nature--and -there was such--much have met with some pretty severe shocks during -a twelvemonth’s close companionship. Too indolent to work to support -himself, he bore (he felt, heroically) any mortification he was -subjected to, and was content in his degradation. But the woman herself -was intensely happy; happier than, in all her dreary life, she had ever -dreamed that mortals could be. She was in love with the beautiful new -world, which was like a dream of fairy-land after her sordid life in -the desolate valley. That Hawaiian year must have been a revelation of -hitherto unimagined things to her. Baird’s moral sense was blunted by -his past dissipations, but her moral sense was simply undeveloped. In -her ignorance she had no definition of morality. The man was nothing -to her except as an accessory to the fascinating life which she had -allowed herself “while the money lasted.” - -When the twelve months were run she philosophically admitted the end -of it all, and parted with him--apparently--without a pang. If, at -the moment of parting, any regrets were felt by either because of the -separation, it was he, not she, who would have chosen to drift longer -down the stream. The year had run its course; she would again take up -the old life. This could not last. Perhaps--who knows?--in time he -might have palled on her. No doubt, in time, his weak nature would have -wearied her; her own was too eager for strong emotions, to find in him -a fitting mate. - -Whether, at the last, she wrote to her husband, or if he came to her -when the year came to its end, no one knows. But one day the people of -the desert saw her back at the adobes on the bluff. She returned as -suddenly as she had disappeared. - - * * * * * - -She seems to have settled into the old groove again. She moves in the -same apathetic way as before the stirring events of her life. In her -letter she said she would not be sorry. It is not probable that she -ever was, or ever will be; but neither is it likely that she has ever -seen the affair from the point of view a moralist would take. Her -limited intelligence only allowed her to perceive the dreariness of -her own poor life, and when her longings touched no responsive chord -in the man whom she had married, she deliberately took one year of her -existence and hung its walls with all the gorgeous tapestries and rich -paintings that could be wrought by the witchery of those magic days in -the Pacific. - -Fires have burned as fiercely within that woman’s breast as ever burned -the fires of Kilauea; and when they were ready to burst their bounds, -she fled in her impulse to the coral isles of the peaceful Western sea, -and there her ears heard the sound, and her heart learned the meaning -of words that have left no visible sign upon her--the wondrous, sweet -words of a dream, whispered to her unceasingly, while she gave herself -up to an enchantment as mad and bewildering as that of the rhythmic -hula-hula. - -If she sinned, she does not seem to know it. Going about at her work, -as before, the expressionless face is a mask; yet it may be she is -moving in a dream-world, wherein she lives over once again the months -that were hers--once--in the far Hawaiian Isles. - - - - -[Illustration] - -AN OLD SQUAW - - -She had been lying by the stone wall all day. And the sun was so -hot that the blood beating in her ears sounded like the White Man’s -fire-horse that had just pulled a freight train into the station, and -was grunting and drinking down at the water tank a hundred yards away. -It was getting all the water it wanted; why couldn’t she have all the -water she wanted, too? - -Today they had brought her the tomato can only half full. Such a little -drink! And her mouth was so hot and dry! They were starving her to -death--had been starving her for days and days. Oh, yes! she knew what -they were doing. She knew why they were doing it, too. It was because -she was in the way. - -She was an old squaw. For weeks she had been half dead; she had lain -for weeks whimpering and moaning in a corner of the camp on a heap of -refuse and rotting rags, where they had first shoved her aside when she -could no longer gather herself up on her withered limbs and go about to -wait upon herself. - -They had cursed her for her uselessness; and had let the children throw -dirt at her, and take her scant share of food away and give it to the -dogs. Then they had laughed at her when one of the older grandchildren -had spat at her; and when she had striven to strike at the mocking, -devilish face, and in her feebleness had failed, they had but laughed -the louder while she shrieked out in her hatred of them all. - -Her children, and her children’s children--her flesh and bone! They -were young, and well, and strong; and she was old, feeble and dying. -Old--old--old! Too old to work. Too old to do for herself any longer, -they were tired of her; and now they had put her out of the wick-i-up -to die alone there by the stone wall. She knew it--knew the truth; but -what could she do? - -She was only an old Paiute squaw. - -At first they had given her half the amount of food which they allowed -her before she had grown so feeble. Then it was but a quarter; and then -again it was divided in half. Now--at the last--they were bringing her -only water. - -One day when she was faint and almost crazed from hunger, one of the -boys (her own son’s son) had come with a meat bone and thrown it down -before her; but when she reached out with trembling, fleshless hands -to grasp it, he had jerked at the string to which it was tied, and -snatched it away. Again and again he threw it toward her; again and -again she tried to be quick enough to close her fingers upon it before -he could jerk it from her. Then (when, at last, he was tired of the -play) he had flung it only an arm’s length beyond her reach, and had -run laughing down to the railroad to beg nickels from the passengers -on the train. When he had gone a dog came and dropped down beside -her, and gnawed the bone where it lay. She had crawled out into the -sunshine that day, and lay huddled in a heap close to the door-flap at -the wick-i-up entrance. The warm sunlight at first felt good to her -chilled blood, and she had lain there long; but finally when she would -have dragged her feeble body within again, a young squaw (the one who -had mated with the firstborn son, and was now ruler of the camp) had -thrust her back with her foot, and said that her whining and crying -were making the Great Spirit angry; and that henceforth she must stay -outside the camp, for a punishment. - -Ah, she knew! She knew! They could not deceive her. It was not the -Great Spirit that had put her out, but her own flesh and blood. How -she hated them all! If she could only be young again she would have -them put to death, as she herself had had others put to death when -there were many to do her bidding. But she was old; and she must lie -outside, away from those who had put her there to starve, while in the -gray dusk they gathered around the campfire and ate, and laughed, and -forgot her. She wished the cool, dark night might last longer, with -the sage-scented winds from the plain blowing over her. But morning -would come with a blood-red sun shining through the summer haze, and -she would have to lie there under the furnace heat through all the long -daylight hours, with only a few swallows of water brought to her in the -tomato can to quench her intolerable thirst. - -They were slowly starving her to death just because she was old. They -hated squaws when they got old. They did not tell her so; but she knew. -She, too, had hated them once. That was long ago. Long, long ago; when -she was young, and strong, and swift. - -She was straight then and good to look at. All of the young men of -her tribe had striven for her; and two had fought long--had fought -wildly and wickedly. That was when the White Man had first come into -the country of her people, and they had fought with knives they had -taken from the Whites. Knives long, and shining, and sharp. They had -fought and slashed, and cut each other till the hard ground was red and -slippery where they stood. Then--still fighting--they had fallen down, -down; and where they fell, they died. Died for her--a squaw! Well, what -of it, now? Tomorrow she, too, would die. She whom they, and others, -had loved. - -Once, long ago--long before the time when she had become Wi-o-chee’s -wife--at the Fort on the other side of the mountain, where the morning -sun comes first, there had been a White Man whose eyes were the blue of -the soldier-blue he wore; and whose mustache was yellow like the gold -he wore on his shoulders. - -He, too, was young, and straight, and strong; and one day he had caught -her in his arms and held her while he kissed her on mouth and eyes, -and under her little round chin. And when she had broken away from -him and had run--run fast as the deer runs--he had called after her: -“Josie! Josie! Come back!” But she had run the faster till, by and -by, when he had ceased calling, she had stolen back and had thrown a -handful of grass at him as he sat, with bowed head, on the doorstep -of the officers’ quarters; his white fingers pressed tight over his -eyelids. Then when he had looked up she had gone shyly to him, and put -her hand in his. And when he stood up, looking eagerly in her eyes, she -had thrown her head back, where she let it lay against his arm, and -laughed, showing the snow-white line of her teeth, till he was dazzled -by what he saw and hid the whiteness that gleamed between her lips by -the gold that swept across his own. - -That was long ago. Not yesterday, nor last week, nor last month; -but so long ago that it did not even awaken in her an interest in -remembering how he had taught her English words to say to him, and -laughed with her when she said them so badly. - -She did not care about it, at all, now. She only wanted a drink of -water; and her children would not give her what she craved. - -Always, she had been brave. She had feared nothing--nothing. She could -ride faster, run farther, dare more than other young squaws of the -tribe. She had been stronger and suppler. Yet today she was dying here -by the stone wall--put out of the camp by her children’s children to -die. - -She would die tomorrow; or next day, at latest. Perhaps tonight. She -had thought she was to die last night when the lean coyote came and -stood off from her, and watched with hungry eyes. All night he watched. -Going away, and coming back. Coming and going all night. All night his -little bright eyes shone like stars. And the stars, too, watched her -there dying for water and meat, but they handed nothing down to her -from the cool sky. - -Oh, for strength again! For life, and to be young! But she was old and -weak. She would die; and when she was dead they would take her in her -rags, and--winding the shred of a gray blanket about her (the blanket -on which she lay)--they would tie it tightly at her head and at her -feet; and so she would be made ready for her last journey. - -Dragging her to a waiting pony she would be laid across the saddle, -face down. To the stirrups, which would be tied together beneath -the horse that they might not swing, her head and feet would be -fastened--her head at one stirrup, her feet at the other. - -Then they would lead the pony off through the greasewood. Along the -stony trail across the upland to the foothills the little buckskin pony -would pick his way, stumbling on the rocks while his burden would slip -and shake about, lying across the saddle. Then they would lay her in a -shallow place, and heaping earth and gravel over her, would come away. -That was the way they had done with her mother, with Wi-o-chee, and the -son who had died. - -Tomorrow--yes, tomorrow--they would take her to the foothills. Perhaps -the coyote would go there tomorrow night; would go there, and dig. - -He had come now, and stood watching her from the shelter of the -sagebrush. He was afraid to come nearer--now. She was too weak to move -even a finger today, yet he was afraid. He would not come close till -she was dead. He knew. - -Once he walked a few steps toward her, watching her all the while -with his little cruel eyes. Then he turned and trotted back into the -sagebrush. He knew. Not yet. - - * * * * * - -All day the sun had lain in heavy heat on the tangle of vile rags by -the stone wall. All day the magpie, hopping along the wall, watched -with head bent sidewise at the rags that only moved with the faint -breathing of the body beneath. All day long two buzzards far up in the -still air swung slowly in great circling sweeps. All day, from early -dawn till dusk, a brown hand--skinny and foully dirty--clutched the -tomato can; but the can today had been left empty. Forgotten. - -When it grew dark and a big, bright star glowed in the West, the coyote -came out of the shadows of the sagebrush and stood looking at the -tangled rags by the stone wall. - -Only a moment he stood there. He threw up his head, and his voice went -out in a chilling call to his mate. Then with lifted lip he walked -quickly forward. He was no longer afraid. - - - - -[Illustration] - -GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN - - -“Yes, you’re right, Sid; in these days of multi-millionaires, nothing -that is written with less than eight figures is considered ‘wealth.’ -Yet, even so, I count this something more than a ‘tidy little sum’ -you’ve cleaned up--even if you do not. And now tell me, what are you -going to do with it?” - -The man sitting at the uncovered pine table in the center of the room -opened his lips to answer, checked himself as if doubtful of the -reception of what he might say, and then went on nervously sorting and -rearranging the handful of papers and letters which he held. However, -the light that came into his eyes at Keith’s question, and the smile -that played around his weak lips, showed without a doubt that the “tidy -little sum” promised to him at least the fulfillment of unspoken dreams. - -He was a handsome man of thirty--a man of feminine beauty rather than -that which is masculine. And though dressed in rough corduroys and -flannels, like his companion, they added to, rather than detracted -from his picturesque charm. Slightly--almost delicately proportioned, -he seemed to be taller than he really was. In spite of his great -beauty, however, his face was not a satisfying one under the scrutiny -of a close observer, for it lacked character. There was refinement -and a certain sweetness of temperament there, but the ensemble was -essentially weak--it was the face of a man of whom one felt it would -not be well for any believing, loving woman to pin her faith to. - -Keith, sitting with his long legs crossed and his big, strong hands -thrust deep into his trousers’ pockets, watched the younger man -curiously, wondering what manner of woman she could have been who had -chosen Sidney Williston for her lord and master. - -“Poor little neglected woman,” thought Keith, with that tender and -compassionate feeling he had for every feminine and helpless thing; -“poor little patiently waiting wife! Will he ever go back to her, I -wonder? I doubt it. And now to think of all this money!” - -Williston had said but little to Keith about his wife. In fact, all -reference to her very existence had been avoided when possible. Keith -even doubted if his friend would ever again recognize the marriage -tie between them unless the deserted one should unexpectedly present -herself in person and claim her rights. Williston--vacillating, -unstable--was the kind of a man in whom loyalty depends on the presence -of its object as a continual reminder of obligations. Keith was sure, -however, that the woman, whoever she might be, was more than deserving -of pity. - -“Sidney means well,” thought Keith trying to find excuse for him, “but -he is weak--lamentably so--and sadly lacking in moral balance.” And -never had Williston been so easily lead, so subservient to the will of -another as now, since “that cursed Howard woman” (as Keith called her -under his breath) had got him into her toils. - -Lovesick as any boy he was befooled to his heart’s content, wilfully -blind to the fact that it was the old pitiful story of a woman’s greed, -and that her white hands had caresses and her lips kisses for his -gold--not for himself. Her arms were eager to hold in their clasp--not -him, but--the great wealth which was his, the gold which had come -from the fabulously rich strike he had cleaned up on the bedrock of -the claim, where a cross reef had held it hidden a thousand years and -more. Her red lips were athirst to lay kisses---- On his mouth? Nay! -on the piles of minted gold that had lain in the bank vault since he -had sold his mine. The Twentieth Century Aspasia has a hundred arts -her sister of old knew naught of; and Williston was not the first man -who has unwittingly played the part of proxy to another, or blissfully -believed in the lying lips whose kisses sting like the sting of wild -bees--those honey-sweet kisses that stab one’s soul with needles of -passionate pain. All these were for the gold-god, not him; he was but -the unconscious proxy. - -Keith mused on the situation as he sat in the flickering candle-light -blown by the night wind that--coming in through the open -window--brought with it the pungent odor of sagebrush-covered hills. - -“Strange,” he thought, “how a woman of that particular stamp gets a -hold on some fellows! And with a whole world full of other women, -too--sweet, good women who are ready to give a man the right sort -of love and allegiance, if he’s a half-way decent sort of a fellow -with anything at all worthy to give in exchange; God bless ’em!--and -confound him! He makes me angry; why can’t he pull himself together -and be a man!” - -Bayard Keith was no saint. Far from it. Yet, for all his drifting about -the world, he had kept a pretty clean and wholesome moral tone. Women -of the Gloria Howard class did not appeal to his taste; that was all -there was about it. But he knew men a-plenty who, for her sake, would -have committed almost any crime in the calendar if she set it for them -to do. There were men who would have faced the decree of judge and jury -without a tremor, if the deed was done for her sake. He himself could -not understand such things. Not that he felt himself better or stronger -than his fellows; it was simply that he was made of a different sort of -stuff. - -Yet, in spite of his manifest indifference to the charm of her large, -splendid beauty--dazzling as the sun at noon-day--and that marked -personality which all others who ever came within the circle of her -presence seemed to feel, Keith knew he could have this woman’s love -for the asking--the love of a woman who, ’twas said, won love from -all, yet giving love to none. Nay, but he knew it was already his. His -very indifference had fanned a flame in her breast; a flame which had -been lit as her eyes were first lifted to his own and she beheld her -master, and burning steadily it had become the consuming passion of -this strange creature’s existence. Hopeless, she knew it was; yet it -was stronger than her love of life. Even stronger than her inordinate -love of money was this passion for the man whose heart she had utterly -failed to touch. - -That he must know it to be so, was but an added pain for her fierce -nature to bear. Keith wondered if Williston had ever suspected, as she -played her part, the woman’s passionate and genuine attachment to -himself. He hoped not, for the two men had been good comrades, though -without the closer bond of a fine sympathy; and Keith’s wish was that -their comradeship should continue, while he hoped the woman’s love, in -time, would wear itself out. To Williston he had once tried to give a -word of advice. - -“Drop it, Keith,” came the quick answer to his warning, “I love her.” - -“Granted that you do, why should you so completely enslave yourself to -a woman of that type?” - -“What do you mean by ‘that type?’ Take care! take care, Keith! I tell -you I love her! Were I not already a married man I would make Mrs. -Howard my wife.” - -“Oh, no, you wouldn’t,” Keith answered quietly. “Howard refuses to get -a divorce, and you know very well she cannot. Besides, Sid, it would be -sheer madness for you to do such a thing, even were she free.” - -“It makes no difference; I love her,” was again the reply, and said -with the childish persistence of those with whom reiteration takes the -place of argument. - -Keith said no more, though he felt the shame of it that Sidney -Williston’s fortune should be squandered on another woman, -while--somewhere off there in the East--his wife waited for him to send -for her. Keith’s shoulders shrugged with impatience over the whole -pitiful affair. He was disgusted at Williston’s lack of principle and -angered by his disregard of public censure. However, he reflected, -trying to banish all thoughts of it, it was none of his business; he -was not elected to be his brother’s keeper in this affair surely. - -As for himself, he believed the only love worth having was that upon -which the foundation of the hearthstone was laid. He believed, too, -that to no man do the gods bring this priceless treasure more than -once. When a man like Keith believes this, it becomes his religion. - -Through the gateway to his big, honest heart, one summer in the years -gone by, love had entered, and--finding it the dwelling of honor and -truth--it abided there still. - -Thinking of Williston’s infatuation for Gloria Howard, he could but -compare it to his own entire, endless love for Kathryn Verrill. He -recalled a day that would always stand out in bold relief from all -others in memory’s gallery. - -In fancy now he could see the wide veranda built around one of -the loveliest summer homes of the beautiful Thousand Islands. -Cushions--soft and silken--lay tossed about on easy chairs and divans -that were scattered about here and there among tubs of palms and potted -plants. On little tables up and down the veranda’s length were summer -novels open and face downward as their readers had left them, or dainty -and neglected bits of fancy-work. Cooling drinks and dishes of luscious -fruits had been placed there within their reach. Keith closed his eyes -with a sigh, as the memory of it all came back to him. Here, amid the -sage and desert sands, it was like a dream of lost Paradise. - -It had been a day of opalescent lights, and through its translucence -they (he and--she) could see the rest of the party on the sparkling -waters, among the pleasure craft from other wooded islands, full of -charm, near by. Only these two--he and she--were here on the broad -veranda. The echo of distant laughter came to them, but here was a -languorous silence. Even the yellow-feathered warblers in the gilded -cages above them had, for the time, hushed their songs. - -Kathryn Verrill was swinging slowly back and forth in one of the -hammocks swung along the veranda, the sunlight filtering through the -slats of the lowered blinds streaking with gold her filmy draperies -as they swept backward and forward on the polished floor. Her fingers -had ceased their play on the mandolin strings, and there was now no -sound about them louder than the hum of the big and gorgeous bumble-bee -buzzing above their heads. Summer sweetness anywhere, and she the -sweetest of it all! Then---- - -Ah, well! He had asked her to marry him, and the pained look that came -into her face was his answer even before he heard her say that for two -years she had been another’s--a secretly-wedded wife. Why she should -now tell her carefully guarded secret to him she herself could hardly -have told. No one else knew. Her husband had asked that it should -be their dear secret until he could send for her to come to him out -in the land of the setting sun, where he had gone alone in the hope -that he would find enough of the yellow metal grains so that he could -provide her with a fitting home. Her guardian had not liked the man -of her choice--had made objections to his attentions. Then there was -the clandestine marriage. And then he had gone away to make a home -for her. But she loved him; oh, yes! he was her choice of all the -world, her hero always--her husband now. She was glad to have done as -she did--there was nothing to regret, except the enforced separation. -So she was keeping their secret while feeding her soul with the hope -of reunion that his rare letters brought. But she had faith. Some -day--some day he would win the fortune that would pave the way to him; -then he would send for her. Some day. And she was waiting. And she -loved him; loved him. That was all. - -All, except that she was sorry for Keith, as all good women are -sorry to hurt any human creature. No loyal, earnest, loving man ever -offers his whole heart to any true and womanly woman (it matters not -how little her own affections are moved by his appeal, or if they be -stirred at all) that she does not feel touched and honored by the -proffered gift. Womanly sympathy looked out of her gentle eyes, but she -had for him no slightest feeling of other attraction. Keith gravely -accepted his fate; but he knew that Love (that beautiful child born of -Friendship--begot by Passion) would live forever in the inner chamber -of his heart. To him, Kathryn Verrill would always be the one woman in -all the world. - -He went out of her life and back to the business routine of his own. In -work he would try to forget his wounds. Later there were investments -that turned out badly, and he lost heavily--lost all. - -Then he came West. Here, in the Nevada mountains, he had found -companionship in Sidney Williston who, like himself, was a seeker for -gold. A general similarity of tastes brought about by their former ways -of living (for Williston, too, was an eastern man) had been the one -reason for each choosing the companionship of the other. So, here in -the paintless pine cabin in Porcupine Gulch, each working his separate -claim, they had been living under the same roof for nearly two years; -but Fate, that sees fit to play us strange tricks sometimes, had laid a -fortune in Williston’s hands, while Keith’s were yet empty. - -Sidney Williston’s silence, when asked what he would do with his -wealth, was answer enough. It would be for Gloria Howard. There he sat -now, thinking of her--planning for her. - -Millers, red-winged moths and flying ants fluttered around the candle, -blindly batting at the burning wick and falling with singed wings on -the table. The wind was rising again, and the blaze at times was nearly -snuffed out, moth-beaten and blown by the strong breeze. - -All the morning the sun had laid its hot hand heavily on the earth -between the places where dense white clouds hung without a motion in -the breathless sky. The clouds had spread great dark shadows on the -cliffs below, where they clung to the rocks like time-blackened and -century-old lichens. But in the shadowless spots the sun’s rays were -intensely hot, as they so often are before a coming storm; while the -fierce heat for the time prostrated plant-life, and sent the many tiny -animals of the hills to those places where the darkest shadows lay. -Flowers were wilting where they grew. White primroses growing in the -sandy soil near the cabin had but the night before lifted their pale, -sweet faces to the moon’s soft light--lovely evening primroses growing -straight and strong. Noonday saw them drooping weakly on their stalks, -blushing a rosy, shamed pink; kissed into color by the amorous caresses -of that rough lover, the Sun. Night would find them faded and unlovely, -their purity and sweetness ruthlessly wrested from them forever. - -As the sun climbed to the zenith, there was not the slightest wind -stirring; the terrible heat lay, fold on fold, upon the palpitating -earth. But noon came and brought a breeze from out of the south. -Stronger and stronger it swept toward the blue mountains lying away to -the northward. It gathered up sand particles and dust, and shook them -out into the air till the sunlight was dulled, and the great valley -below showed through a mist of gold. All the afternoon the atmosphere -was oppressively hot, while the wind hurried over valley and upland and -mountain. All the afternoon the dust storm in billowy clouds hurried -on, blowing--blowing--blowing. A whistling wind it was, keeping up its -mournful song in the cracks of the unpainted cabin, and whipping the -burlap awning over the door into ragged shreds at the edges. The dark -green window shades flapped and rattled their length, carried out level -from their fastenings by the force of the hot in-blowing wind. - -Then with the down-going of the sun the wind died down also. When -twilight came, the heavens were overcast with rain-clouds that told of -a hastening storm which would leave the world fresh and cool when it -had passed. The horizon line was brightened now and again by zigzags of -lightning. Inside the cabin the close air was full of dust particles. - -Sidney Williston tossed a photograph across the table, as he gathered -his papers together preparatory to putting them away. - -“There’s my wife’s picture, Keith,” he said; “I don’t think I ever -showed it to you, did I?” - -Keith got up--six feet, and more, of magnificent manhood; tall, he was, -and straight as a pine, and holding his head in kingly wise. Leisurely -he walked across the bare floor, which echoed loudly to his tread; -leisurely he picked it up. - -It was the pictured face of Kathryn Verrill! - - * * * * * - -He did not say anything; neither did he move.... If you come to think -of it, those who sustain great shocks seldom do anything unusual -except in novels. In real life people cry out and exclaim over trifles; -but let a really stupendous thing happen, and you may be very sure that -they will be proportionately silent. The mind, incapable of instantly -grasping the magnitude of what has happened, makes one to stand -immovable and in silence. - -Keith said nothing. His breathing was quite as regular as usual, and -his grasp on the picture was firm--untrembling. Yet in that instant -of time he had received the greatest shock of his life, and myriad -thoughts were running through his brain with the swiftness of the -waters in the mining sluice. He held the bit of pasteboard so long that -Williston at last looked up at him inquiringly. - -When he handed it back his mind was made up. He knew what must be done. -He knew what he must do--at once--for her sake. - -When two or three hours later he heard Williston’s regular breathing -coming from the bed across the room, he stole out in the darkness to -the shed where the horses and buckboard were. It was their one vehicle -of any sort, and the only means they had of reaching the valley. With -the team gone, Williston would practically be a prisoner for several -days. Keith had no hesitation in deciding which way his duty lay. It -was thirty miles to the nearest town; to the telegraph; to Gloria -Howard; to the railroad! - -As he pulled the buckboard out of the shed and put the horses before -it, the first raindrops began to fall. Big splashing drops they were, -puncturing the parched dust as they beat down upon it. Flashes of -lightning split the heavens, and each flash made the earth--for the -instant--noon-bright. When he had buckled the last strap his hands -tightened on the reins, and he swung himself up to the seat as the -thunder’s batteries were turned loose on the earth in a tremendous -volley that set the very ground trembling. The frightened horses, -crouching, swerved aside an instant, and then leaped forward into the -darkness. Along the winding road they swept, like part of the wild -storm, toward the town that lay off in the darkness of the valley below. - -It was past midnight, and thirty miles lay between him and the -railroad. There was no time to spare. He drove the horses at a pace -which kept time with his whirlwind thoughts and his pulses. - -He had been cool and his thoughts had been collected when under -another’s possible scrutiny. Now, alone, with the midnight storm about -him, his brain was whirling, and a like storm was coursing through his -veins. - -The crashing thunder that had seemed like an avalanche of boulders -shattered and flung earthward by the fury of the storm, began to -spend itself, and close following on the peals and flashes came the -earth-scent of rain-wetted dust as the big drops came down. By and by -the thunder died away in distant grumbling, and the fiery zigzags went -out. There was the sound of splashing hoofs pounding along the road; -and the warm, wet smell of horses’ steaming hides, blown back by the -night wind. - -Fifteen miles--ten--five miles yet to go. Not once had Keith slackened -speed. - -When at length he found himself on the low levels bordering the river, -the storm had passed over, and ere he reached the town the rain had -ceased falling. A dim light was breaking through the darkness in -places, and scudding clouds left rifts between which brilliant stars -were beginning to shine. - -As he drove across the bridge and into the lower town, he woke the -echoes of a watch-dog’s barking; otherwise, the town was still. At -the livery stable he roused the sleeping boy, who took his team; and -flinging aside the water-soaked great-coat he wore, he walked rapidly -toward the railroad station at the upper end of the town. The message -he wrote was given to the telegraph operator with orders to “rush.” It -read: - -“I have found the fortune. Now I want my wife. Come.” - -He signed it with Sidney Williston’s name. - -“Is Number Two on time?” he asked. - -“An hour late. It’ll be here about 4:10,” was the reply. - -Leaving the office, he went back to the lower town. Down the hill and -past the pleasant cottages half hidden under their thick poplar shade, -and surrounded by neat, close-trimmed lawns. Leaf and grass-blade -had been freshened by the summer storm; and the odor of sweet garden -flowers--verbenas, mignonette and pinks--was wafted strongly to his -nostrils on the night air. They were homes. He turned away from all -the fragrance and sighed--the sigh of renunciation. Crickets were -beginning to trill their night songs. Past the court-house he went, -where it stood ghostly and still in the darkness; past the business -buildings farther down, glistening with wet. He turned into a side -street to the house where he had been told Gloria Howard lived. At the -gate he hesitated a moment, then opening it, went inside. Stepping off -the graveled walk, his feet pressed noiselessly into the rain-soaked -turf as he turned a corner of the cottage, and--going to a side -window--rapped on the casing. - -There was silence, absolute and deep. Again he rapped. Sharply this -time; and he softly called her name twice. He heard a startled movement -in the room, then a pause, as though she were listening. A moment later -her white gown gleamed against the darkness of the bedchamber, and she -stood at the open window under its thick awning of green hop vines. Her -face was on a level with his own. Her hair exhaled the odor of violets. -He could hear her breathing. - -“Gloria,”----he began, softly. - -“Who are you----what is it?” Then, “Keith! You!” she exclaimed; and in -a moment more flung wide the wire screen that had divided them. - -“Sh!”----he whispered. “I want to speak to you. But----hark! listen!” -He laid his hand lightly on her lips. - -She caught it quickly between both her own, and laid a hot cheek -against it for an instant; then she pressed it tightly against her -heart. - -The night watchman patrolling the streets was passing; and they -stood--he and she together--without movement, in the moist, dusky -warmth of the rain-washed summer night, until the footsteps echoed -faintly on the wet boards half a block away; the sound mingling with -the croaking of the river frogs. Keith could feel the fast beating of -her heart. The wet hop leaves shook down a shower of drops as they were -touched by a passing breeze. - -“Gloria,”----he spoke rapidly, but scarcely above his breath----“I am -going away tonight----(he felt her start) away from this part of the -country forever; and I have come to ask you to go with me. Will you? -Tell me, Gloria, will you go?” - -She did not reply, but laying a hand on his still damp coat-sleeve, -tried to draw him closer, leaning her face towards his, and striving to -read in his own face the truth of his words. - -Had there been light enough for him to see, he would have marvelled -at the varying expressions that followed in quick succession across -her face. Surprise, incredulity, wonderment, a dawning of the real -meaning of his words, triumph as she heard, and then--finally--a look -of fierce, absorbing, tigerish love. For whatever else there might be -to her discredit, her love for him was no lie in her life. She had for -this man a passion as strong as her nature was intense. - -“Gloria, Gloria, tell me! Will you leave all--everything and -everybody--and go away with me?” he demanded impatiently. “Number Two -is late--an hour late tonight, and you will have time to make yourself -ready if you hasten. Come, Gloria, come!” - -“Do----you----mean----it, Bayard Keith?” she breathed. - -“I mean it. Yes.” - -She knew his yea was yea; still she missed a certain quality in what he -said--a certain something (she could not say what) in his tone. - -She inhaled a long breath as she drew away from him. - -“You are a strange man--a very, very strange man. Do you know it? All -these many months you have shunned me; yet now you ask me to cast my -lot with yours. Why?” - -“Because I find I want you--at last.” - -His answer seemed to satisfy her. - -“For how long?” she asked. - -Just for the imperceptible part of a second he hesitated. His answer -would be another unbreakable link in the chain he was forging for -himself. Only the fraction of a second, though, he paused. Then his -reply came, firm and decided: - -“Forever, Gloria, if you will have it so.” - -For answer she dropped her head on her folded arms while a dry, hard -sob forced its way through her lips. It struck upon the chord within -him that always thrilled to the sight or sound of anything, even -remotely, touching grief. This sudden, unexpected joy of hers was so -near akin to sorrow--ay, and she had had much sorrow, God knows! in her -misspent life--it was cause enough for calling forth the gentle touch -he laid upon her bowed head. - -“Don’t, Gloria, girl! Don’t! It isn’t worth this, believe me. Yet, if -you come, you shall never have cause for regret, if there’s anything -left in a man’s honor.” - -He stroked her hair silently a moment before he said: - -“There are some things yet to be done before train time; so I must go -now. Will you be there--at the station?” - -“Yes.” - -So it was that the thing was settled; and Keith accepted his fate in -silence. - -An evil thing done? Perhaps. Evil, that good might come of it. And he -himself to be the sole sufferer. He was removing this woman beyond -Sidney Williston’s reach forever. When the weak, erring husband should -find himself free once more from the toils which had held him, his love -(if love it was) would return to the neglected wife; and she, dear, -faithful, loving woman that she was, would never, thank heaven! guess -his unfaithfulness. - -Bayard Keith did not feel himself to be a hero. Such men as he are -never vainglorious; and Keith had no thought of questioning Life’s way -of spelling “duty” as he saw it written. He was being loyal for the -sake of loyalty, a sacrifice for love’s own sake than which no man can -make greater, for he knew that his martyrdom would be in forever being -misjudged by the woman for whose dear sake it was done. He would be -misjudged, of course, by Sidney Williston, and by all the world, for -that matter; but for them he did not care. He was simply doing what -he thought was right that he himself should do--for Kathryn Verrill’s -sake. Her love had been denied him. Now he must even forfeit her -respect. All for love’s sake. None must ever know why he had done this -hideous thing. They must be made to think that he--like others--had -yielded to a mad love for the bad, beautiful woman. In his very silence -under condemnation lay security for Kathryn Verrill’s happiness. Only -he himself would ever know how great would be his agony in bearing the -load he had undertaken. Oh, if there might be some other way than this! -If there could be but some still unthought-of means of escape whereby -he could serve his dear lady, and yet be freed from yoking his life -with a woman from whom his whole being would revolt. How would he be -able through all the years to come--years upon years--to bear his life, -with her? - -As he walked past the darkened buildings he breathed heavily, each -breath indrawn with a sibilant sound, like a badger at bay. Yet he had -no thought of turning aside from his self-imposed immolation. - -No one was astir in the lower town, save himself and the night -watchman. Now and then he passed a dim light burning--here a low-turned -burner in store or bank building; there the brighter glow of lamps -behind the ground glass of some saloon door. Halfway up the long street -leading to the upper town he heard the rumble of an incoming train. Was -Number Two on time, after all? Was a pitying Fate taking matters away -from him, and into its own hands? Was escape being offered him? - -If he hurried--if he ran--he could reach the station in time, -but--alone! There would be no time to go back for Gloria Howard. He -almost yielded for a moment to the coward’s impulse to shrink from -responsibility, but the thought of Kathryn Verrill, waiting by the -eastern sea for a message to come from the man she loved, roused him to -his better self. He resolutely slackened his pace till the minutes had -gone by wherein he could have become a deserter; then he went on up to -the station. - -“No, that was a freight train that just pulled out,” said the telegraph -operator. “Number Two will be here pretty soon, though. Less’n half an -hour. She’s made up a little time now.” - -Keith went to the office counter and began to write. It was not a long -letter, but it told all there was to say: - -“Sid: I have wired to your wife to come to you, and I have signed your -name. By the time this reaches you she will be on her way here. It will -be wiser, of course, for you to assume the sending of the message, and -to give her the welcome she will expect. It will be wiser, too--if I -may offer suggestions--to travel about with her for a while; to go away -from this place, where she certainly would hear of your unfaithfulness -should she remain. Then go back with her to your friends, and live out -the balance of your life, in the old home, as you ought. I know you -will feel I am not a fit one to preach, for I myself am going away -tonight, taking Gloria Howard with me. I know, too, how you will look -at what I am doing; but I have neither excuses nor explanations to -offer. - - Bayard Keith.” - -That was all. - -When he had sealed and directed it, he went to the livery stable and -waked up Pete Dudley. - -“See here, Pete,” he said, “I want you to do something for me.” - -“Sure, Mr. Keith!” said Pete, rubbing his eyes. - -“Here’s a letter for Mr. Williston out at our camp in Porcupine Gulch. -I want you to take it to him, and take the buckboard, too.” - -“All right, I’ll go in the morning.” - -“No, no! Listen! Not till day after tomorrow. Wait, let me think---- -You’d better wait a day longer----go the next day. Do you understand?” - -“I guess I savvy. Not till Friday. Take the letter and the buckboard. -Is that the racket?” - -“Yes, that’s what I want, Pete. Here! Take them to him without fail on -Friday. Good-night, Pete. Good bye!” - -Keith walked back to the station and went in the waiting-room, where -he sat down. His heart felt as heavy as lead. He had burned all his -bridges behind him, and it made his soul sick to contemplate the long -vista of the coming years. - -As he sat there, the coward hope that she--Gloria--might not come, shot -up in his heart, trying to make of him a traitor. He said to himself: -“If----if----” Presently he heard the train whistle. He got up and went -to the door. He felt he was choking. Daylight was coming fast; day-dawn -in the eastern sky. The town, rain-cleansed and freshened, would soon -awake and lift its face to the greeting of another morn. - -The ticket-office window was shoved up. It was nearing train time. - -“Hello, Mr. Keith, going away?” - -“Yes, I want a----” he hesitated. - -“Where to?” - -But Keith did not answer. A ticket? One, or two? If she should not -come---- Was Fate----? What was he to do? But, no! Yet he hesitated, -while the man at the window waited his reply. Two tickets, or only one? -Or not any? Nay, but he must go; and there must be two. - -Then the train thundered into the station, and almost at the same -moment he heard, through the sound made by the clanging bell, the -rustle of a woman’s rich garments. He turned. Gloria Howard stood -there, beautiful and eager, panting from her hurried walk. - -“Where to?” repeated the man at the window. - -“San Francisco--two tickets,” said Keith. - -“‘Two,’ did you say?” asked the man, looking up quickly at him and then -glancing sideways at the radiant, laughing woman who had taken her -place so confidently at Keith’s side. - -Keith’s voice did not falter, nor did his eyes fall: - -“Two.” - -But the telegraph operator smiled to himself as he shoved the tickets -across the window sill. To him, Keith was simply “Another one!” So, -too, would the world judge him after he was gone. - - * * * * * - -Bayard Keith was no saint; but as he crossed to the cars in the -waxing light of day-dawn, his countenance was transfigured by an -indescribable look we do not expect to see--ever--on the face of mortal -man. - -“For her dear sake!” he whispered softly to himself, as he looked away -to the reddening East--to the eastward where “she” was. “For the sake -of the woman I love.” - -And “greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life -for his friends.” - - - - -[Illustration] - -IN NANNA’S PALM - - -It all happened years ago. Before there was any railroad; even before -there were any overland stages crossing the plains. Only the emigrant -teams winding slowly down the valley on the road stretching westward. - -Some there were, though, that had worked their way back from the -Western sea, to stop at those Nevada cañons where there was silver to -be had for the delving. - -The cañons were beautiful with dashing, dancing streams, and blossoming -shrubbery, and thick-leafed trees; and there grew up in the midst of -these, tiny towns that called themselves “cities,” where the miners -lived who came in with the return tide from the West. - -There in one of the busiest, prettiest mining camps on a great -mountain’s side, in one of the stone cabins set at the left of the -single long street, dwelt Tony and his cousin Bruno--Italians, both. -Bruno worked in the mines; but Tony, owning an ox team, hauled loads -for the miners to and from the other settlements. A dangerous calling -it was in those days, because an Indian in ambush had ever to be -watched for when a White Man came down from the cañons to travel alone -through the valley. - -Tony was willing, however, to take risks. Teaming brought him more -money than anything else he could do; and the more he earned, the -sooner he could go back to Nanna--to Nanna waiting for him away on the -other side of the world. - -He and Bruno both loved her--had loved her ever since the days when, -long ago, in their childhood, they had played at being lovers down -among the fishing boats drawn up on the beach of their beloved Italian -home. Black-browed Bruno had then quarreled with him in jealous hatred -time and again; but the little Nanna (who loved peace, and to whom both -playfellows were dear) would kiss each and say: - -“Come! Let us play that you are my twin brothers, and I your only -sister!” And so harmony would be restored. - -Thus it went on, and at last they were no longer little children, but -men who love a woman as men may love. And Bruno’s parents came to the -father and mother of Nanna and settled that their children should be -man and wife; so in that way Bruno was made glad, and no longer jealous -of Tony--poor Tony, who had not a single small coin that he could call -his own. Yet it was Tony whom Nanna loved--Tony whose wife she wanted -to be. But what can a young girl do when the one she loves is poor, and -there is another whom her parents have chosen for her who has a little -farm promised him by his father the day he shall bring home the wife -they would have him marry? Nanna neither resisted nor rebelled; but -only went to Tony who was as helpless as herself, and there against his -breast wept her heart out. - -It was only when Bruno declared that he was going to America to make a -great deal of money (saying that the farm was not enough--that when -he and Nanna were married he wanted they should be rich) that a ray of -hope shone for Tony. - -“I, too, will go to America,” Tony whispered to Nanna, “and perhaps -there I also may find a fortune. Then--when I come back--I may marry -thee; may I not, little dear one?” - -And for answer, the little Nanna lifted her arms to his neck and her -lips to his own. - - * * * * * - -The night before the two men sailed away to the strange, far-off land, -Nanna and Tony walked together under the oaks and ilexes. - -“Thou wilt miss me, little one, but thou wilt be true, I know. I shall -think of thee all the time--every hour. Thou wilt long for me, as I for -thee. Thou wilt miss my kisses; is it not so? But I----! Ah, Nanna! -Nanna! Here----” And bowing over her hand he pressed kiss after kiss in -the upturned little brown palm, closing her fingers tightly upon them -as he raised his head and smiled in her eyes. - -“There! These I give thee, sweet one, so that when I am gone it shall -be that thy Tony’s kisses are with thee, and are thine whenever thou -wilt.” - -All the morrow, when the ship had sailed away, Nanna lay on her cot -up in the little whitewashed bedroom under the eaves, and with lips -pressed close upon the palm that Tony’s lips had touched, sobbed her -grief out, till she sank into exhausted slumber. - -One year; two years; three, came and went. Tony off in America was -making money, and soon he could go home and they would be married in -spite of her parents or Bruno. The fourth year he wrote her how the -sum had grown--it was almost enough. Then she began checking off the -months ere he would return to her. Eighteen--sixteen--fourteen--now -only twelve months more! A year, and Tony would be with her! Then half -that year was gone. Six months, only, to wait! Happy little Nanna! -And Tony was not less happy, away off there in his little stone cabin -in the mountains, or hauling goods for the miners across the valley. -His heart was so full of her that--almost--he forgot to think of the -Indians when he was traveling along the road. - -“Thou art a fool,” said Bruno to him over and over again. “Thou -art a fool, indeed. It is more money--this hauling--yes! But some -day--ping!--and it is the arrow of an Indian. Then what good is it, the -money? Thou art a fool, I say. As for me, I will work here with the -many in the mines.” - -Bruno had just said this to him for the hundredth time, as Tony was -yoking his oxen for the long journey up the wide valley to the North. -And his answer had been as always, that the saints would protect him. -Yet, should he not return the thirteenth day, then indeed might Bruno -think all was not well with him, and could send some of the men from -the mines to go to him. He was not afraid, though. Had not the saints -protected him for nearly five years? He was soon to go back to Italy, -and (he whispered to himself) to Nanna! So with a light heart, and a -laugh on his lip, he went down the cañon beside the oxen, cracking his -whip as he warbled a song he and Nanna had sung together when they had -played by the boats and among the fishing nets in the long, long ago. - -The wagon jolted and rattled on its way down the rocky road to the -plain; and Tony’s big, beautiful St. Bernard dog, Bono, followed in -the dust sent skyward by the heavy wheels as they came upon the softer -earth of the lowlands. - - * * * * * - -Everyone was Tony’s friend in the little mining town. Therefore -everyone was anxious when the thirteenth day came, yet not Tony. With -few words (at such times such men do not say much) they selected a -dozen from among the town’s bravest and best, and with heavy hearts set -out on their journey that was to follow Tony’s trail till they should -find him. - -Down into the hot valley--a-quiver under the summer heat, over a road -of powdered alkali, along the Humboldt’s banks--through mile after mile -of sagebrush and greasewood--under the glaring, white sun, they rode -two and two. And so riding they spoke seldom. - -When they were nearing the place they knew Tony must have reached the -third day out (now more than ten days gone) they saw outlined against -the blue--high, high in the air--circling spots of black. Dark things -that swept with a majesty of motion that was appalling. Round and -round, in great curves half a mile wide, they swam through the ether, -and dipped and tilted without so much as the quiver of a wing or other -motion than that given by their marvelous self-poise; sailing through -mid-air as only a vulture can. - -They swept and circled over a spot that was awful in its silence under -the metallic brightness of the hot August sun. The men looked at each -other; looked without speaking--for they understood. So without speech -they rode on to the place where the warped irons from the burned -wagon lay, and where a gaunt, nearly starved St. Bernard howled over -something that had once been his master. He had guarded the dead man -through ten hot days--through ten long nights. Bono’s wail sounded long -and mournful through the narrow pass where the whistling arrows had -found them. Tony had never been neglectful before, and the dog could -not understand it. - -Alas, poor Tony! - -When Bruno went back to Italy that fall he told Nanna that Tony was -dead. And Nanna who came of a race more or less stoical in time of -stress did not cry out, but simply shut her sorrow up close in her -heart where the others could not see. It had been their secret--hers -and Tony’s--and they had guarded it well. Henceforth it would be -hers alone. So she gave no sign except such as she might for an old -playmate’s death. - -By and by she married Bruno. What would you? Her father and mother -wished it; Bruno loved her; he had money now to provide well for a -wife; and there was the little farm that his parents would give him the -day when he should bring home his bride. So, after the manner of her -kind, she finally yielded to his wooing; and one day they were wed in -the little church on the hill where they had both been christened when -babies. - -She bore him children, and was a good mother--a good wife. She lived to -be an old woman, and her hair grew streaked with gray; yet to the last -day of her life she had a way of falling asleep with the fingers of her -left hand slipped under her cheek, and her lips touching the upturned -palm. - -It was her one disloyalty to Bruno. - -And so it was they found her lying on that morning that she did not -waken. - - - - -[Illustration] - -THE VENGEANCE OF LUCAS - - -The little adobe house stood flush with the street, halfway between -the business houses and the residence portion of the town which turned -its back on the sand and sage-covered hills that--breaking into gray -waves--far off cast themselves on the beach of blue skyland in great -breakers of snow-crested mountains. - -At the side of the house was a dooryard--so small!--beaten hard and -smooth as a floor, and without a tree or a bush. There was no grass -even at the edge of the sturdy little stream that ran across the square -enclosure, talking all day to the old-faced baby in its high chair -under the shake-covered kitchen porch. All day the stream laughed and -chattered noisily to the owl-eyed baby, and chuckled and gurgled as it -hurried across the yard and burrowed under the weather-bleached boards -of the high fence, to find its way along the edge of the street, and -so on to the river a quarter of a mile below. But the wee woman-child, -owl-eyed and never complaining, sat through the long sunshine hours -without one smile on its little old face, and never heeding the stream. - -As the days grew hotter, its little thin hands became thinner, and -it ate less and less of the boiled arroz and papas the young mother -sometimes brought when she came to dip water. - -“Of a truth, there is no niña so good as my ’Stacia; she never, never -cries! She is no trouble to me at all,” Carmelita would exclaim, and -clap her hands at the baby. But the baby only grew rounder eyed as it -stared unsmilingly at its mother’s pretty plumpness, and laughing red -lips, and big black eyes, whenever she stopped to talk to the little -one. - -Carmelita--pretty, shallow-pated Carmelita--never stayed long with the -tiny ’Stacia, for the baby was so good left alone; and there was always -Anton or Luciano and Monico to drop in for a laugh with the young -wife of stupid old Lucas; or Josefa coming in for a game of “coyote y -gallos.” - -It was Lucas who went out to the porch whenever he could spare the time -from earning money that he might buy the needed arroz and papas, or the -rose-colored dresses he liked to see her wear. - -It was for Lucas she said her first word--the only word she had learned -yet--“papa!” And she said it, he thought, as if she knew it was a -love in no wise different from a father’s love that he gave her, poor -little Anastacia, whose father--well, Lucas had never asked Carmelita -to tell him. How could he? Poor child, let her keep her secret. Pobre -Carmelita! Only sixteen and no mother. And could he--Lucas--see her -beaten and abused by that old woman who took the labor of her hands -and gave her nothing in return?--could he stand by when he saw the big -welts and bruises, and not beg her to let him care for her and the -niña?--such a little niña it was, too! Of a verity, he was no longer -young; and there was his ugly pock-marked face, to say nothing of the -scars the oso had given him that day when he, a youth, had sent his -knife to the hilt in the bear that so nearly cost him his life. The -scars were horrible to see--horrible! But Carmelita (so young--so -pretty!) did not seem to mind; and when the priest came again they were -married, so that Carmelita had a husband and the pobrecita a father. - -And such a father! How Lucas loved his little ’Stacia! How tender he -was with her; how his heart warmed to the touch of her lips and hands! -Why, he grew almost jealous of the red-breasted robin that came daily -to sit by the edge of her plate and eat arroz with her! He begrudged -the bird its touch of the little sticky hand covered with grains of -rice which the robin pecked at so fearlessly. And when the sharp bill -hurt the tender flesh, how she would scold! She was not his ’Stacia -then at all--no, some other baby very different from the solemn little -one he knew. There seemed something unearthly in it, and Lucas would -feel a sinking of his heart and wish the bird would stay away. It never -came when others were there. Only from the shelter of window or doorway -did he and the others see the little bright bird-eyes watch--with head -aslant--the big black ones; or hear the baby bird-talk between the two. -Every day throughout the long, hot summer the robin came to eat from -the niña’s plate of rice as she sat in her high chair under the curling -shake awning; and all the while she grew more owl-eyed and thin. A good -niña, she was, and so little trouble! - -One day the robin did not come. That night, through the open windows -of the front room, passers-by could see a table covered with a folded -sheet. A very small table--it did not need to be large; but the bed -had been taken out of the small, mean room to give space to those who -came to look at the poor, little, pinched face under a square of pink -mosquito bar. There were lighted candles at the head and feet. Moths, -flying in and out of the wide open window, fluttered about the flames. -The rose-colored dress had been exchanged for one that was white and -stiffly starched. Above the wee gray face was a wreath of artificial -orange blossoms, but the wasted baby-fingers had been closed upon some -natural sprays of lovely white hyacinths. The cloying sweetness of -the blossoms mingled with the odor of cigarette smoke coming from the -farther corners of the room, and the smell of a flaring kerosene lamp -which stood near the window. It flickered uncertainly in the breeze, -and alternately lighted or threw into shadow the dark faces clustered -about the doorway of the second room. Those who in curiosity lingered -for a moment outside the little adobe house could hear voices speaking -in the soft language of Spain. - -To them who peered within with idle interest, it was “only some Mexican -woman’s baby dead.” Tomorrow, in a little white-painted coffin, it -would be born down the long street, past the saloons and shops where -the idle and the curious would stare at the procession. Over the bridge -across the now muddy river they would go to the unfenced graveyard on -the bluff, and there the little dead mite of illegitimacy would be -lowered into the dust from whence it came. Then each mourner in turn -would cast a handful of earth into the open grave, and the clods would -rattle dully on the coffin lid. (Ah, pobre, pobre Lucas!) Then they -would come away, leaving Carmelita’s baby there underground. - -Carmelita herself was now sitting apathetically by the coffin. She -dully realized what tomorrow was to be; but she could not understand -what this meant. She had cried a little at first, but now her eyes -were dry. Still, she was sorry--it had been such a good little baby, -and no trouble at all! - -“A good niña, and never sick; such a good little ’Stacia!” she -murmured. Carmelita felt very sorry for herself. - -Outside, in the darkness of the summer night, Lucas sat on the kitchen -porch leaning his head against the empty high chair of the pobrecita, -and sobbed as if his heart would break. - - * * * * * - -That had happened in August. Through September, pretty Carmelita cried -whenever she remembered what a good baby the little Anastacia had been. -Then Josefa began coming to the house again to play “coyote y gallos” -with her, so that she forgot to cry so often. - -As for Lucas, he worked harder than ever. Though, to be sure, there -were only two now to work for where there had been three. With Anton, -and Luciano, and Monico, he had been running in wild horses from the -mountains; and among others which had fallen to his share was an old -blaze-face roan stallion, unmanageable and full of vicious temper. They -had been put--these wild ones--in a little pasture on the other side of -the river; a pasture in the rancho of Señor Metcalf, the Americano. And -the señor, who laughed much and liked fun, had said he wanted to see -the sport when Lucas should come to ride the old roan. - -Today, Lucas--on his sleek little cow-horse, Topo--was riding along the -river road leading to the rancho; but not today would he rope the old -blaze-face. There were others to be broken. Halfway from the bridge -he met little Nicolás, who worked for the señor, and passed him with -a pleasant “Buenos dias!” without stopping. The boy had been his good -amigo since the time he got him away from the maddened steer that would -have gored him to death. There was nothing ’Colás would not do for his -loved Lucas. But the older man cared not to stop and talk to him today, -as was his custom; for he was gravely thinking of the little dead -’Stacia, and rode on. A hundred yards farther, and he heard the clatter -of a horse’s hoofs behind him, and Nicolás calling: - -“Lucas! Lucas!” - -He turned the rein on Topo’s neck, and waited till the boy came. In -the pleasant, warm October sunlight he waited, while Nicolás told him -that which would always make him shiver and feel cold when afterward -he should remember that half-hour in the stillness and sunshine of the -river road. He waited, even after Nicolás (frightened at having dared -to tell his friend) had gone. - -The señor and Carmelita! It was the truth--Nicolás would not lie. The -truth; for the boy had listened behind the high fence of weather-beaten -boards, and had heard them talk together. He, and the little stream -that gurgled and laughed all day, had heard how they--the señor and -Carmelita--would go away to the north when the month should end. For -many months they two had loved--the Señor Metcalf and the wife of -Lucas; had loved before Lucas had made her his wife--ay! even before -the little ’Stacia had come. And the little ’Stacia was the señor’s---- -Ah, Lucas would not say it of the dead pobrecita! For she was -his--Lucas’s--by right of his love for her. Poor little Anastacia! And -but that the little one would have been a trouble to the Americano, -they--the woman and the man--would have gone away together before; -but he would not have it so. Now that the little one was no longer to -trouble them, he would take the mother and go away to the new rancho he -had just bought far over on the other side of the mountains. - -[Illustration: “Their eyes met.”--Page 65] - -“Go!”--said Lucas, when the boy had finished telling all he had -overheard--“Go and tell the señor that I go now to the corral to ride -the roan stallion. And--’Colás, give to me thy riata for today.” - - * * * * * - -Lucas had driven the horses into one of the corrals. Alone there he -had lassoed the old blaze-face; and then had driven the others out. -Unaided, he had tied the old stallion down. As he lay there viciously -biting and trying to strike out with his hind feet, Lucas had fastened -a halter on his head and had drawn a riata (sixty feet long, and strong -as the thews of a lion) tight about him just back of the forelegs. -Twice he had passed it about the heaving girth of the old roan, whose -reeking body was muddy with sweat and the grime and dust of the corral. -The knots were tied securely and well. The rope would not break. Had -he not made it himself from the hide of an old toro? From jaw-piece -to jaw-piece of the halter he drew his crimson silk handkerchief, -bandaging the eyes that gleamed red under swollen and skinned lids. -Then, cautiously, Lucas unbound the four hoofs that had been tied -together. The horse did not attempt to move, though he was consumed by -a rage against his captor that was fiendish--the fury of a wild beast -that has never yet been conquered. - -Lucas struck him across the ribs with the end of the rope he was -holding. The big roan head was lifted from the ground a second and -then let fall, as he squealed savagely. Again the rope made a hollow -sound against the heaving sides. Again the maddened horse squealed. -When the rope struck the third time, he gathered himself together -uncertainly--hesitated--struggled an instant--staggered to his feet, -and stood quivering in every muscle of his great body. His legs shook -under him; and his head--with the bandaged eyes--moved from side to -side unsteadily. - -Then Lucas wound the halter-rope--which was heavy and a long -one--around the center-post of the corral where they were standing. - -As he finished, he heard someone singing; the voice coming nearer and -nearer. A man’s voice it was, full and rich, caroling a love song, the -sound mingling with that of clattering hoofs. - -Lucas, stooping, picked up the riata belonging to Nicolás. He was -carefully re-coiling it when Guy Metcalf, riding up to the enclosure, -looked down into the corral. - -“Hello, Lucas! ‘Going to have some fun with the old roan,’ are you? -Well, you’re the boy to ride him. ‘Haven’t got the saddle on yet, hey?’ -Hold on a minute---- Soon as I tie, I’ll be with you!” - -Lucas had not spoken, neither had he raised his head. He went to where -little Topo was standing. Shaking the noose into place by a turn or -two of the wrist, while the long loop dragged at his heels through the -dust, he put his foot in the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle. -He glanced at the gate--he ran the noose out yet a little more. Then he -began to swing it slowly in easy, long sweeps above his head while he -waited. - -The gate opened and Metcalf came in. He turned and carefully fastened -the gate behind him. He was a third of the way across the corral when -their eyes met. - -Then--with its serpent hiss of warning--the circling riata, snake-like, -shot out, fastening its coils about him. And Topo, the little cow-horse -trained to such work, wheeled at the touch of the spur as the turns -of the rope fastened themselves about the horn of the saddle, and the -man--furrowing the hoof-powdered dust of the corral--was dragged to -the heels of the wild stallion. Lucas, glancing hastily at the face, -earth-scraped and smeared and the full lips that were bleeding under -their fringe of gold, saw that--though insensible for a moment from -the quick jerk given the rope--the blue eyes of the man were opening. -Lucas swung himself out of the saddle--leaving Topo to hold taut the -riata. Then he began the work of binding the doomed Americano. When -he had done, to the doubled rope of braided rawhide that was about -the roan stallion, he made Carmelita’s lover fast with the riata he -had taken from Nicolás. He removed it slowly from the man’s neck (the -señor should not have his eyes closed too quickly to the valley through -which he would pass!) and he put it about the body, under the arms. -Lucas was lingering now over his work like one engaged in some pleasant -occupation. - -The halter-rope was then unknotted, and the turns unwound from the -center-post. Next, he pulled the crimson handkerchief from the horse’s -eyes--shouted--and shook his hat at him! - -Maddened, terrified, and with the dragging thing at his heels, the -four-footed fury fought man, and earth, and air about him like the very -demon that he was till he came to the gate that Lucas had set wide for -him, and he saw again the waves of sage and sand hills (little waves -of sweet-scented sage) that rippled away to the mountains he knew. Out -there was liberty; out there was the free life of old; and there he -could get rid of the thing at his heels that--with all his kicking, and -rearing, and plunging--still dragged at the end of the rope. - -Out through the wide set gate he passed, mad with an awful rage, and -as with the wings of the wind. On, and on he swept; marking a trail -through the sand with his burden. Faster and faster, and growing dim to -the sight of the man who stood grim and motionless at the gate of the -corral. Away! away to those far-lying mountains that are breakers on -the beach of blue skyland! - - - - -[Illustration] - -A SHEPHERD OF THE SILENT WASTES - - -“To be hung. To be hung by the neck until dead.” - -Over and over I say it to myself as I sit here in my room in the -hotel, trying to think connectedly of the events which have led to the -culmination of this awful thing that, in so short a time, is to deprive -me of life. - -At eleven o’clock I am to die; to go out of the world of sunshine and -azure seas, of hills and vales of living green, of the sweet breath of -wild flowers and fruit bloom, of light and laughter and the music of -Life, to----what? Where? How far does the Soul go? What follows that -awful moment of final dissolution? - -At eleven o’clock I shall know; for I must die. There is no hope, -no help; though my hand has never been raised against mortal man or -woman--never have I taken a human life. - -At the stroke of the hour a great crowd will stand in the prison yard, -and gape at the scaffold, and see the drop fall, and--fascinated and -frowning--gaze with straining eyes at the Thing dangling at the end of -a hempen rope. A Soul will go out into immeasurable space. A purple -mark on my throat will tell the story of death by strangulation. Two -bodies will lie stark and dead tonight--his and mine. His will be laid -in the pine box that belongs to the dishonored dead; while mine will be -housed in rosewood, and satin, and silver. - -You do not understand? - -Listen, let me tell you! Let me go back to the first time we ever -met--he and I. - -After college days were over, I left the Atlantic coast and all that -Life there meant to me, and came out to the West of the sagebrush, -and the whirlwinds, and the little horned toads. And there in the -wide wastes where there is nothing but the immensity of space and the -everlasting quiet of the desert, I went into business for myself. -Business there? Oh, yes! for out there where men go mad or die, cattle -and sheep may thrive. I, who loved Life and the association of bright -minds, and everything that such companionship gives, invested all I -had (and little enough it was!) in a business of which I knew nothing, -except that those men who went there with a determination to stick -to the work till success should find them, brought away bags full of -gold--all they could carry--as they came back into the world they had -known before their self-banishment. - -So I, too, went there, and bought hundreds of -sheep--bleating--blear-eyed, stupid creatures that they are! I, -essentially a man of cities and of people, began a strange, new life -there, becoming care-taker of the flocks myself. - -A lonely life? Yes; but remember there was money to be made in -sheep-raising in the gray wastes; and I was willing to forego, for a -time, all that civilization could give. So I dulled my recollections -of the old life and the things that were dear to me, and went to work -with a will in caring for the dusty, bleating, aimlessly-moving sheep. -I wanted to be rich. Not for the sake of riches, but to be independent -of the toil of bread-winning. I longed with all my soul to have money, -that I might gratify my old desires for travel away to the far ends of -the earth. All my life I had dreamed of the day I was to turn my face -to those old lands far away, which would be new lands to me. So I was -glad to sacrifice myself for a few years in the monstrous stillness of -the gray plains so that I might the sooner be free to go where I would. - -Friends tried to dissuade me from the isolated life. They declared I -was of a temperament that could not stand the strain of the awful quiet -there--the eternal silence broken only by some lone coyote’s yelp, or -the always “Baa! Baa!” of the sheep. They told me that men before my -time had gone stark mad--that I, too, would lose my mind. I laughed -at them, and went my way; yet, in truth, there was many a day through -the long years I lived there, when I felt myself near to madness as I -watched the slow-moving, dust-powdered woolly backs go drifting across -the landscape as a gray fog drifts in from the sea. It seemed the -desert was the emptier by reason of the sheep being there, for nothing -else moved. Never a sign of life but the sheep; never a sound but the -everlasting “Baa! Baa! Baa!” Oh! I tell you I was very near to madness -then, and many another man in my place would have broken under the -tension. But not I. I was strong because I was growing rich. I made -money. I took it eastward to the sea, and watched the ships go out. It -was a fine thing to see the great waste of waters move, as the desert -waste never had. There was the sea, and beyond lay far lands! Still, I -said to myself: - -“No; not yet will I go. I will wait yet a little longer. I will wait -until I hold so much gold in my hands that I need never return--need -never again look upon the desert and its ways.” - -So--though I watched the ships sail away to waiting lands beyond--the -time was not yet ripe for me to go. Back to the money-making a little -longer--back for a while to the stupid, staring-eyed sheep--then a -final good-bye to the desert’s awful emptiness, and that never-ceasing -sound that is worse than silence--the bleating of the flocks! - - * * * * * - -It was on one of these trips to the Atlantic coast that I saw, for the -first time, him of the Half-a-Soul. - -The hour was late afternoon of a hot mid-summer day. The sun was red -as blood and seemed quadrupled in size where it hung on the horizon -with its silent warning of another terrible day on the morrow. -Block-pavements and cobbles radiated heat, and the sidewalks burned my -feet painfully as I stepped on their scorching surfaces coming out of -my friend Burnham’s office. The hot air stifled me, and I flinched at -the dazzling light. Then I stepped in with the throng, and in a moment -more was part of the great surging mass of heat-burdened humanity. -Drifting with the pulsating stream, I was for the time listlessly -indifferent to what might be coming except that I longed for the night, -and for darkness. It might not, probably would not, bring any welcome -cool breeze, but at least in the shadows of the night there would -be a respite from the torturing white glare that was now reflected -from every sun-absorbing brick, or square of granite or stone. I was -drifting along the great current of Broadway life when---- - - * * * * * - -There was a sudden clutching at my heart--a tension on the muscles that -was an acute pain--a reeling of the brain--and I found myself gazing -eagerly into two eyes that as eagerly gazed back into mine. Dark eyes -they were, smoldering with evil passions and the light of all things -that are bad. The eyes of a man I had never known--had never seen; yet -between whom and myself I felt existed a kinship stronger than any tie -that my life had hitherto admitted. For one instant I saw those strange -black eyes, blazing and baleful, the densely black hair worn rather -long, the silky mustache brushed up from the corners of the mouth, the -gleam of the sharp white teeth under a lifted lip, the smooth heavy -eyebrows slightly curving upward at the outer edges, giving the face -the expression we give to the pictures we make of Satan. These I saw. -Then he was lost in the crowd. - -Where had I seen him before that these details should all seem so -familiar? I knew (and my blood chilled as I confessed it to myself) -that in all my life I had never seen or known him in the way I had -seen and known others. And, more, I knew that we were linked by some -strange, unknown, unnamed, unnatural tie. It was as though a hand -gloved in steel had clutched my heart in a strangling grip as he moved -past. I gasped for breath, staggered, caught myself, and--staggering -again--fell forward on the pavement. - -“Sunstroke,” they said. “Overcome by the heat.” - - * * * * * - -And then---- - -Long afterward I saw him again. - -I was traveling in far lands. Going over from Stamboul to Pera I stood -on the Galata bridge watching the great flood of living, pulsing human -life--those people of many races. - -There was a fresh breeze from the North that day, and it set dancing -the caiques and barcas where they threaded their way among the big -ferry-boats and ships of many strange sails, and all the craft of -summer seas. There was a sparkle on the Bosphorus under the golden -sunshine and a gleam on the Golden Horn. A violet-hued haze hung over -the wide expanse, and through it one could see the repeated graces of -mosque and minaret, the Seven Towers and the rounded whiteness of Santa -Sophia. Higher, there was the green of laurel and lime, of rose-tree -and shrubbery in profusion--terrace upon terrace--and now and again -darker shadows made by the foliage of cypress or pine. All the morning -I had reveled in Nature’s great color scheme; had feasted eye and sense -on the amethyst, and emerald, and sapphire of water, and sky and shore. -And then I went to the Galata bridge. - -There I stood and watched that medley of races moving by. Arab and -Ethiopian, Moslem and Jew; the garb of modern European civilization, -and the flowing robes of the East; Kurds, Cossacks and Armenians; -the gaudy red fez and the white turban of the Turk; dogs lean and -sneaking-eyed; other eyes that looked out from under the folds of a -yashmak. And always the babel of voices speaking many tongues. Greeks -and Albanians; the flowing mantle of Bedouins and the Tartar in -sheepskins. Ebbing and flowing--ebbing and flowing, the restless human -tide at the great Gateway of the East. - -As I stood looking and listening, there came again without warning that -clutching at my heartstrings--that sharp pain in my left side--that -same dizzying whirl of thoughts--that sickening fear of something (I -knew not what) which I could not control; and out of the flowing tide -of faces I saw one not a stranger--he whom I did not know. His eyes -held mine again; and in that moment something seemed to tell me that he -was my everlasting curse. Through him would come things dread and evil; -from him there was no escape. I looked long--my eyes starting in their -sockets. I gasped--caught at the air--and lost consciousness. - - * * * * * - -When I recovered myself I was sitting in a little café whither a young -lad had assisted me. I gave him a few piasters and told him to leave -me. He took them, said: - -“Pek eyi!” and went away. - -Left alone at the café table, after motioning the attendant also -away, I sat and pondered. Where would this haunting dread end? The -basilisk eyes I so loathed had borne me a message which I could not yet -translate. Not yet. But he would pass me again some day, and once more -his eyes would speak a message. What was it? Something evil, I knew. -But what? - -So I went away; went away from the Galata bridge; away from Pera and -Stamboul. - - * * * * * - -And then---- - -Then from the deck of a dahabeeyeh on the Nile! - -I was with the Burnhams. We were eight in the party. Lucille Burnham -(Joe’s sister) and I were betrothed. Betrothed after months and months -of playing at love, and the making and unmaking of lovers’ quarrels. -Each had thought the other meant nothing more than what makes for an -idler’s pastime, until drifting on the current of old Nilus we read -the true love in each other’s heart, and the story (old as Egypt is -old) was told over again there where it was told centuries before by -men and women who loved in the land of the lotus. - -Joe and his wife, and the Merrills (brother and sister), Colonel -Lamar and his pretty daughter, and my dear girl and I. What a happy, -care-free party we were! My most precious dreams were coming true; and -now I went up and down the earth’s highways as I willed. - -Under the awning that day I was lying at Lucille’s feet, half-asleep, -half-awake and wholly happy. I remember how, just there above Luxor, -I noticed two women on the river bank, the dull-blue dress of the -one, and the other carrying a water-skin to be filled. A boy, naked -and brown-skinned, sprawled in the sand. Moving--slow moving with the -current--we came drifting out of that vast land that is old as Time -itself reckons age. - -Then between my vision and the banks beginning the level which reached -far and away to the hills beyond, came the shadow of a lateen sail not -our own. A dahabeeyeh was slipping by, going against the current. I -raised myself on my elbow, and there--unfathomable, dark as Erebus, and -gazing out of deep sockets--were the eyes of a man who drew me to him -with a power I was unable to resist; a power fearful as---- - -The thin, sneering lips seemed to whisper the word “Brother!” and -“Brother----” I whispered back. - - * * * * * - -The sight of that face under the shadow of the lateen sail--like -a shadow cast by a carrion bird where it slowly moves above you -in the desert--coming as it did, in the midst of my days of love -and new-found joy, left me unnerved and wrecked both mentally and -physically. - -“Come, come! this won’t do,” said Joe; “I am afraid you are going to -have the fever!” - -“It is nothing,” I declared, shrinking from his scrutiny, “I----I have -these attacks sometimes.” - -“Who is he? What is he?” I asked myself the question hourly. And there -in the silence of those nights under the stars of the East, while we -breathed the soft winds blowing across the sands the Pharaohs had trod, -the answer came to me: - -He was my other Half-Self--the twin half of my own Soul. This brother -of mine--this being for whom I had a loathing deep and intense--was one -in whom there lived an incomplete Soul (a half that was evil through -and through) and mine was the other half. I was beginning now to -understand. We had been sent into this world with but one Soul between -us; and to me had been apportioned the good. But evil or good--good and -evil--we were henceforth to be inseparable in our fate. - -But always I cried out in my helpless, hopeless agony, “Yet -why--why--why?” It is the cry of the Soul from the first day of -creation. - -I turned my back on the far East, and set my face towards America. - - * * * * * - -Then---- - -Then I started on a trip through California and old Mexico. My health -was broken. My marriage with Lucille was postponed. - -On the Nevada desert our train was side-tracked early one morning to -allow the passing of the eastbound express which was late. A vast -level plain stretched its weary way in every direction. Only the twin -lines of steel and the dark-red section house showed that the White -Man’s footsteps had ever found their way into the stillness of the -dreary plains. - -We had fifteen minutes to wait. I got out with others and walked up and -down the wind-blown track, smoking my cigar and spinning pebbles, which -I picked up from the road-bed, at a jack-rabbit in the sagebrush across -the way. The wind made a mournful sound through the telegraph wires, -but a wild canary sang sweetly from the top of a tall greasewood--sang -as if to drown the wind’s dirge. Dull grays were about us; and we were -hemmed in by mountains rugged, and rough, and dull gray, with here -and there touches of dull reds and browns. On their very tops patches -of snow lay, far--far up on the heights. Miles down the valley we -could see the coming train. A few minutes later the conductor called -to us “All aboard!” and I swung myself up on the steps of the last -sleeping-car as we began to move slowly down toward the western end of -the switch. - -There was a roar and a clatter--a flash of faces at the windows--a rush -of wind and dust whirled up by the whirling wheels--and, as the Eastern -Express shot by, I saw (on the rear platform of the last car) him, -between whom and myself a Soul was shared. - -The conductor stepped up on the platform where I stood, and caught me -by the arm as I reeled. - -“The high altitude,” he said, “makes a good many folks get dizzy. You’d -better go inside and sit down.” - - * * * * * - -Then again. - -On a ferry-boat crossing the bay from the Oakland pier to San -Francisco. I had just returned that morning from a four-months’ tour -of Mexico. It was raining dismally, and everything about the shipping -on the bay was dripping and dreary. Gray-white sea gulls circled and -screamed; darting and dipping, they followed our wake, or dropped down -into the foam churned up by the wheels. Winds--wet and salty, and fresh -from the sea--tugged at our mackintoshes; and flapped the gowns and -wraps of the women where--huddled together away from the rail--we stood -under shelter. Sheets of flying fog--dense, dark and forbidding--went -by; gray ghosts of the ocean’s uneasy dead. And back of the curtain of -falling waters and fog, whistles shrieked shrilly, and the fog horns -uttered their hideous sounds. Bellowing--moaning; moaning--bellowing; -suddenly still. - -The city seemed but an endless succession of terraced, water-washed -houses under an endless rain. The storm lashed the waves in the -harbor into running ridges of foam, and on the billows the ferry-boat -(falling and rising, rising and falling) pushed her way through gray -skeleton-ships at anchor, and into her slip at the wharf. The drivers -of wagons and trucks on the lower deck, wrapped in oilskins yellow or -black and all dripping with wet, drove down the echoing planks. Then -the people began to descend the stairways. With my right hand steadying -me, I had taken three downward steps when the gripping at my heart told -me who was passing at my left (always at the left, it had been; at the -left, always) and he of the smoldering eyes that burned into mine like -live embers passed me quickly, and went on down the stairway and into -the rain-wetted crowd. - - * * * * * - -And again---- - -It happened when, with a guide and some Club friends, we went through -the Chinatown slums of the city. - -It was Saturday night; the night of all others for hovels and evil -haunts to disgorge their hives of human bees to swarm through passage -and alley, or up and down the dark and wretched stairways. - -We had begun at the Joss Houses--gaudy with tinsel, and close and -choking from the incense of burning tapers. We had gone to restaurant -and theater. At the one, going in through the back way and on through -their cooking rooms where they were preparing strange and repulsive -looking food; at the other, using the stage entrance and going on -the stage with the players. Into opium joints our guide led the way, -where the smokers in their utter degradation lay like the dead, as the -drug carried the dreamers into a land of untranslatable dreams. We -had looked at the pelf in the pawn-shops, and at the painted faces of -Chinese courtesans looking out through their lattices. - -Then underground we had gone down (three stories) and had seen -places and beings hideous in their loathesomeness; loathesome beyond -description. To the “Dog Kennel.” Up to earth’s surface again; to “The -Rag Picker’s Paradise.” Through “Cum Cook Alley”--through “Ross Alley,” -where within a few feet, within a few years, murder after murder had -been committed, and (the murderers escaping through the network of -secret passageways and hidden doors) the deaths had gone unavenged. -Through the haunts of highbinders, and thugs and assassins we moved; -and once I passed a little child--a half-caste--toddling through the -alley that was reeking with filth. “Look out, Baby!” I said, as he -stumbled and fell. “Look out, Man!” he answered in English, and -laughed. - -[Illustration: “Again the sirocco passed.”--Page 79] - -Then, somewhere between high walls that reached to the open air, I -found myself alone--left behind by the others. I could see the guide’s -light burning--a tiny red spark--far ahead in the darkness, but my own -candle had gone out. Away up in the narrow slit showing the sky, shone -the cold, still stars. Under my feet crunched clinkers and cinders wet -with a little stream from some sewer running over the ground. - -Then in the dark wall a door opened, and as the light from within -lit up the inky blackness without I saw him again. Again the sirocco -passed, burning--scorching the life-blood in my veins. - -They came back and found me lying in the wet of the noisome alley. For -weeks, in the hotel, I lay ill; then, as soon as I was able to walk -unassisted, I took passage for Japan, intending to extend my trip to -Suez, and through Europe, on home. I said to myself that I would never -again set foot in San Francisco. I feared that horrible something, the -power of which seemed stronger over me there than elsewhere. Six times -we had met and passed. I shrank from the seventh. Each time that we had -come face to face--met--passed--drifted apart, I heard a voice saying -that my life was being daily drawn closer and closer into his, to be a -part of the warp and woof of his own. And the end? It would be----when? -Where? In what way? What would be that final meeting of ours? How far -off was it? What would that fatal seventh meeting mean for us both? - -I fled from the city as one does from the touch of a leper. I dared not -stay. - -But the third day out on the ocean there suddenly came over me a -knowledge that a greater force than my own will would compel me to -return. Something bade me go back. I fought with it; I battled with -the dread influence the rest of the voyage. It was useless. I was -a passenger on the ship when it returned to San Francisco. There I -found the whole city talking and horrified, over a murder hideous, -foul, revolting. Carmen de la Guerra, a young Spanish woman, had been -brutally murdered--butchered by her lover. I was sick--chilled, when I -heard. A foreboding of the truth came to me as I listened. I feverishly -read the papers; they told of the tragedy in all its frightful details. -I went to the public libraries for the back files. Then I went to the -jail to look at the face of the fiend who had killed her. I knew whom I -should see behind the bars. It was he. And it was the seventh meeting. - -His eyes bade me go and get him release. - -“Go!” they said, “Call to your aid all the angels of your heaven, and -the help of the demons who are one with me in hell, that you may save -me from the gallows. My Soul is your Soul; if I die, you also must die -with me. Keep the rope from me; for you are fighting for your own life. -Go!” - - * * * * * - -I went out of the chill jail corridors a madman. I raved against the -hellish destiny. What use? I must save him, or I must die with him. -No one understood. I told no one my secret. Early and late; day and -night I worked unceasingly to get him pardoned. God! how I worked to -save him. I tried every conceivable means to secure him his life. I -exhausted all methods known to the law. I spent money as a mill-wheel -runs water. - -“You believe him innocent?--this fiend!” my friends cried -aghast--amazed at my mad eagerness to get him acquittal. - -“No! not that!” I answered in my agony, “but he must not die--shall not -hang! Shall not! Do you hear? Innocent or guilty--what do I care? Only -he must live, that I shall not die.” - -But no one understood. - - * * * * * - -It has been in vain. At eleven o’clock he is to be hung. The -death-watch is with him. And the death-watch is here, too, with me. Two -are here; and the name of one is Horror, and the other’s name is Fear. -Down below I hear the rattle of traffic on the streets, and in the -hotel corridors I hear the voices of people talking--just now I heard -one laugh. They do not know. And Lucille---- Ah, my poor Lucille! - -The tide of life is running out, and the end is drawing nigh. I have -come to find at last that evil is always stronger than good; and in -that way he draws me after him. I cannot hold the half of his Soul -back. Closer and closer together we come. A Divided Soul--his and mine. -His body has housed the evil half--mine the good. His is all that is -vile, and bestial, and bloodthirsty; mine has always striven after the -best. Yet because of his sin I, too, must die. - -At the hour of eleven he will hang for the murder of Carmen de la -Guerra. At eleven I, too, must die. As the sheriff cuts the rope, -and the evil Divided Soul swings out eternity-ward from the body -which has housed it evilly, so will I die at that instant--death by -strangulation. For a Divided Soul may not live when its twin is gone. -Death. And then one body in the rosewood casket, and one in its box of -pine. - -At eleven---- - -“Baa! Baa!” I hear the sheep---- No; it is---- What is it? I cannot -see---- Something is being pressed down over my eyes, shutting out the -light. My arms--my feet are being tied--I cannot move. Help! Something -is closing on my neck--I cannot breathe. It is tightening--choking---- -I hear the bleating of the sheep---- God! God! I am strangling! The -rope---- It is the rope--and Death. - -May God have mercy on my Soul! - - - - -[Illustration] - -BY THE OIL SEEP UNDER THE BLUFF - - -Jon Landis turned the bit of black rock over and over in his hand as -he held it under the searching Nevada sunlight. The lids of his light -blue eyes narrowed as he looked, and he chewed nervously at the corner -of his long upper lip under its cropped reddish mustache. Finally, as -though wholly satisfied with the close scrutiny he had given it, he -nodded his head slowly. - -“You think he good? All same like that other kin’ you show um me?” - -The young Paiute was peering into his palm, too. - -“I guess so, Nick,” answered Landis; “Anyway, you no tell um ’nother -man ’bout this. Savvy?” - -The Paiute nodded. It was evident that he “savvied.” He had shown -Landis a copper ledge off in the mountains, two years before, and -Landis had given him a hundred dollars. It was Indian Nick’s opinion -that Landis was “heap pretty good man;” and he now recognized the value -of silence until such a time as Landis would let him speak. Other white -men had, before this, got him to show them prospects upon promises, -and--without an exception--had cheated him out of his due. But Jon -Landis was different. This big, quiet man who talked but little, and -never laughed at all--him he would be “partner” with, and show him the -place down by the river where the black rock sample came from, and the -bluffs where--underneath--a queer little spring (that wasn’t water) -oozed forth, and lost itself a dozen feet away in the muddy current of -the greater stream. - -Indian Nick didn’t know what that stream--a very, very little -stream--was; and he didn’t care to know. Indians as a rule are not -inquisitive. He only knew it looked “heap greasy;” and if the black -rock on the sandy mesa above was like the piece that Landis showed him, -saying it was from California--then Nick was to have another hundred -dollars. - -Now that Landis had “guessed” that the rock sample was the same sort, -Nick (seeing a hundred dollars easily earned) looked furtively about -him as they stood on the railroad track--where the section house and -the freight house were sole evidence of a station--to discover if -they had been observed talking together. For even a Paiute knows that -precaution may prevent a secret from being suspected. No, no one had -seen them together. The section foreman was out on the road with his -men, and the telegraph operator had not come out of his office in the -freight house since he had reported the train that had just brought -Landis back to Nevada. No one from the town (as the mining camp up -in the foothills was called) had come down to the station that day. -The Indian was satisfied; no one would guess that he and Landis were -“partners.” - -“You come now; I show you that place. He not far--can walk.” - -“How far?” - -“Maybe two mile, I think. You see. You come now?” - -Landis deliberated. Presently he asked: - -“You got a shovel, Nick? Got a pick at your wick-i-up?” - -“I got um ol’ one--not much good.” - -“Well, never mind; they’ll do for today. You go get ’em, and trot on -ahead. Where is it?” - -Nick pointed in the direction of the river bluffs; and when Landis had -reached the mesa the Paiute--with pick and shovel--was already there. - -“The ol’ man--my father--asked um me where I go. I no tell um. He ask -what for I take pick--take um shovel--what I do. I no say nothin’.” - -“That’s right, Nick! Don’t tell anybody. By an’ by, when I get the -business all fixed, then we’ll talk. Savvy?” - -And again Nick “savvied.” - -All about them was the black rock from which Nick had got the sample. -Not much of it, but enough to demonstrate the value of what it -indicated. It was undoubtedly asphaltum; the indication for oil was -good--more than good. Landis was interested. The Paiute was moving off -through the stunted greasewood to the bluffs near the river edge, and -Landis followed. - -The face of the bluffs--eroded and uneven--rose high above the river -level; leaving but a narrow footway between their base and the -stream, here at this point. Across by the other bank, was a growth of -rabbit-wood and sage. A twisted, leafless buck-bush stood lonely and -alone at the rim of a dry slough. The carcass of a dead horse--victim -of some horse-hide hunter--furnished a gruesome feast for a half dozen -magpies that fluttered chattering away as the two figures appeared -on the top of the bluffs; and a coyote that had been the magpies’ -companion, slipped away into the thicket of rabbit-wood. The river -was deep here, and dirty with the debris brought down by its rising -waters. Froth, and broken twigs, and sticks swirled around in the -eddies. To Landis, there was something unspeakably depressing about the -place, though he was well used to the country in all its phases. Its -very stillness seemed today to weigh on him. - -The two men began the descent; the Indian slipping quickly down the -face of the bluffs, and Landis clambering after. - -There--at the foot--in a gully so narrow it would escape any but the -keenest eye, a tiny, slow-moving, dark thread of a stream oozed from -beneath the bluffs of clay, and following the bottom of the narrow -cut that ran at right angles to the river--slipped down into the -roily waters that bore it away. Landis squatted down by it for closer -inspection. He rubbed it between his fingers. He smelt of it. Yes, it -was oil! - -“All right, Nick! You’ll get your hundred dollars!” - -Nick grinned delightedly; but the face of Landis--from the high cheek -bones down to the square set jaws that were burned as red as the skin -of an Indian is supposed to be--was a mask of immobility. This find -meant many thousands of dollars to him, but he only said: - -“Here, boy! Pitch in now, and dig out under that bank!” as he -pointed out a part of the bluff at the very edge of the gully. And -Nick--strong, and young, and keen as himself to know how much of the -“greasy” stream was dammed up behind the bluffs that the pick could -disclose, swung it with strong strokes that ate into the clay in a way -that did Landis good to see. - -He had been working but a short time when the pick point caught into -something other than lumps of clay; caught at it--clawed at it--and -then dragged out (one--two--half a dozen) bones stripped of all flesh. - -Nick stopped. - -“What are you stopping for?” Landis asked sharply. “Go on! It’s only -some horse or a cow that’s died here.” But already he himself had seen -the thigh bone of a human being. Nick hesitated; still staring at what -lay there. - -“Damn you, go on! What’s the matter with you?” - -The steady strokes recommenced. Little by little there was uncovered -and dragged out the skeleton of someone Who Once Was. Nick looked -sullen and strange, but he did not falter. He worked steadily on until -they lay--an indistinguishable heap--beside the narrow gully. Landis -said nothing, and the pick strokes ate farther and farther into the -bank. - -Suddenly there was a terrible sound--half a shriek and half a gurgle -that died away in the throat--which startled them; and swinging around, -Landis saw an old Indian tottering along the narrow ledge that bordered -the river there. He was stumbling and blindly staggering toward them, -waving his arms above his head as he came. A bareheaded, vilely dirty -and ragged old man--how old no one might be able to say. As his bleared -eyes found the skeleton heap, he shrieked forth in the Indian tongue -something (though Landis knew no word of what he might say) that sent -a chill over him of prescient knowledge of what was to come. He turned -his back on the old man, and addressed himself to Nick. - -“What does he say?” - -The younger Paiute looked old and gray with a horror that Landis -refused to translate. - -“My father----” - -“Yes, I know. Your father. What does he say?” - -“My father----” Nick’s words came slowly, “He say----them----bones----” - -“For God’s sake, what? Why don’t you say what? Can’t you talk?” - -“Them,” Nick’s teeth were chattering now, “my----my----mother.” - -Landis caught his breath. Then a stinging pain shot through his left -arm, and something fell to the ground. He swung around in time to -see the old Paiute, with another stone in his raised hand, his face -distorted with hate and fury. - -“Quit that!” Landis yelled, and strode toward him. But the old man’s -fury was now turned to fear as he saw this white giant bearing down on -him, and the stone fell short of its mark. He started to flee before -the strength he feared, but the narrow ledge that lay between the river -and the bluff would have been but insecure foothold for steadier steps -than his. He tripped--reeled--and then with a cry that Landis will -remember so long as he lives--he went backward; and down into the muddy -river the eddies sucked him--down and down--and so out of sight. - -Then Jon Landis fought with the one who, with raised pick, stood ready -to avenge the death of his father, and the desecration of his other -dead. The struggle was not long, but they fought as men do who know -that but one man shall live when the combat be done. Twice the pick -descending almost struck the bared head of the white man; thrice his -adversary forced him to the very water’s edge. Landis knew he was -fighting for his life, and he watched his opportunity. It came. Eluding -that rain of death-meant blows, he caught the Indian close to him, and -with a quick movement flung the pick far out into the river. Then they -clinched in the final struggle for life that to the white man or the -brown man is equally dear. Back and forth, swaying and bending, the hot -breath of each in the other’s face, they moved over the narrow confine. -It was not for long; for--with one mighty final effort--Landis wrenched -himself loose, caught at the other, shoved--flung him off, and it was -over. Jon Landis stood there alone. - -The fleshless skull grinned out at him from the heap of bones. Landis -shivered; he felt cold. Overhead, clouds like swansdown were beautiful -against the sapphire blue of the afternoon sky. A soft wind blowing -down the valley brought him the sound of a locomotive’s whistle; and -the breeze was sweet with the breath of spring flowers growing upon the -banks, away from the bluffs. A little brown bird began to warble from -the buck-brush across the river. - -It must have been five minutes that Landis stood there without moving. -Then he picked up the shovel and walked over to the Indian woman’s -bones. It did not take him long to dump them into the little gully -where the oil ran, and to cover them over with loose earth from the -place she had lain for thirty years. Afterward, he scraped the earth -about with the broken shovel, to destroy all footprints. Then he -dropped it into the stream. He would never come here again; and now -there was no evidence that he had ever been there. - -Then he climbed the bluffs. Nor did he look back as he walked rapidly -away. - - - - -[Illustration] - -THE BLUE-EYED CHIEF - - -It sounds a bit melodramatic, in these days of “Carlisle” education -for the Indian, and with “Lo” himself on the lecture platform, to tell -of a band of one time hostile red men having a white chief--once a -captive--who so learned to love his captivity that when freedom was -to be had for the taking, he refused it, and still lives among them, -voluntarily. Contentedly--happily? Who knows? He says so; and with no -proof to the contrary we must needs believe him. - -Once in every three years he leaves his home among the mountains of -eastern Oregon, and goes for a week to San Francisco by the sea. Once -in every three years he may be seen there on the streets, in the -parks, at the theaters, on the beach, at the Cliff or the Heights, as -strangers are seen daily, and with nothing about him to mark him in -any wise different from a thousand others. You might pass him dozens -of times without particularly observing him, save that he is always -accompanied by a woman so evidently of a different world than that -which he has known, that your attention is at once arrested, and your -curiosity is whetted to know the story--for story there is, you are -sure. And what a story! One does not have to go to fiction for tales -of the marvelous; and these two--he, roughened, bearded and browned, -clothed as the average American laborer taking a holiday; she, with -the bearing of a gentlewoman, and dressed as they do who have found the -treasure-trove that lies at the end of the rainbow--these two have a -tragic story, all their own, that few know. It is this: - -Back in those far days when the Pacific Railroad was undreamed -of--before we had so much as ever guessed there might in reality be a -stage line between the Missouri and the Sacramento--one noon the wheels -of an emigrant wagon were moving down a wide Nevada valley, where the -sage gray of the short greasewood was the only thing remotely green; -moving so slowly that they seemed not to move at all. It was a family -from one of the States of our Middle West, going to California. The man -walked beside the slow-moving wagon. Sometimes some of the children -walked, too. The woman rode and held in her arms a wee boy whose own -arms fought and sturdy legs struggled often to walk with the others--a -blue-eyed boy, bonny and beautiful. - -Days and days of unblinking sunshine; and always the awful stillness -of the plains. There had been weeks of it; and this day when they came -down the broad wash that was the drain from the bordering mountain -range, a thick heat lay on the land, making welcome the promised noon -rest where the greasewood grew tall. All down the length of the now dry -wash the brush was more than shoulder high--annually wetted as it was -by the full spring creek. - -When the greasewood grows so high it may easily hide a foe. - -The wagon bumped and ground its wheels over the stones of the road here -in the wash toward the row of tall greasewood, a dozen yards away. Over -there they would halt for a noon rest. Over there they would eat their -noon meal--drink from their scanty water supply--and then resume the -dreary journey. - -This day was just such an one as all their other desert days had been; -the place seemed to them not different in any way from the other -miles of endless monotony. As they neared the high brush, one of the -children--a fair-haired girl of eight--picking up a bright pebble from -the road, held it up that her father might see. The other children -walking beside the wagon picked up pebbles, too--pebbles red, and -purple, and green, that had come down the bed of the creek when the -flood came. In the wagon the woman sat holding the blue-eyed boy in her -arms. - -Then---- - -There was a swift, singing sound in the air, and one of the oxen -staggered--bellowed--fell! - -The sound of an arrow boring the air isn’t quite like anything else one -may ever hear; and the man knew--before he heard the big steer’s roar -of pain--that the thing he had feared (but had at last come to believe -he had no cause to fear, when weeks passed and it had not happened) had -finally come to them. - -Dashing out from the greasewood cover, the Indians--half naked and -wholly devilish--made quick work of their victims. They did not dally -in what they had to do. Back on the plains another wagon--two, three, -four, a train!--was coming; they did not dare to stay to meet such -numbers. They struck only when sure of their strength. Now they were -two to one--nay, ten men to one man! And he, that man, went down with a -wife’s shrieks and the screaming of children’s voices in his ears. - -It was the old story of early times and emigrants on the plains. You -have heard it time and again. - -After the arrow, the knife; and bloody corpses left by a burning -wagon. Things done to turn sick with horror the next lone wayfarers who -should reach this gruesome spot. Human flesh and bone for the vultures -of the air and the wolves of the desert to feed upon, till--taken from -their preying talon and tooth--they might be laid in the shallow graves -hollowed by the roadside. - -Yet one was spared. The wee bonny laddie wrested from the clinging arms -of a dying mother, was held apart to witness a butchery that strained -the childish eyes with terror. He lived, but never was he to forget the -awful scene of that hour in the desert. And when the brutal work was -over, savage arms bore him away to their homes on the heights of near -mountains gashed by many a cañon. - -There, for years upon years--growing from babyhood to boyhood--from -boyhood to youth--he lived among them; and so became as one of their -tribe. They were a small tribe--these--of renegade Bannocks; shifting -their camps further and further into the North, and away from the White -Man’s approach as civilization began to force them back. Northward; and -at last into Oregon. - -The sturdy little frame remained sturdy. Some children there are who -persist in thriving under the most adverse conditions. And he was -one of these. Yet, it must be admitted, his captors were kind; for -the Indian--savage though he may be--deals gently, always, with his -children; and this boy had become to them as their own. - -The baby words of the White Man’s tongue were soon forgotten, and -Indian gutterals took their place. The little feet were moccasined with -deerskin, and the round cheeks daubed with paint. The little body was -kept warm in a rabbitskin robe. Their food was his food--grass seeds -ground into paste, and game; and his friends were themselves. To all -intents and purposes he had become an Indian. - -When, at length, he reached early manhood he took to himself an Indian -bride. Then the tribe made him their chief. - - * * * * * - -Mines in the mountains had brought an army of prospectors into -the once wild country. The mines prospered, and camps--permanent -ones--multiplied. The Red Men saw their enemy growing in numbers beyond -their strength to battle, so the depredations became fewer and fewer, -and finally ceased altogether. “Lo” is something of a philosopher, and -he generally accepts defeat with a better grace than his white brother. -These knew they were beaten, so they were willing to accept peace; -and began to mix, by degrees, with the Whites. They adopted the White -Man’s dress--some learned his speech. The blue-eyed chief, too, whose -position among them was never quite clear to the miners, again learned -the language that seemed as one he had never known. - -It was a long time before he came to realize that his chains of -captivity had dropped away--rusted apart by time and circumstances--and -that he might now, if he so chose, go back to the people of his own -blood. He thought of it dully, indifferently, at first--then deeply. -The way was open for him! He could go! But he came to know that down in -the depths of his heart an affection had grown up for these people who -had made him their own, that no other people could lay claim to, ever. -That for all the days of his life his lot was here. - -The awful events of that long gone day in the desert were too deeply -branded into his recollection ever to be forgotten (young child though -he was at the time); but the years had dimmed its horrors, and the -associations of a lifetime had dulled his sensibilities. - -No! he would remain among them. As he had been, he would still be--one -of them. He had lost all desire to go. How many years had come and gone -since the longing for liberty left him? He could not remember. This was -his home--these were his people--he would stay. - -And there he is today. There, a dozen years ago, a San Franciscan, -drawn by the mines, found him; and during a summer’s companionship, -gaining his confidence, learned from his lips his story. - -Months later, this thrice strange tale served to entertain half a score -of people who met together in his parlors on his return. They gathered -around the story teller--close listeners--intent on every syllable; but -one there was who went white as she heard. And when she could see him -apart and unnoted, she said: - -“He is my brother! I saw them take him away. I was hid behind a -greasewood bush--I do not know how they overlooked me. I saw it -all--everything! Then, those in an emigrant train behind ours, came and -took me with them. I was a little child then--only eight; and he--my -brother--was younger. I thought they had taken him away and killed -him--I never guessed he lived. I know--I am sure this is he. Tell me -all you can; for I must go and find him.” - - * * * * * - -What that meeting was, no one can say. She found him there surrounded -by those who were his nearest and dearest--a brown-skinned wife and -little bronze bairns--his! She stood face to face with him--she clasped -hands with him; yet a lifetime and all the world lay between. Children -of the loins of one father--born of the same mother--these two had -nothing in common between them--nothing--save the yearning for a -something that was always to lie just beyond. - -He yielded to her persuasions and went home with her to see the city by -the sea of which he had heard much, but knew nothing. It was a visit of -but a few days; yet in that time no hour struck for each alike. Try as -each would for a feeling of kinship, the other was ever a stranger. - -She showed him the sights of the city, but he was more and more -bewildered by what he saw. At the beach it was better; he seemed to -understand the ocean best, though seeing it for the first time. She -sought to awaken in him an interest in the things of her world. And -to his credit be it said, he honestly tried to respond in the way she -would have him. - -But up and away to the Northeast was all he had interest in or heart -for; and so at the end of a week he went back. Going, he pledged -himself to come to her every third year for a week’s stay; for “blood -is thicker than water,” and though they might never strike the same -chord, yet, after all, she was his sister. - -The years wax and wane. Every third one brings in fulfillment of the -promise, the very commonplace-looking brother who is something of a -mystery to her metropolitan friends. Time has brought brother and -sister a little more closely together, but it will never bridge the -chasm. Always there is a restraint, a reserve, which comes from a -common knowledge that there are things in his past life he may not -tell--yet, which she guesses with an unspoken, unnamed fear. - -Once (when the bronze-brown woman was dead), he tried to accept -civilized life as a finality. The month had not rounded out to -fullness when each saw the futility of the attempt. - -Back on the rough Oregon mountains were sons and daughters, “flesh of -his flesh, bone of his bone,” brown-skinned though they were; and he -turned his back on the White Man and his unfamiliar ways, and set his -face toward those whom he knew best and loved. - -Somehow, you like and respect the man for going, as you couldn’t had he -stayed. - -The story reads like fiction, doesn’t it? But the pity of it is that it -is true. - - - - -[Illustration] - -ACCORDING TO ONE’S STANDPOINT - - -There were three people in the group on the station platform at -Humboldt. The two who were standing were a white man and a white woman. - -The man was tall, with breadth in his shoulders, five-and-thirty, and -rather good looking. His dress evidenced prosperity, and his manner -betokened long residence in a city--one of the cities east of the -Mississippi. - -The woman also was tall; and graceful, and very pretty, and not over -twenty-five years of age. She was, without doubt, a bride, and--equally -without doubt--a fit mate for the man. She carried her chin high (a -trick common to those wearing eye-glasses) and moved with an air of -being quite sure of her social position. She was inconspicuously -dressed, but her gown, when she walked, rustled in the way that speaks -of silken linings. She looked like a woman whose boots were always made -to order, and who, each night, had an hour spent upon brushing her hair. - -The third person in the group was an Indian. A Paiute fifty years old, -but who looked twenty years older. Old George. His little withered -brown face was puckered into a whimsical smile as with head aslant -he looked up from where he sat on the bench that was built round a -tree-box. This was his frequent seat when the trains came in, and here -he came daily to answer the inquisitive questions of people who deem -themselves well bred. - -He was old, and much dirtier than even the others of his race. But he -afforded entertainment for the travelers whose pleasure it was to put -questions. - -“Yep, me old. ‘Forty?’ I guess so. ‘One hundred?’ Maybe so; I no know.” -He chuckled. It was the same thing over and over again that they--on -the trains--asked him every day. Not a whit cared he what they asked, -nor was it worth while telling the truth. When they asked he answered; -saying the things they wanted to hear. And sometimes they gave him -nickels. That was all there was about it. - -“Where did he live?” “What did he eat?” “Did he work?” his inquisitors -queried. “Was he married?” and “Had he any children?” “Had he ever -killed any white men?” Then they would note his maimed, misshapen -limbs. “How long ago had his leg been broken?” “In what way had he -crippled his hands?” But to all there were the same replies: - -“I no know. Maybe so. I guess so.” - -What did it matter? They were satisfied. And meddlers they were. -Yet----generally he got the waited-for nickel. - -So today he answered even as they questioned. Then the woman -(pretty, and with an unmistakable air of good breeding) nodded -and said: “Good-by!” and the man (well-mannered, well-groomed and -self-complacent) gave him a silver quarter as he went back to the -“Pullman.” - -“Henry, dear,” she asked, after they had settled themselves comfortably -again in their compartment of the sleeping-car, “how do such creatures -exist? Do they work, or only sit idly in the sun waiting for someone -to give them one or two nickels?” - -“Oh, he is a confirmed beggar, one can see! They never work--these -Paiutes. Mere animals are they, eating, drinking and sleeping as -animals,” her husband replied. “So degenerate have they become since -the days when they were a wild tribe and warriors that they go through -life now in docile stupidity, without anything rousing them to what we -would call a live interest in their surroundings. I doubt very much if, -in the life of any one of them, there ever occurs any stirring event. -Perhaps it is just as well, for at least it gives them a peaceful old -age, and they can have no harassing recollections.” - -“And no happy ones, either,” the woman said. “Think what it must be -to live out one’s allotted time of physical existence without ever -experiencing the faintest romance--without even a gleam of what love -means! I presume that the sense of attachment is unknown to them; such -affection as----” - -“As ours?” he interrupted laughingly. “Well, rather unknown I should -say.” - -The man looked with fond eyes into the eyes of the woman; then, as the -train pulled out of the station, they saw the old Indian limping away -toward his camp. - - * * * * * - -Are the individual histories of Indians--even Paiutes--even the -“degenerate tribes”--uneventful or wholly devoid of human interest? Let -us see. - -Old George can tell you a different story, it may be. From his point of -view there is perhaps love; perhaps even romance. Much depends upon the -standpoint one takes. The hills that look high from the valley, seem -low looking down from the mountain. - -When I first knew George (he was “Young George” then), he was married -and had children. Four; two boys and two girls. More than other -Indians, he aped the Whites in their ways, and was reckoned (for a -Paiute) a decent fellow. His camp was the best, his food the most -plentiful, and his children the best kept and cleanest. The mother -sewed well, and neither she nor the children ever went ragged. Among -Indians they were as the hard-working, temperate laborer’s family is -among the white men who work--work with their hands for a living. - -George had money laid by--joint earnings of his own and of Susan, his -wife. He worked at the settlers’ wood-piles in winter, chopping wood; -and in summer he worked in the hay fields. She washed and ironed for -the white families. Wage was high in those days, and George and Susan -prospered. That was a contented little camp built there in the tall -sagebrush, and they were happy as needs be. - -And then---- - -There happened that which is not always confined to the camp of the -red man. It was the old story-- another woman. Well, has not the world -seen such things before? There are women--even those without the dower -of beauty--of whose strange power no explanation can be given save -that they can, and do, “charm men.” And in no less measure was this -brown-skinned woman a charmer. She had already parted more than one -husband and wife--had destroyed the peace and quiet of more than one -home, when she and George stood where the ways met. - -If this had happened some three thousand years ago, and she had lived -on the banks of the Nile, and if you were a poet, or a recorder of -history, no doubt you would have written her down a siren--a dark-eyed -charmer of men--a sorceress of Egypt; but she lived on the Humboldt -river instead, and all this happened within the last four decades, and -she was only a squaw of one of our North American tribes. Neither was -she a pretty squaw judged by our cañons of beauty. Yet are not such -things matters of geography governed by traditions? And when a man -is bewitched by a man, brown-skinned or white, he is very apt to see -charms where another cannot discover them. - -Sophy, the siren, came into the camp, and with her coming fled peace. -Poor Susan, unloved and deserted, sat apart and cried her heart out--as -many a white woman has done before her, and since--when powerless -to prevent, or right the wrong that was done her. So, bewitched and -befooled, George gave himself up to the madness that was his undoing. -The money which had been laid by went like water held in the hand. The -camp was neglected; the stores were wasted. The children, from whom the -mother had been banished, went ragged and oftentimes hungry. - -It took George a long time to awake from his delirium, but he did -awaken finally--after many months. All things come--some day--to the -writing of “finis.” And no joy falls so soon and so completely as the -joy built on an unsound foundation. One day George came to his senses. -Then he cast the woman out; cast her out, and forever. He brought back -to his home the mother of his children, and she foregave him. Well, -what would you?--she was his wife, and a woman forgives much for the -sake of the children she has held to her breast. So the camp was made -tidy again and the children cared for as of old, and there were new -stores gathered, and money was again saved. - -Now George--being an Indian, being a Paiute--had never heard of Colley -Cibber, else he might have been reminded that “we shall find no fiend -in hell can match the fury of a disappointed woman--scorned! slighted! -dismissed without a parting pang.” Neither did George--being a Paiute -Indian--know the meaning of the word “Nemesis.” - -That was more than twenty years ago; and for more than twenty years the -woman, Sophy, made his life a series of persecutions. If he builded -aught at the camp, it was torn down; what he raised in his garden was -destroyed; what he bought, was quickly broken. Horses were driven -far astray; and his favorite dogs were poisoned. Then, when she had -exhausted all her ingenuity in these and a hundred other ways of making -his life a torment, she turned her wiles on Doctor Jim, one of the -great medicine men of the tribe, married to Susan’s mother, and an -inmate of George’s camp. Doctor Jim’s long residence in the house had -given to George a certain enviable status among the Indians, and this -prestige the woman now meant to destroy. On Doctor Jim were bestowed -her blandishments, and--like George before him--he was fain to follow -whither she led. With the medicine man’s going, departed the glory of -the house. And it left, in the person of the deserted wife, another -mouth for George to feed; while at the same time the assisting support -which Doctor Jim had given the household was taken away. - -Troubles came thick and fast to Old George. He had begun to be called -“Old” George now. One day while he was handling a cartridge it -accidentally exploded and tore away part of his hand. This hampered him -in what work he got to do; and sometimes because of it he was refused -employment. Then the evil fate that had chosen him for a plaything, -threw him from a train running at full speed, and left him lying on -the track with broken legs, and pitifully crippled. He got well after -many weary months while Susan nursed him, and between whiles of nursing -earned the living for the dwellers within the camp. When Spring came, -Susan died. - -On George fell the care of the four children. It was harder for him to -work now, and there was less to be earned; yet he worked the harder -for his four. Another year; and there were but two for him to shelter -and to feed. The great White Plague stops not at the camps of the -White man, but has hunted out the Red man in his wick-i-up, and is -fast decreasing the number of the tribe; so two--the older two--of the -children had gone to answer its call, and George was alone with the two -that were hardly more than babies. Mourning for his dead, he must yet -work for the living. - -We give our sympathy to the woman left widowed who has little children -looking to her for support. But she seldom fails in her trust, for the -world is usually kind to a woman and ready to lend her aid. Rather give -of your pity to the father who has babes to provide for when there is -no woman to take up the burden with him. He must care for the home, and -must go out in the world, as well, to work. Remember the burden is no -less hard for him to bear even so be he is an Indian. It may not seem -so to you, a white man, but you must recollect that the Indian takes a -different point of view. - -Long, long after his children were grown, and the old grandmother -was dead, and George was living in his camp with grandchildren about -him, the woman came again--she, Sophy, came to him--trying to win him -back now that the woman he cared most for was dead. Sophy at last had -tired of her revenge, had tired of jealousy and strife; had tired of -everything in life but the one man who had once cast her off. Doctor -Jim was dead--had died many years before. And so she came to the one -she cared for still--as even she had cared most for. For George she -cared always; so she came and stood at his door. Many snows had come -and gone since his blood had moved at her will; and now it was too late -for her influence to weigh with him. He was old; and when he sat before -the campfire and saw a woman’s face move to and fro in the the smoke -wreaths, it was the face of the woman who best loved him, always--not -the face of the one he had loved for a time--that he saw. - -So she went away, and at last there was peace between them. She died -the other day. But George--Old George--lives still, and alone. He goes -to the station day after day, as is his habit, and watches the trains -as they come in, and answers the questions of the inquisitive travelers. - - * * * * * - -If my characters were white you might call this a love story with a bit -of romance threaded in. Perhaps you will, anyway. For it all depends -upon how you look at it. It is just a little story of what is happening -all the while everywhere in the world. Love and jealousy; hatred and -revenge. It does not very much matter whether they live on the water -side of Beacon street (as they do who stood talking to Old George -yesterday); or whether it is in the wick-i-ups of the sagebrush out on -the great Nevada plains. These things come into the lives of all races -alike. - -George paid for the folly of his youth, as the transgressor usually -does have to pay. If you live by the sea in the East, you will perhaps -call this a punishment for George laid upon him as a rebuke by the -“hand of divine Providence.” But if your home is by the Western sea, -and you have knocked about a bit on the rough trails in the West, you -will mayhap see in it only the workings of “natural law.” - -That is all. It is a little story, but quite true. It might very easily -have been made a White man’s story; but it isn’t, it is only the true -story of a Paiute. - -George is an Indian; but one in a whole tribe--each having his own -story. And the tribe is but one of the race. And the race---- - -Are we not brothers? - -For, the world over, under white skin or skin of bronze-brown, the -human heart throbs the same; for we are brothers--ay! brothers all. - -Yet, even so, there is still the point of view. - - - - -[Illustration] - -WHERE THE BURROS BROWSED - - -“Hello, Dick!” - -“Hello, Reddy!” - -Seven little gray burros--browsing upon the dust-covered -chamiso--lifted their heads at the words; and turned seven mealy noses -and seven pairs of inquisitive ears toward the speakers in indolent -curiosity. - -The two men who met upon the mesa had been drawing slowly together on -the long white road winding up toward the mountain a dozen miles away. -The dust, raised by the shuffling feet of their horses, floated--a -long streamer of white--down toward the muddy, crooked river in the -valley far below. The dust had whitened, too, the slouch hats and worn -blue overalls they wore; and their faces were marked with furrows, -burned deep by the harsh, relentless sun of the plains. It was pouring -its rays down now with the fierce malignance of some demon bent on -destroying every vestige of plant-life that had the temerity to put -forth its young shoots; and save for the scant bunch-grass, and the -sage, and the greasewood, and a few distant and scattering junipers -that grew dark upon the mountains beyond, no growth of vegetation -was to be seen. It was within an hour of noon, and the scorching -rays descended upon the blistered earth through a silver-gray haze -that--reaching across the valley--quivered over the scene like the heat -that comes through an open furnace-door. - -Little gray lizards with black, shining eyes; little horned toads -with prickly backs, lay with palpitating bodies in the scant shade. -The saucy Paiute squirrels which earlier in the day darted in and out -of their burrows, had now disappeared into subterranean darkness. -Jack-rabbits, with limp ears lying back, crouched under the edges of -the greasewood. The three horses stood with listless, drooping heads; -the two men sat with listless, drooping bodies--one leaning forward to -rest his crossed arms on the horn of the Mexican saddle he bestrode; -the other, with loosely held reins between his fingers, leaned with his -elbows on his knees. - -After the brief Western greeting, the one on the buckskin horse asked -carelessly: - -“Been in with some hides, Reddy?” - -“Yep.” - -“What luck you been havin’?” - -“Poor. Tell you what ’tis, Dick, I ain’t seen more’n fifty head o’ -horses sence we been a-campin’ at Big Deer Spring; an’ the’re so wild -you can’t git to within a mile of ’em. Tommy an’ me are goin’ to move. -They’re waterin’ over to them deep springs north.” - -“Yaas,” drawled the other, “they’ve been shot among so much they’re -gittin’ scarry. Me an’ my pardner are campin’ over at the mine with -them Dagos there; but we don’t see many bunches of horses around, -nohow. Guess we’ll skin out next week, an’ go over to The Cedars. I -don’t s’pose----” he moved his horse nearer to the wagon, and bent a -contemplative gaze upon one of the front wheels--“I don’t s’pose Austin -an’ the Kid’ll kick if we do crowd over on their lay-out a little; for -there must be near a thousand head o’ mustangs over ’round them Cedars -that ain’t never heard a gun yit. So’t there’d be good shootin’ for all -of us, an’ plenty o’ horses to go ’round. Hey?” - -The other nodded his head affirmatively. - -“But that Austin’s a queer sort of a feller! Wanted him to come in -with my pardner an’ me (he’s an all-fired good shot--good as I am -myself; an’ I c’n shoot all I c’n skin in a day), an’ I thought him -an’ me could do the shootin’, an’ my pardner an’ the Kid could do -the skinnin.’ But, no sir-ee; he wouldn’t have it! Just said the Kid -couldn’t come; an’ ’t two was enough in a camp, anyway. He’s about as -stand-offish as anybody I ever see. I ain’t sorry now’t he didn’t take -up with my offer; for the boys say that the Kid wouldn’t be no ’count -along anyway. He can’t shoot; and he just nat’rally won’t skin ’em--too -squeamish an’ ladylike. Aw!” - -“I know. He just tags ’round after Austin all day; an’ don’t never seem -to want to git more’n a hunderd yards from him. An’ Austin’s just about -as bad stuck on the Kid,” said Reddy. - -“Yaas, I know it; an’ that’s what beats me. I don’t see what they’re -stuck so on each other for,” said Dick, as he leaned back in the saddle -and rammed a hand into the depths of a pocket of his overalls. As he -drew forth a section of “star plug” he tapped the buckskin’s flanks -with his heels to urge the sorry specimen of horseflesh closer to the -wagon. - -“Chaw?” - -The smaller man accepted. Turning the square over and giving each side -a cursory glance, he picked off the tin tag--a tiny star--and set -his jaws into an inviting corner, bending it back and forth in his -endeavor to wrench off a generous mouthful. Passing it in silence back -to the owner (who regaled himself also with a like quantity before -returning it to his pocket), and having--with the aid of thumbnail and -forefinger--snapped the shining little star at a big horse-fly that was -industriously sucking blood from the roan’s back, he remarked: - -“Hides is gone up.” - -“That so?” exclaimed Dick, with animation; “what they worth now?” - -“Dollar an’ a quarter, to a dollar an’ six bits; and three dollars for -extra big ones. Manes is worth two bits a pound. What you comin’ in -for?” - -“Ca’tridges. Shot mine all away.” - -“I c’n let you have some till you git your’n, if you want. What’s your -gun--forty-five eighty-five Marlin?” asked Reddy. - -“Nope--won’t do,” answered Dick; “mine’s Remington forty-ninety. Much -’bliged, though.” - -“Say, Dick!” exclaimed Reddy, “them Mexicans down on the river are -comin’ out to run mustangs. I saw that Black Joaquin an’ his brother -yist’day, an’ told ’em if they wanted to run ’em anywheres out on our -lay-out, that we wouldn’t make no kick if they’d let us in for a share. -See? They think they c’n run in about a hunderd an’ fifty head, anyway. -An’ they’ll furnish the manada, an’ the saddle horses, an’ all, for the -whole crowd. So, I told ’em. ‘All right! go ahead, as far as me an’ -my pardner are concerned.’ He says Austin’s agreed. How are you an’ -Johnny? Willin’?” - -“Oh, yes; I’m willin’,” answered Dick, as he jerked at the bridle-rein, -disturbing the buckskin’s doze. “Well, good luck to you! See you again!” - -“Same to yourself. So long!” answered Reddy. - -The saddle-horse fell into a jog trot again to the pricking of the -spur; and the sorry span started the wagon groaning and rattling on -its way up the road whose furrows were cut deep by the great teams -that hauled sulphur and borax from the furthest mountains down to the -railroad in the valley. - -The creaking and rattling of the wagon had only just recommenced, when -Reddy stopped his team to call back. - -“Oh, Dick!” - -“Hello!” - -The little burros that had returned to nibbling on the brush, again -lifted their heads at this second interruption. - -“Say! Austin ast me to git him a San Fr’ncisco paper so as he could see -what hides is quoted at; an’ I plum clean forgot it. Wisht you’d bring -out one to him when you come!” - -“All right! So long!” - -“So long!” - -The men moved on again. And the two streamers of white dust grew -farther and farther apart, till they had faded out of sight in the hazy -distance. - -The burros were left in undisturbed possession of the mesa the rest -of the stifling hot day, while they browsed along on the greasewood. -Late in the afternoon their little hoofs turned into a wild horse trail -which led them, single-file, down to the river where the mealy muzzles -were plunged into the swift, muddy current for a drink. - -But while they had been munching the uninviting brush and sage, and -flicking the flies away with their absurd paint-brush tails, Harvey -Austin, over on the foothills near the Cedars, sat in the tent which -was now the only home he knew; and with his hat fanned the face of the -one whom the horse-hunters had named “The Kid.” - -The boy, who had been ailing, was asleep now; but the flushed cheeks, -and parched lips that were always calling for water, were cause enough -for the fear that came over Austin as he sat there. What if this were -but the beginning of a long fever? Suppose there should be a serious -illness for him? - -Again Austin asked himself the same questions that he was putting to -himself daily. What had the future in store for them? From here, where -were they to go? To stay through the long winter, with the mercury -below zero, and the wild blasts of wind about their tent--perhaps to be -buried in deep snow--all these things were not to be considered for a -moment. Before the coming of winter they must go. But where? Only away -from civilization were they safe. - -He had come to see, at last, that they had both made a horrible mistake -of life. In the beginning of this, it had not seemed so; things looked -differently--at first. But, at times, of late there had come a feeling -of repulsion over him for which he could not account. Was it the -aftermath of wrong-doing? Well, he must make the best of it; it was -too late to undo all that had been done. He must bear it--the larger -share--as best he could. He said to himself that, thank God! at least -he was enough of a man to hide from the “little one” what he himself -was beginning to feel. - -It is the great immutable law that the fruits of pleasure, plucked by -the hands of sin, shall turn to bitterness between the lips. For sin, -there is suffering; and for wrong-doing, regret. None escape the great -law of compensation. Justice must have payment for the defiance of her -laws. - -Austin drew his breath in sharply. Oh, merciful God! how long was this -way of living to last? Why, he might live on thirty--forty--fifty -years yet! Penniless, what was their future to be? To return to that -world which, through their past years, had surrounded them with all -those things that make life worth living, would be to tempt a worse -fate than awaited them here. The desolation which spread around them -in the foothills of the bare, lonely mountains was as naught to the -humiliation of returning to the peopled places where most would know -them, yet few would choose to recognize. - -It had not seemed that the price they would have to pay would be so -dear when first he had faced the possible results of their rash act. -Was it only a twelve-month ago? Why, it might have been twelve times -twelve, so long ago did it seem since he was walking among men holding -his head up, and looking fearlessly into the eyes of honest fellows who -greeted him with warm hand-clasps. - -His face had a strained look as he let his eyes fall on the -unconscious figure beside him; and a strange expression--almost one of -aversion--swept across his features. But he drew himself up quickly, -tossing his head back with a movement as though--by the act--he could -cast off something which might, perhaps, master him. For some time he -sat there, his sensitive, refined face rigid and set, fixing his eyes -on vacancy. Then he sank back, sighing wearily. - -Before him was memory’s moving panorama of a splendid past. Out of the -many pictures--plainer than all the rest--rose the face of the man who -had befriended him; the one to whom he owed all he had ever been, or -enjoyed. The one but for whom he would have been left, when a boy, to -the chill charity of strangers. From that generous hand he had received -an education befitting the heir to great wealth, and that noble heart -had given such love and care as few sons receive from a parent. He -could now, in recollection, see the austere face of his guardian -softening into affectionate smiles as his tender gaze fell on his two -wards--himself, and the pretty, willful Mildred. Only they whom he so -fondly loved knew the great depths of tenderness and gentleness in his -nature. It stung Austin now to think of it; it shamed him as well. - - * * * * * - -And was he--this coward hiding in the mountains of the West, leading -a hateful existence hunting wild horses for the few dollars that the -hides would bring, that he might be able to buy the necessaries of -life, since he had failed to get work in any other calling--was he the -one whom John Morton had once loved and trusted? He shuddered with -disgust; no man could feel a greater contempt for him, than he felt for -himself. - -He rose abruptly and walked to the opening of the tent, looking out -on the sweep of sagebrush-covered foothills about him. It was useless -to think of the past, or to give way to remorse or idle regrets. What -was done could not be undone. He must arrange, as best he could, for -the future years, and provide for the needs of the present. He must do -his best in caring for and protecting the one for whom this life was -harder--far harder--than for himself. - -He turned his back on the dreary landscape before him, and came back -into the tent, busying himself about camp duties till the other awoke. -And the young eyes--wistful and sad--that kept seeking Austin’s, saw no -trace of the heartache and remorse he was bravely trying to bury. - -When the sun had gone down behind their mountain, and a welcome -coolness had settled itself over the burning ground, they went to -sit by the spring that bubbled out of the hillside. All through the -twilight they sat without speaking, their thoughts far away. Then -darkness came and hid the barren hills, mercifully shutting from their -sight the pitiful poverty of the life that was now theirs. A soft west -wind sprung up; and the balmy night air, cool and dry, seemed to have -driven away much of the illness the boy had felt through the day. They -sat in a silence unbroken only by the crickets’ perpetual shrilling, -the hoot of a ground owl, and a coyote yelping to its mate across the -cañon. When the first prolonged cry pierced the air, the slight form -had nestled instinctively closer to Austin. Then the mournful wail -of the little gray ghost of the plains grew fainter and fainter, and -finally ceased altogether, as he trotted away over the ridge, in quest -of a freshly-skinned carcass where some unfortunate horse had fallen a -victim to the sure aim of some horse hunter. - -They sat for nearly an hour in the silence of night in the mountains, -Austin wondering if the time would ever come when the “little one” -would guess how miserably tired of it he had become in less than a -year. He hoped--prayed, the other would never know. And (worse still) -would a sickening disgust ever find its way into that other heart, as -it had into his own? With all his soul he silently prayed it might -never be so. - -“Come, little one,” he said, gently, “we must go in. It is late.” - -The other made no response. - -“Don’t you want to go yet? Are you not sleepy--and a little bit tired, -poor child?” - -Still no answer, though Austin knew he was heard. He waited. Then---- - -“Harvey,”--the voice was almost a whisper--“we have seen some happy -days--sometimes--and you have always been good to me; but, do you---- -I mean, when you remember what we have lost, and what we are and must -always remain, do you find in this life we are living, compensation -enough for all that we suffer? Do you? Tell me!” - -So! it had come to the other one, too. - - * * * * * - -A day of fast, hard riding had drawn to its close. Reddy and Dick, and -their “pardners,” and Black Joaquin and his brother, together with two -or three others had made their first day’s run of wild mustangs. Three -or four “bunches” of native wild horses had been surrounded and driven -with a rush, in a whirl of alkali dust, into a juniper corral far -down in the cañon. Then the circling riatas had brought them--bucking -and kicking--down to the earth; and biting and striking at their -captors, they fought for their liberty till exhausted and dripping with -sweat--their heads and knees skinned and mouths bleeding--they found -themselves conquered, necked to gentler horses, or else hoppled. - -At early morning Dick had come to Austin’s camp, bringing the -newspaper; and the two had ridden away together. And now that each man -had made his selection in the division of the day’s spoils, Austin -turned his pony’s head toward the far-off tent--a little white speck in -the light of the sunset on one of the distant foothills. - -“Well, good-night, boys! I’ll join you again in the morning.” He loped -away to the place where the “little one” was awaiting him. - - * * * * * - -The morrow’s sun shone blood-red--an enormous ruby disc, in the east -through the smoky haze that hung over the valley still. By eight -o’clock the air was stifling, and the men standing about camp ready -for the second day’s run were impatient to be off. It was easier to -endure the heat when in the saddle and in action, than to be idling -here at the corral. They were wondering at Austin’s delay. And most of -them had been swearing. Finally, Black Joaquin was told to go across to -the white speck on the foothills, and “hustle him up;” for they were -short of men to do the work, if he did not come. So the Mexican threw -himself across the saddle, and digging his spurs into the flanks of the -ugly-looking sorrel, loped over the hill to Austin’s camp. - -Half an hour later he came back at racing speed to tell a story which -made the men look at each other with startled glances, and even with -suspicion at himself (so surely are evil deeds laid at the door of one -with an evil reputation); but when they rode over to where the stilled -forms lay beside the rifle whose aim had been true, they saw it had not -been Black Joaquin. - -Who, then? Too plainly, they saw. But why? - -The newspaper Dick had brought lay folded open at an article that told -the pitiful story of their love, and their sin, and their shame. It was -Johnny, Dick’s partner, who saw it, and read: - -“Living among Horse Hunters--An Erring Couple Traced to Nevada--Harvey -Ashton and Mrs. John Q. Morton Seen--The Woman in Male Attire. - -“The public no doubt remembers press dispatches of a year ago from -Boston, regarding the sensational elopement of Harvey Ashton and the -young and beautiful wife of John Q. Morton, a prominent and wealthy -commission merchant of that city. All parties concerned moved in the -most exclusive circles of society. - -“Young Ashton had returned home from a prolonged tour of Europe to -find that Morton (who, though not related to him, has always assumed -the part of an indulgent father) had just wedded his ward, Miss Mildred -Walters, a handsome young woman many years his junior; and whose -play-fellow he--Ashton--had been when a boy, but whom she had not seen -for a number of years. She had matured into a beautiful, attractive -woman, and Ashton soon fell a willing victim to her charms. Soon after, -society of the Hub was startled and shocked to hear of the elopement of -Harvey Ashton with his benefactor’s wife. - -“Subsequently they were discovered to have been in San Francisco, where -all traces of them, for the time, were lost. Nothing was heard of them -again till, some two months ago, when they were seen in Reno, Nevada, -by an old acquaintance who cannot be mistaken in their identity. - -“He states he had come down from Virginia City, and was waiting to take -the train for the East, when he saw Ashton pass by the station once -or twice, in company with what was apparently a small, slightly-built -young man, but who, he is positive, is none other than Mrs. Morton in -male attire. He purposely avoided the couple, but inquiries elicited -the facts that Ashton was passing under the name of Austin, and had -stated that his companion was a young brother. It was also learned -that they were practically without means, and were leaving Reno for -the interior part of the State. Later reports locate them in a range -of mountains a short distance from the railroad, where they are with a -number of cowboys and sheep-herders who are out of work, and who are at -present engaged in shooting wild horses, furnishing hides for the San -Francisco market. - -“The friend who recognized the couple at once communicated with the -deserted husband, who, it is reported, is on his way West in quest of -the erring pair.” - - * * * * * - -This was their story, then! The story waiting in the newspaper for -Austin when he got back to the “little one” the evening before. - - * * * * * - -The afternoon’s shadows were slanting down the valley when the seven -little burros saw Reddy’s wagon come down the long, dusty road leading -toward the river. From where they browsed they could see it go over the -bridge and the alkali flats, on its way to the railroad station in the -hazy valley. The big sheet of canvas, taken from Dick’s bed, covered -something that lay in the bottom of the wagon. Two somethings there -were--side by side, rigid and cold--sharply outlined under the folds of -white canvas. - -The wagon creaked, and rattled, and groaned on its way. The afternoon -sun parched and burned the earth, as it had done for weeks. Rabbits -hid under the edges of the greasewood on the side where the greater -shadows fell. The burros still flicked with their absurd tails at the -sand-flies. Buzzing above the canvas were some big green flies that -followed the wagon till after the sun went down. A buzzard circled -overhead; and a lean coyote trotted behind the wagon on the mesa for a -mile or more. - -The burros, too, crossed the bridge that night, and morning found them -browsing along the foothills nestling against the mountains across -the valley, where feed was better. Near the base of the mountain, and -not far from the little railroad station, was a graveyard. Treeless, -flowerless, unfenced. There were no headstones, ’tis true; but the -graves were well banked with broken rock, to keep the hungry coyotes -and badgers from digging up the dead. - -At the station Black Joaquin had helped lift the new pine boxes into -the wagon. As he watched them start on their ride to the place of -rock-covered mounds near the foothills, he said to the men gathered -about: - -“Por Dios! Not so muchos hombres to shoot mostang now!” - -And his brother Domingo, who had been drinking, answered with more -freedom: - -“’Sta ’ueno! Not so muchos hombres; more mostang por me. ’Sta ’ueno; -si, ’sta muy ’ueno!” - -He laughed slyly. Then he went over to the saloon, followed by the -other men. - - * * * * * - -The little gray burros watched the wagon for a long time, as it went -rattle--rattle--rattle over the stony road. By and by it stopped. Then -they began nibbling again on the scant bunch-grass and white sage. - - - - -[Illustration] - -AT THE WILL OF THE WATERS - - -“Blockhead! idiot! ass! ‘Tenderfoot’ isn’t adequate for such a fool as -I have been!” he exclaimed bitterly. - -He tried not to care; even he tried to forget that the good-looking, -successful mining engineer had given him a title which had made him -wince: “the deckle-edged tenderfoot!” But it stung, nevertheless. -Perhaps the reason that it hurt, was because of its fitness. And what -hurt more, was the fact Cadwallader had taken pains that Evaleen -Blaine should hear it said--Cadwallader, who seemed so well fitted to -take his place in the rough Western way of battling with life, where -he himself did but blunder and stumble, and earn the name of “the -deckle-edged tenderfoot!” That Teamster Bill had christened him “this -yer gentlemanly burro frum Bost’n,” cut far less keenly. But then, Bill -wasn’t trying to move heaven and earth to get Miss Blaine. Whereas -Elwyn Cadwallader was. - -However, on all sides opinion was the same, if differently expressed. -The fact of his being a gentleman had not prevented him from becoming a -fool--chiefest of fools--else he never would have trusted so implicitly -in old Zeke Runkle’s misrepresentations of the group of mining claims -in those foothills that lay just below the Monarch group. The Monarch -was the talk of the camp for its richness. If there was a fortune in -the one group (he argued to himself), then why not also in those so -nearly adjoining. At any rate, it seemed to him it was his one chance -to find a fortune by a short cut; so, paying for them with all he had, -save a few hundreds that afterwards went for useless development work, -the mines became his. The camp welcomed him into its midst, and winked, -and grinned when he wasn’t looking; and (to a man) voted him “an easy -thing!” - -His eyes not having been focused for fraud, he never doubted but that -the rich samples shown him had come from the mines represented; nor -ever suspected that, under his very eyes, the tests he himself made had -been tampered with. - -Old Zeke Runkle’s annual swindles had been a camp joke for a score of -years; but Sherwood--being an in-experienced stranger--saw only in -him an honest (if usually drunken) prospector. A kindly, if simple, -old man, too; for Zeke had generously made him a gift of an entire -mining claim which had not been included in the original number--one -quite distinct from the original group. True, it seemed to be but an -undeveloped claim--its one tunnel only running in ten or fifteen feet. -And the gift had been tendered him at the suggestion of Cadwallader, -from whom Sherwood was surprised to receive evidence of a kindly -feeling which had not been previously displayed. That this unusual -interest in him had surprised old Zeke, too, was plain; for he seemed -puzzled at first, as though it were not possible for him to comprehend -Cadwallader’s meaning. After a few whispered words from the younger -man, however, Zeke’s face had brightened with understanding, and he -turned to Sherwood insisting he must accept it. The unexpected part -Cadwallader had taken, and the old man’s unselfish attitude, showed to -Sherwood such a fine glimpse of Western good-fellowship that he warmed -to the place and the people as he had done at no time before. It turned -the scale and the bargain was closed. - -So he became sole owner of the seven mines on the sagebrush-covered -hills, that comprised the Golden Eagle group; and of the one isolated -claim in the foot of the bluffs that rose abruptly at the edge of an -old-time ruined mining camp which had been deserted for more than -thirty years. - -It lay there in a cañon where once men came in search of precious -metals; and in that cleft of the mountains they built their homes. -Along the cañon sides, from end to end, there trailed a double line of -houses, now all in ruins--fallen walls of adobe or stone. Roofless and -floorless, with empty casements and doorways, the houses stood mute -witnesses of the false hopes which once led men to squander money, and -youth, and strength of purpose there in the long-ago, when the State -was new. - -Almost a double score of years had gone since the place knew human -voice or human movement, save when some lone prospector passed along -the brush-grown street that crept upward with the cañon’s slope. The -dead town’s very stillness and desolation were full of charm, albeit -tempered with that sadness a ruin always has for the beholder. For -through the empty doorways came the whisperings of those who were -gone; and looking through the sashless windows as you rode by, you saw -wraithlike figures pass and repass within. It might have been only the -wind’s breath as it rustled the dark leaves of branches overhanging the -crumbling walls, and the ghosts, mayhap, were but the waving boughs -which tremulously moved over the gray adobes; but when you were -there--in that stillness and amid all that mystery--you felt it was -true. You hushed your quickening breath to listen for the breath of -some other. You moved through the silence with wide-lidded eyes looking -for--you knew not what. You felt yourself out of place there--an alien. -Only the lizards on the decaying walls, and the little brown birds -that pecked at berries growing on the bushes along the creek, and the -cottontails that scurried away to hide in the brush, seemed to have -honest claim there. - -On a level with the dead camp’s one street, the short tunnel of the -Spencer mine ran into the cliff which pushed itself forward from the -cañon’s general contour--the mouth itself being all but hidden by the -falling walls of what had once been an adobe dwelling, its rear wall -but a few feet from the limestone bluffs. To it, old Zeke brought -Sherwood and showed him the tunnel below and the croppings of white -quartz on the cliff top. It looked barren and worthless; but an assay -certificate, in which the values were marked in four figures, held -before Sherwood’s astonished eyes, sent his hopes up to fever mark, and -left him eager to begin the work whereby he might reach the precious -stuff hidden well away within the dull-colored bluffs. If the croppings -promised such wealth, what might not the mine itself yield when he -extended the tunnel, and had tapped the ledge at a greater depth? He -felt his heart beating the faster for his dreams. A fortune! His, -and--hers! All that was needed to bring it about were pick strokes, -powder and patience. It all seemed very simple to Hume Sherwood. -Without doubt he was a “tenderfoot.” - -So the Summer found him putting every pulse-throb into his labor. Was -it not for her that he wanted it? For what other end was he working, -than to win the maid who had come into this land of enchantment? To -him, it was as Paradise--these great broad levels of alkali, and -sand (blotches of white on a blur of gray) and the sagebrush and -greasewood-covered foothills that lay, fold upon fold, against the base -of grim mountains--prickly with splintered and uncovered rocks. - -Each day he blessed the fate which had called her from her home by the -Western sea and placed her under the same roof that sheltered him in -the rough little Nevada camp that called itself a town since a railroad -had found it, and given it a name. - -Here Judge Blaine and his daughter settled themselves for the Summer. -That is, an array of suit-cases and handbags, great and small, and -a trunk or two, proclaimed the hotel their headquarters. That was -all. Every day saw the Judge up near the top of the mountain, getting -the Monarch’s new machinery into running order; while trails, and -roads--old and new--and even the jack-rabbit paths that lay like a -network over the land, saw more of the young woman in khaki than ever -the hotel did, so long as daylight lasted--the light which she grudged -to have go. - -It was Evaleen herself who had suggested coming to Nevada with her -father, instead of spending the season in the usual way with Mrs. -Blaine and the other girls at whatsoever place fashion might dictate as -the Summer’s especial (and expensive) favorite for the time. - -“Daddy, dear,” she had said, standing behind his chair, with both -arms tight clasped around his neck, “I’ve made up my mind to do -something that is going to surprise you. Listen; I’m not going with -Mamma and the girls when she shuts up the house for the Summer. But, -I--am--going--with--you! Oh, yes, I am! No, no! Not a word! I’ve -always wanted to know what a mining camp was like; and this is my -golden opportunity. You know you do want me there. Say so! While you -are putting up the new works, I can go roaming over the country in old -clothes. Listen to that, Daddy--old clothes! A lovely Summer; and not a -cent spent on gowns!” - -Ways and means at just that time being matters of difficult solution -with the Judge, her argument had force and bore fruit. Midsummer found -them where the alkali plains stretched away to distant ranges, and the -duns and drabs of valleys reached across to the blended purples and -blues. Such distances! And such silence! She had never dreamed of their -like before. - -On the levels or on the heights, she was day by day finding life a -new and a beautiful thing. It was all so good; so fresh, and sweet, -and strong! How easily she had fitted into her new surroundings -and the new order of things--crude though they were, beyond any of -her preconceived ideas. And now how far away seemed all the other -Summers she had ever known. She felt that, after all, this was the -real life. The other (that which Jean and Lili had their part in) was -to her, now, as something known only in a dream. She was learning a -grander, fuller sense of living since all that other world was shut -away. So (companioned by her would-be lovers, Hume Sherwood and Elwyn -Cadwallader, through a Summer of glad, free, full indrawn breaths) she -rode the days away, while under the campaign hat she wore her face was -being browned by the desert winds. Hot winds. But, oh, how she had -learned to love their ardent touch! No sun was ever too hot, nor road -too rough or long, to keep her back from this life in the open; and in -the saddle she had come to know the valleys and mountains as one born -to them. - -The cañon which held the ruined walls had for her an especial charm, -and toward it she often turned her horse’s head. It lay but a short -distance from the road leading to her father’s mines. So, turning -aside, she often took this short cut through the deserted town. There, -one day she heard from Cadwallader the story of Crazy Dan, whose home -had once been within the walls that hid the entrance to the tunnel of -the Spencer--the mine which had been a gift to Sherwood. - -Daniel Spencer--Crazy Dan (for whom old Zeke named the claim he had -given away, because on the very ground there Dan had made his home) -had worked in the creek for placer gold during all the long gone years -when others worked the higher ground for silver lodes. An ill-featured, -ill-natured old man, having no friends, and seeking none; he had -burrowed the cañon’s length for gold as persistently as a gopher does -the ground for roots, and--as all had prophesied--with as little -showing of the yellow metal. Only a crazy man, they said, would ever -have prospected that cañon for gold. It was a cañon for ledges, not -placers; for silver, not gold. So the miserly, morose old man followed -a phantom to the last; working alone from day-dawn till dusk with -rocker and pan, in ground that pitying neighbors vainly tried to lead -him away from. Admitting he had never found gold, yet working day -after day, Crazy Dan could be seen there for twelve long years. Twelve -years of toil that showed no reward for his labor. Then he died. One -morning they saw there was no smoke issuing from the cabin chimney; and -guessing what they would find, they pushed the door open. - -Death had come when he was alone; there had been none to close the -staring eyes. He had been near to starvation; there was scarcely any -food within the cabin; there were no comforts. Years of toiling for -something that was always just beyond; and a lonely death at the -end--that was the story. - -As she heard, Miss Blaine was stirred with a profound pity. When -Cadwallader ceased speaking, her thoughts went straying to those far -days, in wonder of the man who made up the sum of the town’s life. -Dead, or scattered to the four corners of the earth. Crazy Dan’s death -was no more pathetic, perhaps, than that of many another of their -number. She rode on in silence, saddened by the recital. - -Suddenly Cadwallader’s ringing laugh startled her. But as quickly he -checked himself, saying: - -“I beg of you, Miss Blaine, don’t misjudge me. I wasn’t thinking then -of poor old Dan’s tragic death, or more than tragic life. I happened to -remember the sequel to this story; and which, I’m sure, you’ve never -heard. Let me tell you----” He hesitated. “Or, no; you’ve heard enough -for today, and its humor would jar now on what you’ve just heard. I’ll -tell you some other time.” - -Nothing more was said about it by either; but she felt confident it -related in some way to Hume Sherwood and the Spencer mine. - -The latter had kept men continuously at work on his newly acquired -property since coming into possession of them; but the faith that was -his in the beginning, grew fainter with the waning of Summer. Autumn -brought decided doubt. With the coming of Winter came a certainty of -their worthlessness, he knew he had been befooled by a sharp trickster, -but how far his ignorance had been played upon he did not yet know. -Nevertheless, he felt he had well earned the titles the camp had -bestowed on him, for the claims, he found, were but relocations that -had been abandoned years before as utterly worthless. He had simply -thrown his dollars into the deep sea. - -If only that had been all! - - * * * * * - -Evaleen Blaine and her father, contrary to all their earlier plans -for a return to San Francisco at the beginning of Autumn, were still -in Nevada, and there Winter found them, though the machinery was all -placed and the big reservoir and dam completed. But an offer to buy -the Monarch property--mines, mill, and all that went with them--had -come from a New York syndicate, and the Judge was now detained by their -agents. He must stay yet a few days more--then home to “mother and the -girls.” Nor would Evaleen leave without him; so for the first time in -all his married life he was to be away from home on Christmas. Thus -matters stood when the greater half of December had gone. - - * * * * * - -A storm was brewing. There had been scarcely any rain or snow thus far, -but a damp wind from the south had shut away the mountain behind dark -and threatening clouds. The Judge found he was needed at the mine that -morning, but had promised Evaleen he would be back the next night, to -make Christmas eve as merry as possible for them both--separated from -the others. By staying one night at the mine he could, without doubt, -return on the morrow. He had kissed her good-bye and left her looking -out of the window in the gloom of the early day. Fifteen minutes later -she heard his heavy tread again on the stairs, and he stormed into the -room. - -“See here, daughter!” he panted in indignation, “I’ve just heard of the ----- ---- (I beg your pardon, child); I mean the shameful trick that -that cur of a Zeke Runkle played on young Sherwood. Sherwood has just -told me--just heard of it himself. Have you heard anything about it? -No? Well, I thought not--I thought not! It seems everybody around the -place, though, has known of it all along--but us. Why didn’t anybody -tell me? Hey? What? Yes; but why didn’t anybody tell me, I want to -know! Ah, they knew better. I’d have told Sherwood that he’d been -played for a sucker! Yes, sir!” (forgetting his audience again) “and a ----- shame it is, too! There I go again--but I don’t know when anything -has so worked me up!” - -“But, Daddy, what is it?” faltered Evaleen. “What has happened? I don’t -understand.” - -“What has happened?” shouted the Judge. “Everything has -happened--everything. Of course, you don’t understand. I don’t, -myself--all of it. Somebody (I haven’t found out yet who, but I -will!) put up that miserable old rascal--that drunken thief of a Zeke -Runkle--to palming off on Sherwood as a bona fide mine, the worst -fake I ever heard of. Hey? What? Why! a dug-out, I tell you--a hole -in the cliff--a tunnel-like cellar-above-ground, if you want, that -Crazy Dan, it seems, used to store away bacon, and flour, and potatoes -in, more than thirty years ago. Just an old store-room, nothing else. -That’s what! Made him a present of it (the foxy old rascal) so the -law couldn’t touch him. Oh, he’s a clever swindler! I’m sorry for -Sherwood--mighty sorry for him. I like the fellow; there’s good stuff -in him. It’s a ---- A--hum! But, for the life of me I can’t see old -Zeke’s object; for he made nothing by it. Somebody must have put him up -to it--mark my words. And I’d like to know who.” - -Who had done it? Evaleen was again hearing Cadwallader’s laugh, and the -words, “An amusing sequel to the story.” And “I’ll tell you some day.” -He need not tell her now. She knew; and she knew why. - -All that day she stayed within her room. She felt she couldn’t see -Sherwood in his humiliation; and Cadwallader she wouldn’t see. - -That evening when she went down to dinner she was purposely late that -she might avoid both men. Elwyn Cadwallader was out of town, she -learned, called away unexpectedly on business. Hume Sherwood, after -having been with her father all day, up on the mountain, had just -returned--going directly to his room. He had declined dinner. - -Almost any man can bear censure, but it takes a giant to brave ridicule. - -When Miss Blaine went back to her room she found two letters awaiting -her. She read the first with the angry blood mounting to her forehead, -and lips tightened into a straight, hard line. It was from Cadwallader. -He closed by saying: - -“Give me the one thing I most want in all the world! I will go to you -Christmas morning for it--for your ‘yes!’” - -Miss Blaine’s face was very stern as with quick, firm steps she walked -across the floor to the stove in which a fire was burning cheerily. She -opened the door and flung the letter into the flames. - -The letter from her father was hurriedly scrawled, “so that Sherwood -can take it down to you,” it said. There were but a dozen brief -sentences: He couldn’t be with her, after all, on Christmas eve--he -had about closed the deal with Akerman, and there was much business -to settle up. She was to pack their suit-cases and trunks at once; -to be ready to start home any day. He hoped (didn’t know--but hoped) -to leave the evening of Christmas day, etc. There was a postscript: -“Akerman (acting on my advice) bought Sherwood’s little group today -for seven hundred and fifty dollars; which is just seven hundred and -fifty dollars more than they are worth--as mining claims. But Akerman -wants the ground for other purposes, and will use it in connection with -his other property. I’m glad for the boy’s sake he got it, for I guess -Sherwood needed the money. Of course he hasn’t said so (he’s too much -of a thoroughbred to whimper) but I don’t believe he has a nickel left.” - -Evaleen Blaine laid the letter down with a tender smile on her face. -“Dear old Daddy!” she murmured. She understood the sympathetic heart -which had been the factor in bringing about the sale of Sherwood’s -claims. “Oh, Daddy, you’re good--good! I love you!” - -Four or five hours after, she had finished packing and got up from -where she had been kneeling, and looked about the room. Everything was -folded away in place and awaiting the turning of the key, except the -khaki suit and the wide-brimmed hat. She would soon be miles and miles -away from Nevada and its joys. A very sober face looked out at her from -the mirror, making her force her thoughts into other channels. - -“Not spend Christmas eve with you, Daddy? ’Deed, an’ I will! I’ll just -astonish you tomorrow morning!” - -She laughed to herself in anticipation of his surprise. Then her face -sobered, remembering that--for the first time--she would make the trip -alone. She knew every inch of the way. She wasn’t afraid; there was -nothing to harm her. And by taking her coffee and toast by lamplight, -she would be with him by nine o’clock. As she fell asleep that night -she was wishing some good fortune might come to Hume Sherwood, making -his Christmas eve less lonely. - -When day broke, though as yet no rain was falling, a storm was already -gathering itself for the onslaught. Fine dust filled the air, and the -wind was racing up the valley with the swiftness of a prairie fire, -where, on the alkali flats, great breakers of white dust rose from -the sea of dry storm that ran ahead of the rain. Dead branches of -greasewood, tumble-weeds light as sea-spume on the waves of the wind, -rabbit-brush wrenched from the roots--these (the drift-wood of desert -seas), were swept on and away! - -In the gray early dawn Miss Blaine’s horse had been saddled under -protest. - -“We’re a-goin’ to hev a Nevady zephyr, I’m a-thinkin’, an’ th’ house -is a mighty good place f’r wimmin-folks ’bout now!” were the words she -heard through the whistling wind as she mounted. - -There was something electric in the strange storm that drew her into -its midst--some kinship that called her away! She was sure she could -reach shelter before the rain reached her. “Then, hurrah for the ring -of the bridle-rein--away, brave steed, away!” - -Mountain Boy snuffed at the dust-laden air and broke into the long -stride that soon carried them into the foothills. At times the wind -nearly swept her from the saddle, but she loped on and on. Then she -gained the high ground; and the dust that had smarted her eyes and -nostrils lay far below. It was misty, and the wind came in strong -buffetings. Up, and still up they climbed. The rain-clouds were surely -keeping their burden back for her! But, nay! she had almost reached -the mill--was almost under shelter, when the storm swept down upon her -and the waters fell in a flood. Drenched and disheveled she reached -the mill. Disappointment and consternation awaited her--her father was -not there! Nearly two hours before--just the time she was leaving the -valley--the Judge, with Mr. Akerman, had driven away by the north road -to take the morning express from the station above, and were now at the -county seat thirty miles away, if they had met with no mishap. - -Evaleen was aghast! What to do? Her father believed her to be at the -hotel, to which place she must return at once--there was nothing -else for her to do. Back through the wind and the wet! She heard the -foreman’s voice in warning and entreaty swept away by the gale as she -turned; but--shaking her head--she plunged down the road and back into -the storm. Away and away! The road ran with many a curve and turn--easy -grades, made for wagon use--; so, though steep it was for such riding, -she loped down the mountain, while the wind, and the rain, and the roar -of the storm shut the world away. - -A feeling of numbness came over her, a something that was neither -terror nor awe, yet which held something of each. As time went on she -seemed to have been riding hours innumerable--it seemed days since she -had seen a human face. Down, farther down must she go. She was becoming -exhausted, and the sleet was chilling her to the very center of her -being. It was terrible--terrible! To reach the valley and shelter! -There on the mountain the wind shrieked and howled about her; the air -was filled with voices that were deafening, dizzying, frightful. The -horse himself was half mad with fright. Twice he had almost thrown -her as thunder claps and flashes of lightning had seemed to surround -them on all sides. Three miles yet to shelter! Could she stand it? But -where--where was there nearer relief? Ah! the Spencer tunnel---- There -would be safety there till the worst of the storm was over. A turn of -the rein, and Mountain Boy was running straight for the old tunnel -under the cliffs. - - * * * * * - -Hark! What was that? There came to her ears a great roaring that was -neither the howling of the wind, nor the rush of the rain, nor the -mingled awful sounds of the storm as she tore along the cañon. She -could see nothing of the thing she heard, for the wet slap of the rain -blinded her. Closer and closer it came! As she slipped from the saddle -at the tunnel’s mouth, the horse--terrified at the roaring which rose -above the voice of the storm, and which was coming nearer--broke from -her, and was off and away, with a ten-foot wall of water racing at his -heels. The overtaxed dam had bursted its bounds, and the flood was -cutting a waterway down the center of the cañon, but below the level of -the old tunnel! She was safe! But----alone, and her horse was gone! - -When, more than two hours afterward, Hume Sherwood found her, it seemed -the most natural thing in the world that he should take her in his -arms, and her head should lie on his breast, while she told him how it -had happened. Without question he claimed her as his own; without a -word she gave him her troth. - -“I knew you would come, Hume--I knew you would find me,” she said, -softly. - -“Dear!” - - * * * * * - -So simply were they plighted to one another; so easily does a great -danger sweep away all disguises. - - * * * * * - -When the riderless bay had come into camp, Sherwood (half mad with an -awful fear) had hurried away to the hills, lashing his span without -mercy over the storm-washed road--or out through the open country -where the road was gullied out. When in the up-piled drift where the -flood had left it--he found the gray campaign hat he knew so well, a -sickening fear fell upon him as though he had already looked upon the -face of the dead. At length he thought of the tunnel, after fruitless -search elsewhere; and there--in the dug-out that had been palmed off on -him as a joke on his credulity, he found his heart’s desire. After all, -Spencer’s old store-room--his cellar-above-ground--was worth a king’s -ransom--when valued by this man and this maid. - -The waters had gone down, but left the tunnel entrance flooded; for -the fallen walls of the old adobe created a small dam which the flood -overflowed. To get past this--without wading knee-deep in the mud--was -a problem. The whirling waters had eaten away the earth which formed -the front part of the tunnel--wider now by two feet--and in the place -where the earth had melted away stood a small box. Sherwood put his -foot against it, to pry it out of the mud. - -“I’ll get this out for you to stand on, dear; then you can jump across -I think, with my help.” - -But, deep settled into the mud and debris, it resisted him. He went -back in the tunnel and got a pick from among the tools he had used in -extending the “cellar” to strike the ledge that wasn’t there; for the -“croppings” that had been shown him had been hauled there--salted, to -deceive the “tenderfoot.” - -The box refused to move, even when Sherwood’s pick--used as a -lever--was applied; so, swinging it over his head, he brought the pick -down into the box, shattering the lid into pieces. It was more than -half filled with small rusty tin cans, bearing soiled and torn labels, -on which were the printed words in colors still bright: “Preston & -Merrill’s Yeast Powder.” A case of baking powder of a sort popular -five-and-thirty years before. Strange! - -Sherwood laughed. “We’ve found some of Crazy Dan’s stores!” and -attempted to take one of the little cans. It lifted like lead. He -stopped--afraid to put it to the test--and looked at Evaleen queerly; -and she (remembering the story she had heard of Dan’s persistence in -working the cañon for placer gold) gave a little cry as he started to -open it. It seemed too much to dare to believe--to hope for---- Yet----. - -He lifted the lid. Gold! The gold dust that Crazy Dan (ay! Miser Dan) -had, back in the dead years, hoarded away in the safest place he knew; -adding to it month after month, as he delved, and died with his secret -still his own. - - * * * * * - -The Judge was at the County Seat--at the station buying his ticket to -go back to his “little girl”--when the train from the West came in. -In the dusk he caught a glimpse of a tailor-made suit which seemed -familiar to his eye, and that made him look twice at the wearer. - -“Why! Bless my soul, child--and Sherwood, too! Well! Well! What are you -doing here? I wrote to you about it. Didn’t you get my message, Evy?” - -“Yes, Daddy, dear; you said: ‘Be at the station tonight ready to go -home--I start from here.’ But as everything was packed I thought I’d -come up and join you, and we could both start from here.” - -“And,” added Sherwood, after they had gone into the now empty -waiting-room, “I wanted to see you, sir, before you left.” - -“Why, of course! Glad you came to see me off, Sherwood. You must come -down to see us, you know; and meet mother and the girls. We’ll---- Eh! -What’s that? * * * What! * * * Evy--my little girl?” - -The Judge stuttered and stammered, bewildered at the suddenness of the -attack. - - * * * * * - -Sherwood talked long and earnestly; and the Judge’s eyes wandered to -the daughter who had, until now, never seemed other than his “little -girl.” But she had “grown up” under his unseeing eyes; and now somebody -wanted to take her from him. Sherwood---- Well, Sherwood was a fine -fellow; he would make his way in the world in spite of the luck that -was against him now. - -“My boy,” (and the Judge laid his hands affectionately on the young -man’s shoulders as they stood facing each other) “I know you to be a -gentleman, and I believe you to be every inch a manly man. I want my -child to marry not what a man has made, but what he is made of. You -will win in the world’s rough and tumble of money-making, if you’re -only given a chance; and I’ve been going to tell you that there’s a -place waiting for you in our San Francisco office when you are ready -for it. And now I’ll add, there’s a place in my family, whenever Evy -says so. - -“As to your not having much more than the proverbial shilling just now, -that cuts no figure with me. Why not? Let me tell you.” - -He put his arm around Evaleen, drawing her to him. - -“This child’s mother took me ‘for better or worse’ twenty-five years -ago this very night, when I hadn’t a dollar in the world that I could -call my own--married me on an hour’s notice, and without any wedding -guests or wedding gowns. She trusted me and loved me well enough to -take me as I was, and to trust to the future (God bless her!) and -neither of us have ever had cause to regret it.” - -To have this assurance from the Judge before he knew of the wonderful -story Sherwood had to tell of the secret of Crazy Dan’s tunnel, added -to the joy of the young people who now felt they were beloved of the -gods. - -The Judge’s joy over the finding of the treasure box was even greater -than Sherwood’s; for the older man had lived long enough to realize -(as a younger generation could not) that this wealth would put many -possibilities for happiness within their reach that otherwise might not -be theirs. To them--the lovers in the rose-dawn of youth, with love so -new--love itself seemed enough; save perhaps that the money would make -marriage a nearer possibility. - - * * * * * - -“Darling”--and a new thought, a new hope rang through Sherwood’s -earnest tones--“do you believe you love me as well as she--your -mother--loved him?” - -“Oh, Hume!” was all she said, but the reproach in her eyes answered him. - -“Then marry me now, as she did your father, at an hour’s notice. -Here--this evening, before the train comes. Judge, why can not this be -so? What is there to prevent our being married at once, without all the -fussing and nonsense that will be necessary if we wait till she gets -home? Let us be married here, and now, and all go away together.” - -“Why, bless my soul! This takes my breath away. You young people--what -whirlwinds you are! You--Yes, yes, but---- Hey? What’s that? I did? -I know; but---- What? I should rather think it would be a surprise -to mother and the girls to bring a son home to Christmas dinner. Oh, -yes, I know; but---- What’s that you say? Her mother did----! Yes, -yes, I know.... Well, well, my lad, I don’t know but you’re right. Her -mother---- Love is the one thing--the rest doesn’t matter. Evy, child, -it is for you to say.” - -And remembering that girl of the long-ago who twenty-five years before -had gone to a penniless lover with such a beautiful love and trust -Evaleen Blaine, putting her hand with a like trust into her lover’s, -walked with him across to the little parsonage, and there became Hume -Sherwood’s wife. - - * * * * * - -When Cadwallader got back to the camp the next morning, he heard much -he was unprepared for; for news travels fast where happenings are few. -What he heard did not tend to make his Christmas a merry one. - -Evaleen Blaine and Hume Sherwood were now man and wife! He did not want -to believe it, yet he felt it was true. And Sherwood had sent to the -mint (from the “Spencer” mine, too,) the largest shipment of bullion -that had ever gone out of the county! Neither did he want to believe -this--and did not. There must be some mistake. - -He went over to the express office through the snow and the cold; for -the rain had turned to snow and the Nevada winter had begun. It would -be a cheerless yule-tide for him. It was true as he had heard--true in -all particulars, except that the consignment to the mint had been in -gold dust, not in bullion. - -Elwyn Cadwallader knew mines. Therefore he knew ledges do not produce -gold dust; and Sherwood had owned no placers. Whatever suspicion he had -of the truth he kept to himself. It was enough for him to know that -all he had done to make Hume Sherwood the butt of the camp, that he -might all the more surely part him from Evaleen Blaine, had been but -the means of aiding him in winning her; and that the richest joke of -the camp had proved to be rich indeed, in that it had placed a great -fortune in the hands of “the deckel-edged tenderfoot.” - - And here ends “The Loom of the Desert,” as written by Idah Meacham - Strobridge, with cover design and illustrations made by L. Maynard - Dixon, and published by the Artemisia Bindery, which is in Los - Angeles, California, at the Sign of the Sagebrush; and completed on - the Twelfth day of December, One thousand nine hundred and seven. - - - - -TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: - - - Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. - - Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. - - Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOOM OF THE DESERT *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Loom of the Desert</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Idah Meacham Strobridge</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Illustrator: L. Maynard Dixon</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: February 6, 2022 [eBook #67347]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Carlos Colon, David E. Brown, the University of California and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOOM OF THE DESERT ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/cover.jpg" width="40%" alt="" /></div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<h1>THE LOOM OF THE DESERT</h1> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>To the courtesy of the editors of the “Argonaut,” “Out West,” -“Criterion,” “Arena” and “Munsey’s”—in which publications many of -these sketches have already seen print—is due their reappearance in more -permanent form.</p> -</div></div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/p010.jpg" alt="" /></div> -<p class="caption">“The boy swayed backward—backward.”—Page <a href="#Page_10">10</a></p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="titlepage"> - -<p class="ph2">The Loom of the Desert</p> - -<p>by<br /> - -<span class="large">Idah Meacham Strobridge</span></p> - -<p>LOS ANGELES<br /> -MCMVII</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center"> -Copyright, 1907, by<br /> -Idah Meacham Strobridge<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Printed by the<br /> -Baumgardt Publishing Company<br /> -Los Angeles, California</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center"> -Of this autographed edition of<br /> -“The Loom of the Desert,” one<br /> -thousand copies were made; this<br /> -one being number 351</p> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/autograph.jpg" alt="" /></div> -<p class="caption">Idah M. Strobridge</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p class="center"><b>MARRIED</b>: In Newark, New Jersey, Thursday,<br /> -evening, June the Second, 1852, Phebe<br /> -Amelia Craiger of Newark, to George Washington<br /> -Meacham of California.</p> - - -<p class="center"><b>To these—my dearest;<br /> -the FATHER and MOTHER who are my comrades still,<br /> -I dedicate<br /> -these stories of a land where we were pioneers.</b></p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/foreword.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">FOREWORD</h2> -</div> - - -<p>There, in that land set apart for Silence, and Space, -and the Great Winds, Fate—a grim, still figure—sat -at her loom weaving the destinies of desert men and -women. The shuttles shot to and fro without ceasing, -and into the strange web were woven the threads of -Light, and Joy, and Love; but more often were they -those of Sorrow, or Death, or Sin. From the wide -Gray Waste the Weaver had drawn the color and -design; and so the fabric’s warp and woof were of -the desert’s tone. Keeping this always well in mind -will help you the better to understand those people of -the plains, whose lives must needs be often sombre-hued.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[1]</span> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/mesquite.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">MESQUITE</h2> -</div> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/m.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap">MISS GLENDOWER sat on the ranch-house -piazza, shading her eyes from the -white glare of the sun by holding above -them—in beautiful, beringed fingers—the -last number of a Boston magazine. -It was all very new and delightful to -her—this strange, unfinished country, and each day -developed fresh charm. As a spectacle it was perfect—the -very desolation and silence of the desert stirred -something within her that the Back Bay had never -remotely roused. Viewed from the front row of the -dress circle, as it were, nothing could be more fascinating -to her art-loving sense than this simple, wholesome -life lived out as Nature teaches, and to feel -that, for the time, the big, conventional world of wise -insincerities was completely shut away behind those -far purple mountains out of which rose the desert sun.</p> - -<p>As for becoming an integral part of all this one’s -self—Ah, that was a different matter! The very -thought of her cousin, Blanche Madison, and Roy—her -husband—deliberately turning their backs on the -refinements of civilization, and accepting the daily -drudgery and routine of life on a cattle ranch, filled -her with wondering amazement. When she fell to -speculating on what their future years here would<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[2]</span> -be, she shuddered. From the crown of her sleek and -perfectly poised little head, to the hollowed sole of -her modishly booted foot, Miss Audrey Glendower -was Bostonian.</p> - -<p>Still, for the short space of time that she waited -Lawrence Irving’s coming, life here was full of charm -for her—its ways were alluring, and not the least -among its fascinations was Mesquite.</p> - -<p>She smiled amusedly as she thought of the tall cowboy’s -utter unconsciousness of any social difference -between them—at his simple acceptance of her notice. -Miss Glendower was finding vast entertainment in his -honest-hearted, undisguised adoration. She had come -West for experiences, and one of the first (as decidedly -the most exciting and interesting) had been -found in Mesquite. Besides, it gave her something -to write of when she sent her weekly letter to Lawrence -Irving. Sometimes she found writing to him -a bit of a bore—when topics were few.</p> - -<p>But Mesquite—— The boy was a revelation of -fresh surprises every day. There was no boredom where -he was. Amusing; yes, that was the word. There -he was now!—crossing the bare and hard beaten -square of gray earth that lay between the ranch house -and the corrals. Though he was looking beyond -the piazza to where the other boys were driving a -“bunch” of bellowing, dust-stirring cattle into an -enclosure, yet she felt it was she whom his eyes saw. -He was coming straight toward the house—and her. -She knew it. Miss Glendower knew many things, -learned in the varied experience of her eight-and-twenty -years. Her worldly wisdom was more—much -more—than his would be at double his present age. -Mesquite was twenty.</p> - -<p>He looked up with unconcealed pleasure in her presence<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[3]</span> -as he seated himself on the piazza—swinging his -spurred heels against each other, while he leaned his -head back against one of the pillars. Miss Glendower’s -eyes rested on the burned, boyish face with -delight. There was something so näive, so sweetly -childish about him. It was simply delicious to hear -his “Yes, ma’am,” or his “Which?” Just now his -yellow hair lay in little damp rings on his forehead, -like a baby’s just awakened from sleep. He sat -with his big, dust-covered sombrero shoved back from -a forehead guiltless of tan or freckles as the petals of -a white rose. But the lower part of his face was -roughened by wind and burned by the sun to an Indian -red, making the blue eyes the bluer—those great, -babyish eyes that looked out with a belying innocence -from under their marvelous fringe of upcurling lashes. -The blue eyes were well used to looking upon sights -that would have shocked Miss Glendower’s New -England training, could she have known; and the -babyish lips were quite familiar with language that -would have made her pale with horror and disgust -to hear. But then, she didn’t know. Neither could -he have understood her standpoint.</p> - -<p>He was only the product of his environment, and -one of the best things that it had taught him was to -have no disguises. So he sat today looking up at his -lady with all his love showing in his face.</p> - -<p>Then, in the late afternoon warmth, as the day’s red -ball of burning wrath dropped down behind the western -desert rim of their little world, he rode beside her, -across sand hills where sweet flowers began to open -their snow-white petals to the night wind’s touch, and -over barren alkali flats to the postoffice half a dozen -miles away.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[4]</span>There was only one letter waiting for Miss Glendower -that night. It began:</p> - -<p>“I will be with you, my darling, twenty-four hours -after you get this. Just one more day, Love, and I -may hold you in my arms again! Just one more week, -and you will be my wife, Audrey. Think of it!”</p> - -<p>She had thought; she was thinking now. She was -also wondering how Mesquite would take it. She -glanced at the boy as she put the letter away and -turned her horse’s head toward home. Such a short -time and she would return to the old life that, for -the hour, seemed so strangely far away! Now—alone -in the desert with Mesquite—it would not be hard -to persuade herself that this was all there was of the -world or of life.</p> - -<p>As they loped across the wide stretch of desert flats -that reached to the sand hills, shutting the ranch from -sight, the twilight fell, and with it came sharp gusts -of wind that now and then brought a whirl of desert -dust. Harder and harder it blew. Nearer and -nearer—then it fell upon them in its malevolence, to -catch them—to hold them in its uncanny clasp an -instant—and then, releasing them, go madly racing -off to the farther twilight, moaning in undertone as -it went. Then heat lightning struck vividly at the -horizon, and the air everywhere became surcharged -with the electric current of a desert sand storm. They -heard its roar coming up the valley. Audrey Glendower -felt her nerves a-tingle. This, too, was an experience! -In sheer delight she laughed aloud at the -excitement showing in the quivering horses—their ears -nervously pointing forward, and their nostrils distended, -as with long, eager strides they pounded away -over the wind-beaten levels.</p> - -<p>Then the storm caught them at its wildest. Suddenly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[5]</span> -a tumble-weed, dry and uprooted from its -slight moorings somewhere away on the far side of -the flats, came whirling toward them broadside in -the vortex of a mad rush of wind in which—without -warning—they were in an instant enveloped. As the -great, rolling, ball-like weed struck her horse, Miss -Glendower took a tighter grip on the reins and -steadied herself for the runaway rush into the dust -storm and the darkness. The wild wind caught her, -shrieked in her ears, tore at her habit as though to -wrest it from her body, dragged at the braids of heavy -hair until—loosened—the strands whipped about her -head, a tangled mass of stinging lashes.</p> - -<p>She was alone—drawn into the maelstrom of the -mad element; alone—with the fury of the desert -storm; alone—in the awful darkness it wrapped about -her, the darkness of the strange storm and the darkness -of the coming night. The frightened, furious -horse beneath her terrified her less than the weird, -rainless storm that had so swiftly slipped in between -her and Mesquite, carrying her away into its unknown -depths. Where was he? In spite of the mastering -fear that was gaining upon her, in spite of -her struggle for courage, was a consciousness which -told her that more than all else—that more than everyone -else in the world—it was Mesquite she wanted. -Had others, to the number of a great army, ridden -down to her rescue she would have turned away from -them all to reach out her arms to the boy vaquero. -Perhaps it was because she had seen his marvelous -feats of daring in the saddle (for Mesquite was the -star rider of the range), and she felt instinctively -that he could help her as none other; perhaps it was -because of the past days that had so drawn him toward -her; perhaps (and most likely) it was because<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[6]</span> -he had but just been at her side. However it might -be, she was praying with all her soul for his help—for -him to come to her—while mile after mile she -rode on, unable to either guide or slacken the stride -of her horse. His pace had been terrific; and not -until it had carried him out of the line of the storm, -and up from the plain into the sand hills, did he lessen -his speed. Then the hoofs were dragged down by the -heavy sand, and the storm’s strength—all but spent—was -left away back on the desert.</p> - -<p>She felt about her only the softest of West winds; -the dust that had strangled her was gone, and in its -place was the syringa-like fragrance of the wild, white -primroses, star-strewing the earth, as the heavens were -strewn with their own night blossoms.</p> - -<p>Just above the purple-black bar of the horizon burned -a great blood-red star in the sky. It danced and wavered -before her—rising and falling unsteadily—and -she realized that her strength was spent—that she was -falling. Then, just as the loosened girth let the saddle -turn with her swaying body, a hand caught at her -bridle-rein, and——</p> - -<p>Ah, she was lying sobbing and utterly weak, but -unutterably happy, on Mesquite’s breast—Mesquite’s -arms about her! She made no resistance to the passionate -kisses the boyish lips laid half fearfully on her -face. She was only glad of the sweetness of it all; -just as the sweetness of the evening primroses (so like -the fragrance of jasmine, or tuberose, or syringa) sunk -into her senses. So she rested against his breast, seeing -still—through closed eyelids—the glowing, red -star. She was unstrung by the wild ride and the winds -that had wrought on her nerves. It made yielding so -easy.</p> - -<p>At last she drew back from him; and instantly his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[7]</span> -arms were unlocked. She was free! Not a second of -time would he clasp her unwillingly. Neither had -spoken. Nor, after resetting the saddle, when he took -her again in his arms and lifted her, as he would a -little child, upon her horse, did they speak. Only when -the ranch buildings—outlined against the darkness—showed -dimly before them, and they knew that the -ride was at an end, did he voice what was uppermost -in his mind.</p> - -<p>“Yo’ don’t—— Yo’ ain’t—— Oh, my pretty, -yo’ ain’t mad at me, are yo’?”</p> - -<p>“No, Mesquite,” came the softly whispered answer.</p> - -<p>“I’m glad o’ that. Shore, I didn’t mean fur to go -an’ do sech a thing; but—— Gawd! I couldn’t help it.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>But when lifting her down at the ranch-house gate he -would have again held her sweetness a moment within -his clasp, Miss Glendower (she was once again Miss -Glendower of the great world) let her cool, steady -voice slip between:</p> - -<p>“The letter I got tonight is from the man I am to -marry in a week. He will be here tomorrow. But, -I want to tell you—— Mesquite—— I want you -to know that I—I shall always remember this ride of -ours. Always.”</p> - -<p>Mesquite did not answer.</p> - -<p>“Good-night, Mesquite.” She waited. Still there -was no reply.</p> - -<p>Mesquite led the horses away and Miss Glendower -turned and went into the house. Being an uneducated -cowboy he was remiss in many matters of courtesy.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>When Lawrence Irving arrived at the Madison -ranch, his host, in the list of entertainment he was -offering the Bostonian, promised an exhibition of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span> -bronco riding that would stir even the beat of that serene -gentleman’s well regulated pulse.</p> - -<p>“This morning,” said Madison, “I was afraid that -I wouldn’t be able to get my star bronco buster out -for your edification, Lawrence, for the boys have been -telling me that he has been ‘hitting the jug’ pretty -lively down at the store for the past twenty-four -hours (he’s never been much of a drinker, either), but -when I told him Miss Glendower wanted to show you -the convolutions of a bucking horse, it seemed to sober -him up a bit, and he not only promised to furnish the -thrills, but to do the business up with all the trimmings -on—for he’s going to ride ‘Sobrepaso,’ a big, -blaze-face sorrel that they call ‘the man killer,’ and -that every vaquero in the country has given up unconquered. -Mesquite himself refused to mount him -again, some time ago; but today he is in a humor that -I can’t quite understand—even allowing for all the -bad whiskey that he’s been getting away with—and -seems not only ready but eager to tackle anything.”</p> - -<p>“I’m grateful to you, Rob,” began Irving, “for——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you’ll have to thank Audrey for the show! -Mesquite is doing it solely for her sake. He has been -her abject slave ever since she came.”</p> - -<p>Both men laughed and looked at Miss Glendower, -who did not even smile. It might have been that she -did not hear them. They rose and went out to the -shaded piazza where it was cooler. The heat was making -Miss Glendower look pale.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>They, and the ranch hands who saw “Sobrepaso” -(“the beautiful red devil,” Mrs. Madison called him) -brought out into the gray, hard beaten square that -formed the arena, felt a thrill of nervous expectancy—a -chilling thrill—as Mesquite made ready to mount.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span> -The horse was blindfolded ere the saddle was thrown -on; but with all the fury of a fiend he fought—in turn—blanket, -and saddle, and cincha. The jaquima -was slipped on, the stirrups tied together under the -horse’s belly, and all the while his squeals of rage and -maddened snorts were those of an untamed beast that -would battle to the death. The blind then was pulled -up from his eyes, and—at the end of a sixty-foot riata—he -was freed to go bucking and plunging in a -fury of uncontrolled wrath around the enclosure. At -last sweating and with every nerve twitching in his -mad hatred of the meddling of Man he was brought to -a standstill, and the blind was slipped down once -more. He stood with all four feet braced stiffly, awkwardly -apart, and his head down, while Mesquite -hitched the cartridge belt (from which hung his pistol’s -holster) in place; tightened the wide-brimmed, -battered hat on his head; slipped the strap of a quirt -on his wrist; looked at the fastenings of his big-rowelled, -jingling spurs; and then (with a quick, upward -glance at Miss Glendower—the first he had given her) -he touched caressingly a little bunch of white primroses -he had plucked that morning from their bed in -the sand hills and pinned to the lapel of his unbuttoned -vest.</p> - -<p>Mesquite had gathered the reins into his left hand, -and was ready for his cat-like spring into place. His -left foot was thrust into the stirrup—there was the -sweep of a long leg thrown across the saddle—a sinuous -swing into place, and Mesquite—“the star rider of -the range” had mounted the man killer. Quickly the -blind was whipped up from the blood-shot eyes, the -spurred heels gripped onto the cincha, there was a -shout from his rider and a devilish sound from the mustang -as he made his first upward leap, and then went<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span> -madly fighting his way around and around the enclosure.</p> - -<p>Mesquite sat the infuriated animal as though -he himself were but a part of the sorrel whirlwind. -His seat was superb. Miss Glendower felt a tremor -of pride stir her as she watched him—pride that her -lover should witness this matchless horsemanship. She -was panting between fear and delight while she -watched the boy’s face (wearing the sweet, boyish -smile—like, yet so unlike—the smile she had come to -know in the past weeks), and the yellow curls blowing -back from the bared forehead.</p> - -<p>“Sobrepaso” rose in his leaps to great heights—almost -falling backward—to plunge forward, with -squeals of rage that he could not unseat his rider. The -boy sat there, a king—king of his own little world, -while he slapped at the sorrel’s head and withers with -the sombrero that swung in his hand. Plunging -and leaping, round and round—now here and now -there—about the enclosure they went, the horse a mad -hurricane and his rider a centaur. Mesquite was -swayed back and forth, to and fro, but no surge could -unseat him. Miss Glendower grew warm in her joy of -him as she looked.</p> - -<p>Then, somehow (as the “man killer” made another -great upward leap) the pistol swinging from Mesquite’s -belt was thrown from its holster, and—striking the -cantle of the saddle as it fell—there was a sharp report, -and a cloud-like puff (not from the dust raised by beating -hoofs), and a sound (not the terrible sounds made -by a maddened horse), and the boy swayed backward—backward—with -the boyish smile chilled on his lips, -and the wet, yellow curls blowing back from his white -forehead that soon would grow yet whiter.</p> - - - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span>Miss Glendower did not faint, neither did she -scream; she was one with her emotions held always -well in hand, and she expressed the proper amount of -regret the occasion required—shuddering a little over -its horror. But to this day (and she is Mrs. Lawrence -Irving now) she cannot look quite steadily at a big, red -star that sometimes burns in the West at early eve; -and the scent of tuberoses, or jasmine, or syringa makes -her deathly sick.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/revolt.jpg" alt="" /></div> - - - -<h2 class="nobreak">THE REVOLT OF MARTHA SCOTT</h2> -</div> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/t.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">THERE was nothing pleasing in the scene. -It was in that part of the vast West -where a gray sky looked down upon the -grayer soil beneath; where neither brilliant -birds nor bright blossoms, nor glittering -rivulets made lovely the place in -which human beings went up and down the earth -daily performing those labors that made the sum of -what they called life. Neither tree nor shrub, nor -spear of grass showed green with the healthy color of -plant-life. As far as the eye could reach was the monotonous -gray of sagebrush, and greasewood, and sand. -The muddy river, with its myriad curves, ran between -abrupt banks of soft alkali ground, where now and -then as it ate into the confining walls, portions would -fall with a loud splash into the water. A hurrying, -treacherous river—with its many silent eddies—it -turned and twisted and doubled on itself a thousand -times as it wound its way down the valley. Here, -where it circled in a great curve called “Scott’s Bend,” -the waters were always being churned by the ponderous -wheel of a little quartz-mill, painted by storm and -sunshine in the leaden tones of its sad-colored surroundings.</p> - -<p>On the bluff above, near the ore platform, were -grouped a dozen houses. Fenceless, they faced the mill,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span> -which day after day pounded away at the ore with a -maddening monotony. All day, all night, the stamps -kept up their ceaseless monotone. The weather-worn -mill and drab adobe houses had stood there, year after -year, through the heat of summer days, when the -sun blistered and burned the whole valley, and in winter, -when the winds of the desert moaned and wailed at -the windows.</p> - -<p>Today the air is quiet, save for the tiny whirlwinds -that, running over the tailings below the mill, have -caught up the fine powder and carried bits of it away -with them, a white cloud, as they went. The sun, too, -is shining painfully bright and burning. By the well -a woman stands, her eyes intently following a chance -wayfarer who has turned into the Sherman road—in -all the waste, the only moving thing.</p> - -<p>How surely human beings take on themselves the -reflection of their surroundings! Living in the dull solitude -of this valley that woman’s life has become but a -gray reflection of its never-ending sameness. As we -look, we fall a-wondering. Has she never known what -it is to live in the way we understand it? Has nothing -ever set her pulses tingling with the exultation of Life? -Does she know only an existence which is but the compulsory -working of a piece of human machinery? Has -she never known what it is to feel hope, or joy, or love, -in the way we feel it—never experienced one single -stirring emotion in the whole round of her pitifully -barren life? Is it possible that she has never realized -the poverty of her existence?</p> - -<p>Yet, she was a creature meant for Life. What a beautiful -woman she is, too, with all that brilliance of coloring—that -copper-hued hair, and those great, velvety -eyes, lovely in spite of their apathetic stare. What a -model for some painter’s brush! Such beauty and such<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span> -apathy combined; such expressionless perfection of -feature; “faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly -null—dead perfection.”</p> - -<p>Martha Scott is one of those women whose commanding -figure and magnificent coloring are always -sufficient to attract the admiration of even the most indifferent. -No doubt now in her maturity she is far more -beautiful than when, nearly twenty years ago, she became -Old Scott’s wife. A tall, unformed girl then, -she gave no promise of her later beauty, except in the -velvety softness of the great eyes that never seemed -to take heed of anything in the world about her, and -the great mass of shining hair that had the red-gold -of a Western sunset in it.</p> - -<p>There had been a courtship so brief that they were -still strangers when he took her to the small, untidy -house where he had come to realize that the presence of -a woman was needed. He wanted a wife to cook for -him; to wash—to sew. And so they were married.</p> - -<p>The sheep which numbered thousands, the little mill—always -grinding in its jaws the ores brought down -the mountain by the snail-paced teams to fill its hungry -maw, these added daily to the hoard Old Scott clutched -with gripping, penurious fingers. Early and late, unceasingly, -he worked, and chose that Martha should -labor as he labored, live as he lived. But, as she mechanically -took up her burden of life, there came to the -sweet, uncomplaining mouth a droop at the corners that -grew with the years, telling to those who had the eyes -to see, that while accepting with mute lips the unhappy -conditions of her lot, she longed with all her starved -soul for something different from her yearly round of -never-ending toil.</p> - -<p>Once—only once—in a whirlwind of revolt, she felt -that she could endure it no longer—that she must break<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span> -away from the dull routine which made the measure of -her days; felt that she must go out among happy human -beings—to be in the rush and whirl of life under -Pleasure’s sunshine—to bask in its warmth as others -did. She longed to enjoy life as Youth enjoys; herself -to be young once more. Yes, even to dance as she -had danced when a girl! In the upheaval of her passionate -revolt, flushed and trembling, she begged her -husband to take her to one of the country balls of the -neighborhood.</p> - -<p>“Take me wunst!” she pleaded, her eyes glistening -with unshed tears; “only this wunst; I won’t never ask -you no more. But I do want to have one right good -time. You never take me nowheres. Please take me, -Fred, won’t you?”</p> - -<p>Old Scott straightened himself from the task over -which he was bending and looked at her in incredulous -wonder. For more than a minute he stared at her; -then, breaking into a loud laugh, he mocked:</p> - -<p>“You’d look pretty, now, wouldn’t you, a-goin’ and -a-toein’ it like you was a young gal!”</p> - -<p>She shrank from him as though he had raised a lash -over her, and the light died out of her face. Without -a word she turned and went back to her work.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Martha Scott never again alluded to the meagre -pleasures of her life. She went back to her work of -cooking the coarse food which was their only fare; of -mending the heavy, uncouth clothing which week-day -and Sunday alike, was her husband’s only apparel; of -washing and ironing the cheap calicoes, and coarse, unbleached -muslins of her own poor, and scanty wardrobe, -fulfilling her part as a bread-winner. The man -never saw that he failed in performing the part of a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span> -good and loving husband; and if anyone had pointed -out to him that her existence was impoverished by -his indifference and neglect, he still would have been -unable to see wherein he had erred. He would have argued -that she had enough to eat, enough to wear; that -they owned their home—their neighbors having no better, -nor any larger; he was laying aside money all the -time; he did not drink; he never struck her. What -more could any woman ask?</p> - -<p>That the home which suited him, and the life to -which he was used, could be other than all she desired, -had never once occurred to him. As a boy, “back East” -in the old days, he had never cared for the sports and -pleasures enjoyed by other young people. How much -less, now that the natural pleasure-time of life was -past, could he tolerate pleasure-seeking in others!</p> - -<p>“Folks show better sense to work an’ save their -money,” he would say, “than to go gaddin’ about -havin’ a good time an’ comin’ home broke.”</p> - -<p>Together they lived in the house which through all -their married life they had called “home;” together -they worked side by side through all their years of -youth and middle age. But not farther are we from the -farthest star than were these two apart in their real -lives. Yet she was his wife; this woman for whom he -had no dearer name than “Marth’,” and to whom—for -years—he had given no caress. She looked the incarnation -of indifference and apathy. Ah! but was she?</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>A few years ago there came a mining expert from -San Francisco to examine the Yellow Bird mine; and -with him came a younger man, who appeared to have -no particular business but to look around at the country, -and to fish and hunt. There is the finest kind of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span> -sport for the hunter over in the Smoky Range; and this -fellow, Baird—Alfred Baird was his name—spent much -of his time there shooting antelope and deer.</p> - -<p>He was courteous and gentle mannered; he was -finely educated—polished in address; he spoke three or -four languages, and was good to look at. He stayed -with the Scotts for a time—and a long time it proved -to be; a self-invited guest, whether or no. Yet all the -while he did not fail to reiterate his intentions to -“handsomely remunerate them for their generous hospitality -in a country where there were so few or no -hotels.” He assured them he was “daily expecting a -remittance from home. The delay was inexcusable—unless -the mail had miscarried. Very annoying! So -embarrassing!” And so on. It was the old stereotyped -story which that sort of a fellow always carries -on the tip of his tongue. And the wonder of it all was -that Scott—surly and gruff to all others—was so completely -under the scamp’s will, and ready to humor his -slightest wish. Baird used without question his saddle -and best horse; and it was Scott who fitted him out -whenever he went hunting deer over in the Smokies.</p> - -<p>By and by there came a time when Scott himself had -to go away on a trip into the Smoky Range, and which -would keep him from home a week. He left his wife -behind, as was his custom. He also left Alfred Baird -there—for Baird was still “boarding” at Scott’s.</p> - -<p>When old Fred Scott came back, it was to find the -house in as perfect order as ever, with every little detail -of house work faithfully performed up to the last -moment of her staying, but the wife was gone. Neither -wife, nor the money—hidden away in an old powder-can -behind the corner cupboard—were there.</p> - -<p>Both were gone—the woman and the gold pieces; -and it was characteristic of Old Scott that his first feelings<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span> -of grief and rage were not for the loss of his wife, -but for the coins she had taken from the powder-can. -He was like a maniac—breaking everything he had -ever seen his wife use; tearing to pieces with his strong, -sinewy hands every article of her clothing his eyes fell -upon. He raved like a madman, and cursed like a fiend. -Then he found her letter.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>“Dear Fred:—</p> - -<p>Now I’m a going away, and I’m a going to stay a -year. The money will last us two just about that long. -I asked Mr. Baird to go with me, so you needn’t blame -him. I ain’t got nothing against you, only you -wouldn’t never take me nowheres; and I just couldn’t -stand it no longer. I’ve been a good wife, and worked -hard, and earned money for you; but I ain’t never had -none of it myself to spend. So I’m a going to have it -now; for some of it is mine anyway. It has been work—work -all the time, and you wouldn’t take me nowheres. -So I’m a going now myself. I don’t like Mr. -Baird better than I do you—that ain’t it—and if you -want me to come back to you in a year I will. And I’ll -be a good wife to you again, like I was before. Only -you needn’t expect for me to say that I’ll be sorry because -I done it, for I won’t be. I won’t never be sorry -I done it; never, never! So, good-by.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="indentright">Your loving wife,</span><br /> - -Martha J. Scott.”</p> -</div> - -<p>If, through the long years, he had not been blind, -he could have saved her from it. Not a vicious woman—not -a wantonly sinning woman; only one who—weak -and ignorant—was dazed and bewildered by the -possibilities she saw in just one year of unrestricted -freedom to enjoy all the pleasures that might come -within her reach.</p> - -<p>To be sure, it did seem preposterous that a young<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span> -and handsome man, with refined tastes and education, -should go away with a woman years older than himself, -and one, too, who was uncouth in manner and in -speech. However strange it looked to the world, the -fact remained that they eloped. But both were well -away before it was suspected that they had gone together. -Old Scott volunteered no information to the -curious; and his grim silence forbade the questions -they would have asked. It was long before the truth -was known, for people were slow to credit so strange a -story.</p> - -<p>The two were seen in San Francisco one day as -they were buying their tickets on the eve of sailing for -Honolulu. She looked very lovely, and was as tastefully -and becomingly gowned as any woman one might -see. Baird, no doubt, had seen to that; for he had exquisite -taste, and he was too wise to challenge adverse -criticism by letting her dress in the glaring colors and -startling styles she would have chosen, had she been -allowed to follow her own tastes. In her pretty, new -clothes, with her really handsome face all aglow from -sheer joy in the new life she was beginning, she looked -twenty years younger, and attracted general attention -because of her unusual eyes and her magnificently-colored -hair.</p> - -<p>She was radiant with happiness; and there was no -apparent consciousness of wrong-doing. Baird always -showed a gracious deference to all women, and to her -he was devotion itself. The little attentions that will -charm and captivate any woman—attentions to which -she was so unused—fed her starved nature, and for the -time satisfied without sating her. They sailed for the -Islands, and were there a year. They kept to themselves, -seeking no acquaintance with those around them—living -but for one another. And those who saw them,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span> -told they seemed thoroughly fond of each other. He -was too much in love with himself and the surroundings -which catered to his extravagant tastes, to have a -great love for any woman; and she was scarcely the -person, in spite of her beauty—the beauty of some magnificent -animal—to inspire lasting affection in a man -like Baird. He was shrewd enough to keep people at a -distance, for unless one entered into conversation with -her she might easily be taken for the really cultivated -woman she looked. Yet the refined and aesthetic side -of Alfred Baird’s nature—and there was such—much -have met with some pretty severe shocks during a -twelvemonth’s close companionship. Too indolent to -work to support himself, he bore (he felt, heroically) -any mortification he was subjected to, and was content -in his degradation. But the woman herself was intensely -happy; happier than, in all her dreary life, she -had ever dreamed that mortals could be. She was in -love with the beautiful new world, which was like a -dream of fairy-land after her sordid life in the desolate -valley. That Hawaiian year must have been a revelation -of hitherto unimagined things to her. Baird’s moral -sense was blunted by his past dissipations, but her -moral sense was simply undeveloped. In her ignorance -she had no definition of morality. The man was -nothing to her except as an accessory to the fascinating -life which she had allowed herself “while the money -lasted.”</p> - -<p>When the twelve months were run she philosophically -admitted the end of it all, and parted with him—apparently—without -a pang. If, at the moment of -parting, any regrets were felt by either because of -the separation, it was he, not she, who would have -chosen to drift longer down the stream. The year -had run its course; she would again take up the old<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span> -life. This could not last. Perhaps—who knows?—in -time he might have palled on her. No doubt, in -time, his weak nature would have wearied her; her -own was too eager for strong emotions, to find in him -a fitting mate.</p> - -<p>Whether, at the last, she wrote to her husband, or -if he came to her when the year came to its end, no -one knows. But one day the people of the desert -saw her back at the adobes on the bluff. She returned -as suddenly as she had disappeared.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>She seems to have settled into the old groove again. -She moves in the same apathetic way as before the -stirring events of her life. In her letter she said she -would not be sorry. It is not probable that she ever was, -or ever will be; but neither is it likely that she has ever -seen the affair from the point of view a moralist -would take. Her limited intelligence only allowed -her to perceive the dreariness of her own poor life, -and when her longings touched no responsive chord -in the man whom she had married, she deliberately -took one year of her existence and hung its walls with -all the gorgeous tapestries and rich paintings that -could be wrought by the witchery of those magic -days in the Pacific.</p> - -<p>Fires have burned as fiercely within that woman’s -breast as ever burned the fires of Kilauea; and when -they were ready to burst their bounds, she fled in her -impulse to the coral isles of the peaceful Western sea, -and there her ears heard the sound, and her heart -learned the meaning of words that have left no -visible sign upon her—the wondrous, sweet words -of a dream, whispered to her unceasingly, while she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span> -gave herself up to an enchantment as mad and -bewildering as that of the rhythmic hula-hula.</p> - -<p>If she sinned, she does not seem to know it. Going -about at her work, as before, the expressionless face -is a mask; yet it may be she is moving in a dream-world, -wherein she lives over once again the months -that were hers—once—in the far Hawaiian Isles.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/squa.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">AN OLD SQUAW</h2> -</div> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/s.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">SHE had been lying by the stone wall all -day. And the sun was so hot that the -blood beating in her ears sounded like -the White Man’s fire-horse that had -just pulled a freight train into the station, -and was grunting and drinking -down at the water tank a hundred yards away. It -was getting all the water it wanted; why couldn’t she -have all the water she wanted, too?</p> - -<p>Today they had brought her the tomato can only -half full. Such a little drink! And her mouth was -so hot and dry! They were starving her to death—had -been starving her for days and days. Oh, yes! -she knew what they were doing. She knew why they -were doing it, too. It was because she was in the way.</p> - -<p>She was an old squaw. For weeks she had been half -dead; she had lain for weeks whimpering and moaning -in a corner of the camp on a heap of refuse and -rotting rags, where they had first shoved her aside -when she could no longer gather herself up on her -withered limbs and go about to wait upon herself.</p> - -<p>They had cursed her for her uselessness; and had -let the children throw dirt at her, and take her scant -share of food away and give it to the dogs. Then -they had laughed at her when one of the older grandchildren -had spat at her; and when she had striven<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span> -to strike at the mocking, devilish face, and in her -feebleness had failed, they had but laughed the louder -while she shrieked out in her hatred of them all.</p> - -<p>Her children, and her children’s children—her -flesh and bone! They were young, and well, and -strong; and she was old, feeble and dying. Old—old—old! -Too old to work. Too old to do for herself any -longer, they were tired of her; and now they had put -her out of the wick-i-up to die alone there by the -stone wall. She knew it—knew the truth; but what -could she do?</p> - -<p>She was only an old Paiute squaw.</p> - -<p>At first they had given her half the amount of food -which they allowed her before she had grown so -feeble. Then it was but a quarter; and then again -it was divided in half. Now—at the last—they were -bringing her only water.</p> - -<p>One day when she was faint and almost crazed from -hunger, one of the boys (her own son’s son) had come -with a meat bone and thrown it down before her; but -when she reached out with trembling, fleshless hands -to grasp it, he had jerked at the string to which it -was tied, and snatched it away. Again and again he -threw it toward her; again and again she tried to be -quick enough to close her fingers upon it before he -could jerk it from her. Then (when, at last, he was -tired of the play) he had flung it only an arm’s length -beyond her reach, and had run laughing down to the -railroad to beg nickels from the passengers on the -train. When he had gone a dog came and dropped -down beside her, and gnawed the bone where it lay. -She had crawled out into the sunshine that day, and -lay huddled in a heap close to the door-flap at the -wick-i-up entrance. The warm sunlight at first felt -good to her chilled blood, and she had lain there long;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span> -but finally when she would have dragged her feeble -body within again, a young squaw (the one who had -mated with the firstborn son, and was now ruler of -the camp) had thrust her back with her foot, and said -that her whining and crying were making the Great -Spirit angry; and that henceforth she must stay outside -the camp, for a punishment.</p> - -<p>Ah, she knew! She knew! They could not deceive -her. It was not the Great Spirit that had put her -out, but her own flesh and blood. How she hated -them all! If she could only be young again she would -have them put to death, as she herself had had others -put to death when there were many to do her bidding. -But she was old; and she must lie outside, away from -those who had put her there to starve, while in the -gray dusk they gathered around the campfire and -ate, and laughed, and forgot her. She wished the -cool, dark night might last longer, with the sage-scented -winds from the plain blowing over her. But -morning would come with a blood-red sun shining -through the summer haze, and she would have to lie -there under the furnace heat through all the long daylight -hours, with only a few swallows of water -brought to her in the tomato can to quench her -intolerable thirst.</p> - -<p>They were slowly starving her to death just because -she was old. They hated squaws when they got old. -They did not tell her so; but she knew. She, too, -had hated them once. That was long ago. Long, -long ago; when she was young, and strong, and swift.</p> - -<p>She was straight then and good to look at. All of -the young men of her tribe had striven for her; and -two had fought long—had fought wildly and wickedly. -That was when the White Man had first come into -the country of her people, and they had fought with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span> -knives they had taken from the Whites. Knives -long, and shining, and sharp. They had fought and -slashed, and cut each other till the hard ground was -red and slippery where they stood. Then—still fighting—they -had fallen down, down; and where they -fell, they died. Died for her—a squaw! Well, what -of it, now? Tomorrow she, too, would die. She whom -they, and others, had loved.</p> - -<p>Once, long ago—long before the time when she had -become Wi-o-chee’s wife—at the Fort on the other -side of the mountain, where the morning sun comes -first, there had been a White Man whose eyes were -the blue of the soldier-blue he wore; and whose mustache -was yellow like the gold he wore on his shoulders.</p> - -<p>He, too, was young, and straight, and strong; and -one day he had caught her in his arms and held her -while he kissed her on mouth and eyes, and under her -little round chin. And when she had broken away -from him and had run—run fast as the deer runs—he -had called after her: “Josie! Josie! Come back!” -But she had run the faster till, by and by, when he -had ceased calling, she had stolen back and had thrown -a handful of grass at him as he sat, with bowed head, -on the doorstep of the officers’ quarters; his white -fingers pressed tight over his eyelids. Then when he -had looked up she had gone shyly to him, and put her -hand in his. And when he stood up, looking eagerly -in her eyes, she had thrown her head back, where she -let it lay against his arm, and laughed, showing the -snow-white line of her teeth, till he was dazzled by -what he saw and hid the whiteness that gleamed -between her lips by the gold that swept across his -own.</p> - -<p>That was long ago. Not yesterday, nor last week,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span> -nor last month; but so long ago that it did not even -awaken in her an interest in remembering how he had -taught her English words to say to him, and laughed -with her when she said them so badly.</p> - -<p>She did not care about it, at all, now. She only -wanted a drink of water; and her children would not -give her what she craved.</p> - -<p>Always, she had been brave. She had feared nothing—nothing. -She could ride faster, run farther, dare -more than other young squaws of the tribe. She had -been stronger and suppler. Yet today she was dying -here by the stone wall—put out of the camp by her -children’s children to die.</p> - -<p>She would die tomorrow; or next day, at latest. -Perhaps tonight. She had thought she was to die last -night when the lean coyote came and stood off from -her, and watched with hungry eyes. All night he -watched. Going away, and coming back. Coming -and going all night. All night his little bright eyes -shone like stars. And the stars, too, watched her -there dying for water and meat, but they handed -nothing down to her from the cool sky.</p> - -<p>Oh, for strength again! For life, and to be young! -But she was old and weak. She would die; and when -she was dead they would take her in her rags, and—winding -the shred of a gray blanket about her (the -blanket on which she lay)—they would tie it tightly -at her head and at her feet; and so she would be -made ready for her last journey.</p> - -<p>Dragging her to a waiting pony she would be laid -across the saddle, face down. To the stirrups, which -would be tied together beneath the horse that they -might not swing, her head and feet would be fastened—her -head at one stirrup, her feet at the other.</p> - -<p>Then they would lead the pony off through the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span> -greasewood. Along the stony trail across the upland -to the foothills the little buckskin pony would pick -his way, stumbling on the rocks while his burden -would slip and shake about, lying across the saddle. -Then they would lay her in a shallow place, and -heaping earth and gravel over her, would come away. -That was the way they had done with her mother, -with Wi-o-chee, and the son who had died.</p> - -<p>Tomorrow—yes, tomorrow—they would take her to -the foothills. Perhaps the coyote would go there -tomorrow night; would go there, and dig.</p> - -<p>He had come now, and stood watching her from -the shelter of the sagebrush. He was afraid to come -nearer—now. She was too weak to move even a -finger today, yet he was afraid. He would not come -close till she was dead. He knew.</p> - -<p>Once he walked a few steps toward her, watching -her all the while with his little cruel eyes. Then he -turned and trotted back into the sagebrush. He knew. -Not yet.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>All day the sun had lain in heavy heat on the tangle -of vile rags by the stone wall. All day the magpie, -hopping along the wall, watched with head bent sidewise -at the rags that only moved with the faint breathing -of the body beneath. All day long two buzzards -far up in the still air swung slowly in great circling -sweeps. All day, from early dawn till dusk, a brown -hand—skinny and foully dirty—clutched the tomato -can; but the can today had been left empty. Forgotten.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span>When it grew dark and a big, bright star glowed -in the West, the coyote came out of the shadows of -the sagebrush and stood looking at the tangled rags -by the stone wall.</p> - -<p>Only a moment he stood there. He threw up his -head, and his voice went out in a chilling call to his -mate. Then with lifted lip he walked quickly forward. -He was no longer afraid.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/man.jpg" alt="" /></div> - - -<h2 class="nobreak">GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN</h2> -</div> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/y.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap">“YES, you’re right, Sid; in these days of -multi-millionaires, nothing that is written -with less than eight figures is considered -‘wealth.’ Yet, even so, I count -this something more than a ‘tidy little -sum’ you’ve cleaned up—even if you do -not. And now tell me, what are you going to do -with it?”</p> - -<p>The man sitting at the uncovered pine table in the -center of the room opened his lips to answer, checked -himself as if doubtful of the reception of what he -might say, and then went on nervously sorting and -rearranging the handful of papers and letters which -he held. However, the light that came into his eyes -at Keith’s question, and the smile that played around -his weak lips, showed without a doubt that the “tidy -little sum” promised to him at least the fulfillment -of unspoken dreams.</p> - -<p>He was a handsome man of thirty—a man of -feminine beauty rather than that which is masculine. -And though dressed in rough corduroys and flannels, -like his companion, they added to, rather than -detracted from his picturesque charm. Slightly—almost -delicately proportioned, he seemed to be taller -than he really was. In spite of his great beauty, however, -his face was not a satisfying one under the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span> -scrutiny of a close observer, for it lacked character. -There was refinement and a certain sweetness of temperament -there, but the ensemble was essentially -weak—it was the face of a man of whom one felt it -would not be well for any believing, loving woman -to pin her faith to.</p> - -<p>Keith, sitting with his long legs crossed and his -big, strong hands thrust deep into his trousers’ -pockets, watched the younger man curiously, wondering -what manner of woman she could have been -who had chosen Sidney Williston for her lord and -master.</p> - -<p>“Poor little neglected woman,” thought Keith, with -that tender and compassionate feeling he had for -every feminine and helpless thing; “poor little -patiently waiting wife! Will he ever go back to her, -I wonder? I doubt it. And now to think of all this -money!”</p> - -<p>Williston had said but little to Keith about his wife. -In fact, all reference to her very existence had been -avoided when possible. Keith even doubted if his -friend would ever again recognize the marriage tie -between them unless the deserted one should unexpectedly -present herself in person and claim her -rights. Williston—vacillating, unstable—was the -kind of a man in whom loyalty depends on the presence -of its object as a continual reminder of obligations. -Keith was sure, however, that the woman, -whoever she might be, was more than deserving of -pity.</p> - -<p>“Sidney means well,” thought Keith trying to find -excuse for him, “but he is weak—lamentably so—and -sadly lacking in moral balance.” And never had -Williston been so easily lead, so subservient to the -will of another as now, since “that cursed Howard<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span> -woman” (as Keith called her under his breath) had -got him into her toils.</p> - -<p>Lovesick as any boy he was befooled to his heart’s -content, wilfully blind to the fact that it was the -old pitiful story of a woman’s greed, and that her -white hands had caresses and her lips kisses for his -gold—not for himself. Her arms were eager to hold -in their clasp—not him, but—the great wealth which -was his, the gold which had come from the fabulously -rich strike he had cleaned up on the bedrock of the -claim, where a cross reef had held it hidden a thousand -years and more. Her red lips were athirst to -lay kisses—— On his mouth? Nay! on the piles -of minted gold that had lain in the bank vault since -he had sold his mine. The Twentieth Century Aspasia -has a hundred arts her sister of old knew naught of; -and Williston was not the first man who has unwittingly -played the part of proxy to another, or blissfully -believed in the lying lips whose kisses sting like -the sting of wild bees—those honey-sweet kisses that -stab one’s soul with needles of passionate pain. All -these were for the gold-god, not him; he was but the -unconscious proxy.</p> - -<p>Keith mused on the situation as he sat in the flickering -candle-light blown by the night wind that—coming -in through the open window—brought with it the -pungent odor of sagebrush-covered hills.</p> - -<p>“Strange,” he thought, “how a woman of that particular -stamp gets a hold on some fellows! And with -a whole world full of other women, too—sweet, good -women who are ready to give a man the right sort -of love and allegiance, if he’s a half-way decent sort -of a fellow with anything at all worthy to give in -exchange; God bless ’em!—and confound him! He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span> -makes me angry; why can’t he pull himself together -and be a man!”</p> - -<p>Bayard Keith was no saint. Far from it. Yet, for -all his drifting about the world, he had kept a pretty -clean and wholesome moral tone. Women of the -Gloria Howard class did not appeal to his taste; that -was all there was about it. But he knew men a-plenty -who, for her sake, would have committed almost any -crime in the calendar if she set it for them to do. -There were men who would have faced the decree of -judge and jury without a tremor, if the deed was done -for her sake. He himself could not understand such -things. Not that he felt himself better or stronger -than his fellows; it was simply that he was made of -a different sort of stuff.</p> - -<p>Yet, in spite of his manifest indifference to the -charm of her large, splendid beauty—dazzling as the -sun at noon-day—and that marked personality which -all others who ever came within the circle of her -presence seemed to feel, Keith knew he could have -this woman’s love for the asking—the love of a woman -who, ’twas said, won love from all, yet giving love -to none. Nay, but he knew it was already his. His -very indifference had fanned a flame in her breast; -a flame which had been lit as her eyes were first lifted -to his own and she beheld her master, and burning -steadily it had become the consuming passion of this -strange creature’s existence. Hopeless, she knew it -was; yet it was stronger than her love of life. Even -stronger than her inordinate love of money was this -passion for the man whose heart she had utterly -failed to touch.</p> - -<p>That he must know it to be so, was but an added -pain for her fierce nature to bear. Keith wondered -if Williston had ever suspected, as she played her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span> -part, the woman’s passionate and genuine attachment -to himself. He hoped not, for the two men had been -good comrades, though without the closer bond of a -fine sympathy; and Keith’s wish was that their comradeship -should continue, while he hoped the woman’s -love, in time, would wear itself out. To Williston -he had once tried to give a word of advice.</p> - -<p>“Drop it, Keith,” came the quick answer to his -warning, “I love her.”</p> - -<p>“Granted that you do, why should you so completely -enslave yourself to a woman of that type?”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean by ‘that type?’ Take care! -take care, Keith! I tell you I love her! Were I not -already a married man I would make Mrs. Howard -my wife.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, you wouldn’t,” Keith answered quietly. -“Howard refuses to get a divorce, and you know -very well she cannot. Besides, Sid, it would be sheer -madness for you to do such a thing, even were she -free.”</p> - -<p>“It makes no difference; I love her,” was again -the reply, and said with the childish persistence of -those with whom reiteration takes the place of argument.</p> - -<p>Keith said no more, though he felt the shame of it -that Sidney Williston’s fortune should be squandered -on another woman, while—somewhere off there in the -East—his wife waited for him to send for her. Keith’s -shoulders shrugged with impatience over the whole -pitiful affair. He was disgusted at Williston’s lack -of principle and angered by his disregard of public -censure. However, he reflected, trying to banish all -thoughts of it, it was none of his business; he was -not elected to be his brother’s keeper in this affair -surely.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span>As for himself, he believed the only love worth having -was that upon which the foundation of the -hearthstone was laid. He believed, too, that to no -man do the gods bring this priceless treasure more -than once. When a man like Keith believes this, it -becomes his religion.</p> - -<p>Through the gateway to his big, honest heart, one -summer in the years gone by, love had entered, and—finding -it the dwelling of honor and truth—it -abided there still.</p> - -<p>Thinking of Williston’s infatuation for Gloria -Howard, he could but compare it to his own entire, -endless love for Kathryn Verrill. He recalled a day -that would always stand out in bold relief from all -others in memory’s gallery.</p> - -<p>In fancy now he could see the wide veranda built -around one of the loveliest summer homes of the beautiful -Thousand Islands. Cushions—soft and silken—lay -tossed about on easy chairs and divans that were -scattered about here and there among tubs of palms -and potted plants. On little tables up and down the -veranda’s length were summer novels open and face -downward as their readers had left them, or dainty -and neglected bits of fancy-work. Cooling drinks and -dishes of luscious fruits had been placed there within -their reach. Keith closed his eyes with a sigh, as the -memory of it all came back to him. Here, amid the -sage and desert sands, it was like a dream of lost -Paradise.</p> - -<p>It had been a day of opalescent lights, and through -its translucence they (he and—she) could see the rest -of the party on the sparkling waters, among the pleasure -craft from other wooded islands, full of charm, -near by. Only these two—he and she—were here on -the broad veranda. The echo of distant laughter<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span> -came to them, but here was a languorous silence. -Even the yellow-feathered warblers in the gilded cages -above them had, for the time, hushed their songs.</p> - -<p>Kathryn Verrill was swinging slowly back and -forth in one of the hammocks swung along the veranda, -the sunlight filtering through the slats of the -lowered blinds streaking with gold her filmy draperies -as they swept backward and forward on the polished -floor. Her fingers had ceased their play on the mandolin -strings, and there was now no sound about -them louder than the hum of the big and gorgeous -bumble-bee buzzing above their heads. Summer sweetness -anywhere, and she the sweetest of it all! -Then——</p> - -<p>Ah, well! He had asked her to marry him, and -the pained look that came into her face was his -answer even before he heard her say that for two -years she had been another’s—a secretly-wedded wife. -Why she should now tell her carefully guarded -secret to him she herself could hardly have told. No -one else knew. Her husband had asked that it should -be their dear secret until he could send for her to -come to him out in the land of the setting sun, where -he had gone alone in the hope that he would find -enough of the yellow metal grains so that he could -provide her with a fitting home. Her guardian had -not liked the man of her choice—had made objections -to his attentions. Then there was the clandestine -marriage. And then he had gone away to make a -home for her. But she loved him; oh, yes! he was -her choice of all the world, her hero always—her -husband now. She was glad to have done as she did—there -was nothing to regret, except the enforced -separation. So she was keeping their secret while -feeding her soul with the hope of reunion that his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span> -rare letters brought. But she had faith. Some day—some -day he would win the fortune that would pave -the way to him; then he would send for her. Some -day. And she was waiting. And she loved him; -loved him. That was all.</p> - -<p>All, except that she was sorry for Keith, as all good -women are sorry to hurt any human creature. No -loyal, earnest, loving man ever offers his whole heart -to any true and womanly woman (it matters not how -little her own affections are moved by his appeal, or -if they be stirred at all) that she does not feel touched -and honored by the proffered gift. Womanly sympathy -looked out of her gentle eyes, but she had for -him no slightest feeling of other attraction. Keith -gravely accepted his fate; but he knew that Love -(that beautiful child born of Friendship—begot by -Passion) would live forever in the inner chamber of -his heart. To him, Kathryn Verrill would always be -the one woman in all the world.</p> - -<p>He went out of her life and back to the business -routine of his own. In work he would try to forget -his wounds. Later there were investments that turned -out badly, and he lost heavily—lost all.</p> - -<p>Then he came West. Here, in the Nevada mountains, -he had found companionship in Sidney Williston -who, like himself, was a seeker for gold. A general -similarity of tastes brought about by their former -ways of living (for Williston, too, was an eastern man) -had been the one reason for each choosing the companionship -of the other. So, here in the paintless -pine cabin in Porcupine Gulch, each working his -separate claim, they had been living under the same -roof for nearly two years; but Fate, that sees fit to -play us strange tricks sometimes, had laid a fortune -in Williston’s hands, while Keith’s were yet empty.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span>Sidney Williston’s silence, when asked what he -would do with his wealth, was answer enough. It -would be for Gloria Howard. There he sat now, -thinking of her—planning for her.</p> - -<p>Millers, red-winged moths and flying ants fluttered -around the candle, blindly batting at the burning -wick and falling with singed wings on the table. The -wind was rising again, and the blaze at times was -nearly snuffed out, moth-beaten and blown by the -strong breeze.</p> - -<p>All the morning the sun had laid its hot hand -heavily on the earth between the places where dense -white clouds hung without a motion in the breathless -sky. The clouds had spread great dark shadows on -the cliffs below, where they clung to the rocks like -time-blackened and century-old lichens. But in the -shadowless spots the sun’s rays were intensely hot, -as they so often are before a coming storm; while the -fierce heat for the time prostrated plant-life, and sent -the many tiny animals of the hills to those places -where the darkest shadows lay. Flowers were wilting -where they grew. White primroses growing in the -sandy soil near the cabin had but the night before -lifted their pale, sweet faces to the moon’s soft light—lovely -evening primroses growing straight and strong. -Noonday saw them drooping weakly on their stalks, -blushing a rosy, shamed pink; kissed into color by -the amorous caresses of that rough lover, the Sun. -Night would find them faded and unlovely, their purity -and sweetness ruthlessly wrested from them forever.</p> - -<p>As the sun climbed to the zenith, there was not the -slightest wind stirring; the terrible heat lay, fold on -fold, upon the palpitating earth. But noon came and -brought a breeze from out of the south. Stronger -and stronger it swept toward the blue mountains<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span> -lying away to the northward. It gathered up sand -particles and dust, and shook them out into the air -till the sunlight was dulled, and the great valley -below showed through a mist of gold. All the afternoon -the atmosphere was oppressively hot, while the -wind hurried over valley and upland and mountain. -All the afternoon the dust storm in billowy clouds -hurried on, blowing—blowing—blowing. A whistling -wind it was, keeping up its mournful song in the -cracks of the unpainted cabin, and whipping the burlap -awning over the door into ragged shreds at the -edges. The dark green window shades flapped and -rattled their length, carried out level from their fastenings -by the force of the hot in-blowing wind.</p> - -<p>Then with the down-going of the sun the wind died -down also. When twilight came, the heavens were -overcast with rain-clouds that told of a hastening -storm which would leave the world fresh and cool -when it had passed. The horizon line was brightened -now and again by zigzags of lightning. Inside the -cabin the close air was full of dust particles.</p> - -<p>Sidney Williston tossed a photograph across the -table, as he gathered his papers together preparatory -to putting them away.</p> - -<p>“There’s my wife’s picture, Keith,” he said; “I -don’t think I ever showed it to you, did I?”</p> - -<p>Keith got up—six feet, and more, of magnificent -manhood; tall, he was, and straight as a pine, and -holding his head in kingly wise. Leisurely he walked -across the bare floor, which echoed loudly to his tread; -leisurely he picked it up.</p> - -<p>It was the pictured face of Kathryn Verrill!</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>He did not say anything; neither did he move.... -If you come to think of it, those who sustain<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span> -great shocks seldom do anything unusual except in -novels. In real life people cry out and exclaim over -trifles; but let a really stupendous thing happen, and -you may be very sure that they will be proportionately -silent. The mind, incapable of instantly grasping the -magnitude of what has happened, makes one to stand -immovable and in silence.</p> - -<p>Keith said nothing. His breathing was quite as -regular as usual, and his grasp on the picture was -firm—untrembling. Yet in that instant of time he -had received the greatest shock of his life, and -myriad thoughts were running through his brain with -the swiftness of the waters in the mining sluice. He -held the bit of pasteboard so long that Williston at -last looked up at him inquiringly.</p> - -<p>When he handed it back his mind was made up. -He knew what must be done. He knew what he must -do—at once—for her sake.</p> - -<p>When two or three hours later he heard Williston’s -regular breathing coming from the bed across the -room, he stole out in the darkness to the shed where -the horses and buckboard were. It was their one -vehicle of any sort, and the only means they had of -reaching the valley. With the team gone, Williston -would practically be a prisoner for several days. -Keith had no hesitation in deciding which way his -duty lay. It was thirty miles to the nearest town; to -the telegraph; to Gloria Howard; to the railroad!</p> - -<p>As he pulled the buckboard out of the shed and -put the horses before it, the first raindrops began to -fall. Big splashing drops they were, puncturing the -parched dust as they beat down upon it. Flashes of -lightning split the heavens, and each flash made the -earth—for the instant—noon-bright. When he had -buckled the last strap his hands tightened on the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span> -reins, and he swung himself up to the seat as the -thunder’s batteries were turned loose on the earth in -a tremendous volley that set the very ground trembling. -The frightened horses, crouching, swerved aside -an instant, and then leaped forward into the darkness. -Along the winding road they swept, like part -of the wild storm, toward the town that lay off in -the darkness of the valley below.</p> - -<p>It was past midnight, and thirty miles lay between -him and the railroad. There was no time to spare. -He drove the horses at a pace which kept time with -his whirlwind thoughts and his pulses.</p> - -<p>He had been cool and his thoughts had been collected -when under another’s possible scrutiny. Now, -alone, with the midnight storm about him, his brain -was whirling, and a like storm was coursing through -his veins.</p> - -<p>The crashing thunder that had seemed like an -avalanche of boulders shattered and flung earthward -by the fury of the storm, began to spend itself, and -close following on the peals and flashes came the -earth-scent of rain-wetted dust as the big drops came -down. By and by the thunder died away in distant -grumbling, and the fiery zigzags went out. There -was the sound of splashing hoofs pounding along the -road; and the warm, wet smell of horses’ steaming -hides, blown back by the night wind.</p> - -<p>Fifteen miles—ten—five miles yet to go. Not once -had Keith slackened speed.</p> - -<p>When at length he found himself on the low levels -bordering the river, the storm had passed over, and -ere he reached the town the rain had ceased falling. -A dim light was breaking through the darkness in -places, and scudding clouds left rifts between which -brilliant stars were beginning to shine.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span>As he drove across the bridge and into the lower -town, he woke the echoes of a watch-dog’s barking; -otherwise, the town was still. At the livery stable -he roused the sleeping boy, who took his team; and -flinging aside the water-soaked great-coat he wore, he -walked rapidly toward the railroad station at the -upper end of the town. The message he wrote was -given to the telegraph operator with orders to -“rush.” It read:</p> - -<p>“I have found the fortune. Now I want my -wife. Come.”</p> - -<p>He signed it with Sidney Williston’s name.</p> - -<p>“Is Number Two on time?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“An hour late. It’ll be here about 4:10,” was the -reply.</p> - -<p>Leaving the office, he went back to the lower town. -Down the hill and past the pleasant cottages half -hidden under their thick poplar shade, and surrounded -by neat, close-trimmed lawns. Leaf and -grass-blade had been freshened by the summer storm; -and the odor of sweet garden flowers—verbenas, -mignonette and pinks—was wafted strongly to his -nostrils on the night air. They were homes. He -turned away from all the fragrance and sighed—the -sigh of renunciation. Crickets were beginning to -trill their night songs. Past the court-house he went, -where it stood ghostly and still in the darkness; past -the business buildings farther down, glistening with -wet. He turned into a side street to the house where -he had been told Gloria Howard lived. At the gate -he hesitated a moment, then opening it, went inside. -Stepping off the graveled walk, his feet pressed noiselessly -into the rain-soaked turf as he turned a corner -of the cottage, and—going to a side window—rapped -on the casing.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span>There was silence, absolute and deep. Again he -rapped. Sharply this time; and he softly called her -name twice. He heard a startled movement in the -room, then a pause, as though she were listening. A -moment later her white gown gleamed against the -darkness of the bedchamber, and she stood at the -open window under its thick awning of green hop -vines. Her face was on a level with his own. Her -hair exhaled the odor of violets. He could hear her -breathing.</p> - -<p>“Gloria,”——he began, softly.</p> - -<p>“Who are you——what is it?” Then, “Keith! -You!” she exclaimed; and in a moment more flung -wide the wire screen that had divided them.</p> - -<p>“Sh!”——he whispered. “I want to speak to -you. But——hark! listen!” He laid his hand -lightly on her lips.</p> - -<p>She caught it quickly between both her own, and -laid a hot cheek against it for an instant; then she -pressed it tightly against her heart.</p> - -<p>The night watchman patrolling the streets was passing; -and they stood—he and she together—without -movement, in the moist, dusky warmth of the rain-washed -summer night, until the footsteps echoed -faintly on the wet boards half a block away; the -sound mingling with the croaking of the river frogs. -Keith could feel the fast beating of her heart. The -wet hop leaves shook down a shower of drops as they -were touched by a passing breeze.</p> - -<p>“Gloria,”——he spoke rapidly, but scarcely above -his breath——“I am going away tonight——(he -felt her start) away from this part of the country -forever; and I have come to ask you to go with me. -Will you? Tell me, Gloria, will you go?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span>She did not reply, but laying a hand on his still -damp coat-sleeve, tried to draw him closer, leaning -her face towards his, and striving to read in his own -face the truth of his words.</p> - -<p>Had there been light enough for him to see, he -would have marvelled at the varying expressions that -followed in quick succession across her face. Surprise, -incredulity, wonderment, a dawning of the real meaning -of his words, triumph as she heard, and then—finally—a -look of fierce, absorbing, tigerish love. For -whatever else there might be to her discredit, her -love for him was no lie in her life. She had for this -man a passion as strong as her nature was intense.</p> - -<p>“Gloria, Gloria, tell me! Will you leave all—everything -and everybody—and go away with me?” he -demanded impatiently. “Number Two is late—an -hour late tonight, and you will have time to make -yourself ready if you hasten. Come, Gloria, come!”</p> - -<p>“Do——you——mean——it, Bayard Keith?” she breathed.</p> - -<p>“I mean it. Yes.”</p> - -<p>She knew his yea was yea; still she missed a certain -quality in what he said—a certain something (she -could not say what) in his tone.</p> - -<p>She inhaled a long breath as she drew away -from him.</p> - -<p>“You are a strange man—a very, very strange man. -Do you know it? All these many months you have -shunned me; yet now you ask me to cast my lot with -yours. Why?”</p> - -<p>“Because I find I want you—at last.”</p> - -<p>His answer seemed to satisfy her.</p> - -<p>“For how long?” she asked.</p> - -<p>Just for the imperceptible part of a second he hesitated.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span> -His answer would be another unbreakable -link in the chain he was forging for himself. Only -the fraction of a second, though, he paused. Then -his reply came, firm and decided:</p> - -<p>“Forever, Gloria, if you will have it so.”</p> - -<p>For answer she dropped her head on her folded -arms while a dry, hard sob forced its way through -her lips. It struck upon the chord within him that -always thrilled to the sight or sound of anything, -even remotely, touching grief. This sudden, unexpected -joy of hers was so near akin to sorrow—ay, -and she had had much sorrow, God knows! in her misspent -life—it was cause enough for calling forth the -gentle touch he laid upon her bowed head.</p> - -<p>“Don’t, Gloria, girl! Don’t! It isn’t worth this, -believe me. Yet, if you come, you shall never have -cause for regret, if there’s anything left in a man’s -honor.”</p> - -<p>He stroked her hair silently a moment before he said:</p> - -<p>“There are some things yet to be done before train -time; so I must go now. Will you be there—at the -station?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>So it was that the thing was settled; and Keith -accepted his fate in silence.</p> - -<p>An evil thing done? Perhaps. Evil, that good -might come of it. And he himself to be the sole -sufferer. He was removing this woman beyond Sidney -Williston’s reach forever. When the weak, erring -husband should find himself free once more from the -toils which had held him, his love (if love it was) -would return to the neglected wife; and she, dear, -faithful, loving woman that she was, would never, -thank heaven! guess his unfaithfulness.</p> - -<p>Bayard Keith did not feel himself to be a hero.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span> -Such men as he are never vainglorious; and Keith -had no thought of questioning Life’s way of spelling -“duty” as he saw it written. He was being loyal -for the sake of loyalty, a sacrifice for love’s own sake -than which no man can make greater, for he knew -that his martyrdom would be in forever being misjudged -by the woman for whose dear sake it was done. -He would be misjudged, of course, by Sidney Williston, -and by all the world, for that matter; but for -them he did not care. He was simply doing what he -thought was right that he himself should do—for -Kathryn Verrill’s sake. Her love had been denied -him. Now he must even forfeit her respect. All for -love’s sake. None must ever know why he had done -this hideous thing. They must be made to think that -he—like others—had yielded to a mad love for the -bad, beautiful woman. In his very silence under -condemnation lay security for Kathryn Verrill’s -happiness. Only he himself would ever know how -great would be his agony in bearing the load he had -undertaken. Oh, if there might be some other way -than this! If there could be but some still unthought-of -means of escape whereby he could serve his dear -lady, and yet be freed from yoking his life with a -woman from whom his whole being would revolt. -How would he be able through all the years to come—years -upon years—to bear his life, with her?</p> - -<p>As he walked past the darkened buildings he -breathed heavily, each breath indrawn with a sibilant -sound, like a badger at bay. Yet he had no thought -of turning aside from his self-imposed immolation.</p> - -<p>No one was astir in the lower town, save himself -and the night watchman. Now and then he passed a -dim light burning—here a low-turned burner in store -or bank building; there the brighter glow of lamps<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span> -behind the ground glass of some saloon door. Halfway -up the long street leading to the upper town he -heard the rumble of an incoming train. Was Number -Two on time, after all? Was a pitying Fate taking -matters away from him, and into its own hands? Was -escape being offered him?</p> - -<p>If he hurried—if he ran—he could reach the station -in time, but—alone! There would be no time to -go back for Gloria Howard. He almost yielded for a -moment to the coward’s impulse to shrink from responsibility, -but the thought of Kathryn Verrill, waiting -by the eastern sea for a message to come from the -man she loved, roused him to his better self. He -resolutely slackened his pace till the minutes had -gone by wherein he could have become a deserter; then -he went on up to the station.</p> - -<p>“No, that was a freight train that just pulled out,” -said the telegraph operator. “Number Two will be -here pretty soon, though. Less’n half an hour. She’s -made up a little time now.”</p> - -<p>Keith went to the office counter and began to write. -It was not a long letter, but it told all there was -to say:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>“Sid: I have wired to your wife to come to you, -and I have signed your name. By the time this -reaches you she will be on her way here. It will be -wiser, of course, for you to assume the sending of the -message, and to give her the welcome she will expect. -It will be wiser, too—if I may offer suggestions—to -travel about with her for a while; to go away from -this place, where she certainly would hear of your -unfaithfulness should she remain. Then go back with -her to your friends, and live out the balance of your -life, in the old home, as you ought. I know you will -feel I am not a fit one to preach, for I myself am<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span> -going away tonight, taking Gloria Howard with me. -I know, too, how you will look at what I am doing; -but I have neither excuses nor explanations to offer.</p> - -<p class="right">Bayard Keith.”</p> -</div> - -<p>That was all.</p> - -<p>When he had sealed and directed it, he went to -the livery stable and waked up Pete Dudley.</p> - -<p>“See here, Pete,” he said, “I want you to do something -for me.”</p> - -<p>“Sure, Mr. Keith!” said Pete, rubbing his eyes.</p> - -<p>“Here’s a letter for Mr. Williston out at our camp -in Porcupine Gulch. I want you to take it to him, -and take the buckboard, too.”</p> - -<p>“All right, I’ll go in the morning.”</p> - -<p>“No, no! Listen! Not till day after tomorrow. -Wait, let me think—— You’d better wait a day -longer——go the next day. Do you understand?”</p> - -<p>“I guess I savvy. Not till Friday. Take the letter -and the buckboard. Is that the racket?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, that’s what I want, Pete. Here! Take them -to him without fail on Friday. Good-night, Pete. -Good bye!”</p> - -<p>Keith walked back to the station and went in the -waiting-room, where he sat down. His heart felt as -heavy as lead. He had burned all his bridges behind -him, and it made his soul sick to contemplate the -long vista of the coming years.</p> - -<p>As he sat there, the coward hope that she—Gloria—might -not come, shot up in his heart, trying to make -of him a traitor. He said to himself: “If——if——” -Presently he heard the train whistle. He got up and -went to the door. He felt he was choking. Daylight -was coming fast; day-dawn in the eastern sky. The -town, rain-cleansed and freshened, would soon awake -and lift its face to the greeting of another morn.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span>The ticket-office window was shoved up. It was -nearing train time.</p> - -<p>“Hello, Mr. Keith, going away?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I want a——” he hesitated.</p> - -<p>“Where to?”</p> - -<p>But Keith did not answer. A ticket? One, or two? -If she should not come—— Was Fate——? What -was he to do? But, no! Yet he hesitated, while the -man at the window waited his reply. Two tickets, or -only one? Or not any? Nay, but he must go; and -there must be two.</p> - -<p>Then the train thundered into the station, and -almost at the same moment he heard, through the -sound made by the clanging bell, the rustle of a -woman’s rich garments. He turned. Gloria Howard -stood there, beautiful and eager, panting from her -hurried walk.</p> - -<p>“Where to?” repeated the man at the window.</p> - -<p>“San Francisco—two tickets,” said Keith.</p> - -<p>“‘Two,’ did you say?” asked the man, looking up -quickly at him and then glancing sideways at the -radiant, laughing woman who had taken her place -so confidently at Keith’s side.</p> - -<p>Keith’s voice did not falter, nor did his eyes fall:</p> - -<p>“Two.”</p> - -<p>But the telegraph operator smiled to himself as he -shoved the tickets across the window sill. To him, -Keith was simply “Another one!” So, too, would -the world judge him after he was gone.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Bayard Keith was no saint; but as he crossed to the -cars in the waxing light of day-dawn, his countenance<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span> -was transfigured by an indescribable look we do not -expect to see—ever—on the face of mortal man.</p> - -<p>“For her dear sake!” he whispered softly to himself, -as he looked away to the reddening East—to -the eastward where “she” was. “For the sake of -the woman I love.”</p> - -<p>And “greater love hath no man than this, that a -man lay down his life for his friends.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/palm.jpg" alt="" /></div> - - -<h2 class="nobreak">IN NANNA’S PALM</h2> -</div> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">IT all happened years ago. Before there -was any railroad; even before there were -any overland stages crossing the plains. -Only the emigrant teams winding slowly -down the valley on the road stretching -westward.</p> - -<p>Some there were, though, that had worked their -way back from the Western sea, to stop at those -Nevada cañons where there was silver to be had for -the delving.</p> - -<p>The cañons were beautiful with dashing, dancing -streams, and blossoming shrubbery, and thick-leafed -trees; and there grew up in the midst of these, tiny -towns that called themselves “cities,” where the -miners lived who came in with the return tide from -the West.</p> - -<p>There in one of the busiest, prettiest mining camps -on a great mountain’s side, in one of the stone cabins -set at the left of the single long street, dwelt Tony -and his cousin Bruno—Italians, both. Bruno worked -in the mines; but Tony, owning an ox team, hauled -loads for the miners to and from the other settlements. -A dangerous calling it was in those days, because an -Indian in ambush had ever to be watched for when a -White Man came down from the cañons to travel alone -through the valley.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span>Tony was willing, however, to take risks. Teaming -brought him more money than anything else he -could do; and the more he earned, the sooner he -could go back to Nanna—to Nanna waiting for him -away on the other side of the world.</p> - -<p>He and Bruno both loved her—had loved her ever -since the days when, long ago, in their childhood, they -had played at being lovers down among the fishing -boats drawn up on the beach of their beloved Italian -home. Black-browed Bruno had then quarreled with -him in jealous hatred time and again; but the little -Nanna (who loved peace, and to whom both playfellows -were dear) would kiss each and say:</p> - -<p>“Come! Let us play that you are my twin brothers, -and I your only sister!” And so harmony would be -restored.</p> - -<p>Thus it went on, and at last they were no longer -little children, but men who love a woman as men -may love. And Bruno’s parents came to the father -and mother of Nanna and settled that their children -should be man and wife; so in that way Bruno was -made glad, and no longer jealous of Tony—poor -Tony, who had not a single small coin that he could -call his own. Yet it was Tony whom Nanna loved—Tony -whose wife she wanted to be. But what can a -young girl do when the one she loves is poor, and -there is another whom her parents have chosen for -her who has a little farm promised him by his father -the day he shall bring home the wife they would -have him marry? Nanna neither resisted nor -rebelled; but only went to Tony who was as helpless -as herself, and there against his breast wept her -heart out.</p> - -<p>It was only when Bruno declared that he was going -to America to make a great deal of money (saying<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span> -that the farm was not enough—that when he and -Nanna were married he wanted they should be rich) -that a ray of hope shone for Tony.</p> - -<p>“I, too, will go to America,” Tony whispered to -Nanna, “and perhaps there I also may find a fortune. -Then—when I come back—I may marry thee; may I -not, little dear one?”</p> - -<p>And for answer, the little Nanna lifted her arms -to his neck and her lips to his own.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The night before the two men sailed away to the -strange, far-off land, Nanna and Tony walked together -under the oaks and ilexes.</p> - -<p>“Thou wilt miss me, little one, but thou wilt be -true, I know. I shall think of thee all the time—every -hour. Thou wilt long for me, as I for thee. Thou -wilt miss my kisses; is it not so? But I——! Ah, -Nanna! Nanna! Here——” And bowing over her -hand he pressed kiss after kiss in the upturned little -brown palm, closing her fingers tightly upon them as -he raised his head and smiled in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“There! These I give thee, sweet one, so that when -I am gone it shall be that thy Tony’s kisses are with -thee, and are thine whenever thou wilt.”</p> - -<p>All the morrow, when the ship had sailed away, -Nanna lay on her cot up in the little whitewashed -bedroom under the eaves, and with lips pressed close -upon the palm that Tony’s lips had touched, sobbed -her grief out, till she sank into exhausted slumber.</p> - -<p>One year; two years; three, came and went. Tony -off in America was making money, and soon he could -go home and they would be married in spite of her -parents or Bruno. The fourth year he wrote her how -the sum had grown—it was almost enough. Then she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span> -began checking off the months ere he would return -to her. Eighteen—sixteen—fourteen—now only -twelve months more! A year, and Tony would be -with her! Then half that year was gone. Six months, -only, to wait! Happy little Nanna! And Tony was -not less happy, away off there in his little stone -cabin in the mountains, or hauling goods for the -miners across the valley. His heart was so full of -her that—almost—he forgot to think of the Indians -when he was traveling along the road.</p> - -<p>“Thou art a fool,” said Bruno to him over and -over again. “Thou art a fool, indeed. It is more -money—this hauling—yes! But some day—ping!—and -it is the arrow of an Indian. Then what good -is it, the money? Thou art a fool, I say. As for -me, I will work here with the many in the mines.”</p> - -<p>Bruno had just said this to him for the hundredth -time, as Tony was yoking his oxen for the long -journey up the wide valley to the North. And his -answer had been as always, that the saints would -protect him. Yet, should he not return the thirteenth -day, then indeed might Bruno think all was not well -with him, and could send some of the men from the -mines to go to him. He was not afraid, though. -Had not the saints protected him for nearly five -years? He was soon to go back to Italy, and (he -whispered to himself) to Nanna! So with a light -heart, and a laugh on his lip, he went down the -cañon beside the oxen, cracking his whip as he -warbled a song he and Nanna had sung together when -they had played by the boats and among the fishing -nets in the long, long ago.</p> - -<p>The wagon jolted and rattled on its way down the -rocky road to the plain; and Tony’s big, beautiful<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span> -St. Bernard dog, Bono, followed in the dust sent -skyward by the heavy wheels as they came upon the -softer earth of the lowlands.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Everyone was Tony’s friend in the little mining -town. Therefore everyone was anxious when the -thirteenth day came, yet not Tony. With few words -(at such times such men do not say much) they -selected a dozen from among the town’s bravest and -best, and with heavy hearts set out on their journey -that was to follow Tony’s trail till they should find him.</p> - -<p>Down into the hot valley—a-quiver under the summer -heat, over a road of powdered alkali, along the -Humboldt’s banks—through mile after mile of sagebrush -and greasewood—under the glaring, white sun, -they rode two and two. And so riding they spoke -seldom.</p> - -<p>When they were nearing the place they knew Tony -must have reached the third day out (now more than -ten days gone) they saw outlined against the blue—high, -high in the air—circling spots of black. Dark -things that swept with a majesty of motion that was -appalling. Round and round, in great curves half a -mile wide, they swam through the ether, and dipped -and tilted without so much as the quiver of a wing -or other motion than that given by their marvelous -self-poise; sailing through mid-air as only a vulture -can.</p> - -<p>They swept and circled over a spot that was awful -in its silence under the metallic brightness of the hot -August sun. The men looked at each other; looked -without speaking—for they understood. So without -speech they rode on to the place where the warped -irons from the burned wagon lay, and where a gaunt, -nearly starved St. Bernard howled over something<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span> -that had once been his master. He had guarded the -dead man through ten hot days—through ten long -nights. Bono’s wail sounded long and mournful -through the narrow pass where the whistling arrows -had found them. Tony had never been neglectful -before, and the dog could not understand it.</p> - -<p>Alas, poor Tony!</p> - -<p>When Bruno went back to Italy that fall he told -Nanna that Tony was dead. And Nanna who came -of a race more or less stoical in time of stress did not -cry out, but simply shut her sorrow up close in her -heart where the others could not see. It had been -their secret—hers and Tony’s—and they had guarded -it well. Henceforth it would be hers alone. So she -gave no sign except such as she might for an old -playmate’s death.</p> - -<p>By and by she married Bruno. What would you? -Her father and mother wished it; Bruno loved her; -he had money now to provide well for a wife; and -there was the little farm that his parents would give -him the day when he should bring home his bride. -So, after the manner of her kind, she finally yielded -to his wooing; and one day they were wed in the -little church on the hill where they had both been -christened when babies.</p> - -<p>She bore him children, and was a good mother—a -good wife. She lived to be an old woman, and her -hair grew streaked with gray; yet to the last day of -her life she had a way of falling asleep with the -fingers of her left hand slipped under her cheek, and -her lips touching the upturned palm.</p> - -<p>It was her one disloyalty to Bruno.</p> - -<p>And so it was they found her lying on that morning -that she did not waken.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/lucas.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">THE VENGEANCE OF LUCAS</h2> -</div> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/t.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">THE little adobe house stood flush with -the street, halfway between the business -houses and the residence portion of the -town which turned its back on the sand -and sage-covered hills that—breaking -into gray waves—far off cast themselves -on the beach of blue skyland in great breakers -of snow-crested mountains.</p> - -<p>At the side of the house was a dooryard—so -small!—beaten hard and smooth as a floor, and without -a tree or a bush. There was no grass even at -the edge of the sturdy little stream that ran across -the square enclosure, talking all day to the old-faced -baby in its high chair under the shake-covered -kitchen porch. All day the stream laughed and chattered -noisily to the owl-eyed baby, and chuckled and -gurgled as it hurried across the yard and burrowed -under the weather-bleached boards of the high fence, -to find its way along the edge of the street, and so -on to the river a quarter of a mile below. But the -wee woman-child, owl-eyed and never complaining, -sat through the long sunshine hours without one -smile on its little old face, and never heeding the -stream.</p> - -<p>As the days grew hotter, its little thin hands became -thinner, and it ate less and less of the boiled arroz<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span> -and papas the young mother sometimes brought when -she came to dip water.</p> - -<p>“Of a truth, there is no niña so good as my ’Stacia; -she never, never cries! She is no trouble to me at -all,” Carmelita would exclaim, and clap her hands -at the baby. But the baby only grew rounder eyed -as it stared unsmilingly at its mother’s pretty plumpness, -and laughing red lips, and big black eyes, whenever -she stopped to talk to the little one.</p> - -<p>Carmelita—pretty, shallow-pated Carmelita—never -stayed long with the tiny ’Stacia, for the baby was so -good left alone; and there was always Anton or -Luciano and Monico to drop in for a laugh with the -young wife of stupid old Lucas; or Josefa coming in -for a game of “coyote y gallos.”</p> - -<p>It was Lucas who went out to the porch whenever -he could spare the time from earning money that -he might buy the needed arroz and papas, or the -rose-colored dresses he liked to see her wear.</p> - -<p>It was for Lucas she said her first word—the only -word she had learned yet—“papa!” And she said it, -he thought, as if she knew it was a love in no wise -different from a father’s love that he gave her, poor -little Anastacia, whose father—well, Lucas had never -asked Carmelita to tell him. How could he? Poor -child, let her keep her secret. Pobre Carmelita! Only -sixteen and no mother. And could he—Lucas—see -her beaten and abused by that old woman who took -the labor of her hands and gave her nothing in -return?—could he stand by when he saw the big -welts and bruises, and not beg her to let him care for -her and the niña?—such a little niña it was, too! Of -a verity, he was no longer young; and there was his -ugly pock-marked face, to say nothing of the scars -the oso had given him that day when he, a youth,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span> -had sent his knife to the hilt in the bear that so -nearly cost him his life. The scars were horrible to -see—horrible! But Carmelita (so young—so pretty!) -did not seem to mind; and when the priest came again -they were married, so that Carmelita had a husband -and the pobrecita a father.</p> - -<p>And such a father! How Lucas loved his little -’Stacia! How tender he was with her; how his heart -warmed to the touch of her lips and hands! Why, -he grew almost jealous of the red-breasted robin that -came daily to sit by the edge of her plate and eat -arroz with her! He begrudged the bird its touch of -the little sticky hand covered with grains of rice -which the robin pecked at so fearlessly. And when -the sharp bill hurt the tender flesh, how she would -scold! She was not his ’Stacia then at all—no, some -other baby very different from the solemn little one -he knew. There seemed something unearthly in it, -and Lucas would feel a sinking of his heart and wish -the bird would stay away. It never came when -others were there. Only from the shelter of window -or doorway did he and the others see the little bright -bird-eyes watch—with head aslant—the big black -ones; or hear the baby bird-talk between the two. -Every day throughout the long, hot summer the robin -came to eat from the niña’s plate of rice as she sat -in her high chair under the curling shake awning; and -all the while she grew more owl-eyed and thin. A -good niña, she was, and so little trouble!</p> - -<p>One day the robin did not come. That night, -through the open windows of the front room, -passers-by could see a table covered with a folded -sheet. A very small table—it did not need to be -large; but the bed had been taken out of the small, -mean room to give space to those who came to look<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span> -at the poor, little, pinched face under a square of -pink mosquito bar. There were lighted candles at -the head and feet. Moths, flying in and out of the -wide open window, fluttered about the flames. The -rose-colored dress had been exchanged for one that -was white and stiffly starched. Above the wee gray -face was a wreath of artificial orange blossoms, but -the wasted baby-fingers had been closed upon some -natural sprays of lovely white hyacinths. The cloying -sweetness of the blossoms mingled with the odor -of cigarette smoke coming from the farther corners -of the room, and the smell of a flaring kerosene lamp -which stood near the window. It flickered uncertainly -in the breeze, and alternately lighted or threw -into shadow the dark faces clustered about the doorway -of the second room. Those who in curiosity lingered -for a moment outside the little adobe house could -hear voices speaking in the soft language of Spain.</p> - -<p>To them who peered within with idle interest, it -was “only some Mexican woman’s baby dead.” Tomorrow, -in a little white-painted coffin, it would be -born down the long street, past the saloons and shops -where the idle and the curious would stare at the -procession. Over the bridge across the now muddy -river they would go to the unfenced graveyard on -the bluff, and there the little dead mite of illegitimacy -would be lowered into the dust from whence it came. -Then each mourner in turn would cast a handful of -earth into the open grave, and the clods would rattle -dully on the coffin lid. (Ah, pobre, pobre Lucas!) -Then they would come away, leaving Carmelita’s -baby there underground.</p> - -<p>Carmelita herself was now sitting apathetically by -the coffin. She dully realized what tomorrow was to -be; but she could not understand what this meant.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span> -She had cried a little at first, but now her eyes were -dry. Still, she was sorry—it had been such a good -little baby, and no trouble at all!</p> - -<p>“A good niña, and never sick; such a good little -’Stacia!” she murmured. Carmelita felt very sorry -for herself.</p> - -<p>Outside, in the darkness of the summer night, Lucas -sat on the kitchen porch leaning his head against the -empty high chair of the pobrecita, and sobbed as if -his heart would break.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>That had happened in August. Through September, -pretty Carmelita cried whenever she remembered what -a good baby the little Anastacia had been. Then -Josefa began coming to the house again to play -“coyote y gallos” with her, so that she forgot to -cry so often.</p> - -<p>As for Lucas, he worked harder than ever. Though, -to be sure, there were only two now to work for -where there had been three. With Anton, and -Luciano, and Monico, he had been running in wild -horses from the mountains; and among others which -had fallen to his share was an old blaze-face roan -stallion, unmanageable and full of vicious temper. -They had been put—these wild ones—in a little pasture -on the other side of the river; a pasture in the -rancho of Señor Metcalf, the Americano. And the -señor, who laughed much and liked fun, had said he -wanted to see the sport when Lucas should come to -ride the old roan.</p> - -<p>Today, Lucas—on his sleek little cow-horse, Topo—was -riding along the river road leading to the -rancho; but not today would he rope the old blaze-face. -There were others to be broken. Halfway -from the bridge he met little Nicolás, who worked<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span> -for the señor, and passed him with a pleasant -“Buenos dias!” without stopping. The boy had been -his good amigo since the time he got him away from -the maddened steer that would have gored him to -death. There was nothing ’Colás would not do for -his loved Lucas. But the older man cared not to -stop and talk to him today, as was his custom; for -he was gravely thinking of the little dead ’Stacia, -and rode on. A hundred yards farther, and he heard -the clatter of a horse’s hoofs behind him, and Nicolás -calling:</p> - -<p>“Lucas! Lucas!”</p> - -<p>He turned the rein on Topo’s neck, and waited till -the boy came. In the pleasant, warm October sunlight -he waited, while Nicolás told him that which would -always make him shiver and feel cold when afterward -he should remember that half-hour in the stillness and -sunshine of the river road. He waited, even after -Nicolás (frightened at having dared to tell his friend) -had gone.</p> - -<p>The señor and Carmelita! It was the truth—Nicolás -would not lie. The truth; for the boy had -listened behind the high fence of weather-beaten -boards, and had heard them talk together. He, and -the little stream that gurgled and laughed all day, -had heard how they—the señor and Carmelita—would -go away to the north when the month should end. -For many months they two had loved—the Señor Metcalf -and the wife of Lucas; had loved before Lucas -had made her his wife—ay! even before the little -’Stacia had come. And the little ’Stacia was the -señor’s—— Ah, Lucas would not say it of the dead -pobrecita! For she was his—Lucas’s—by right of -his love for her. Poor little Anastacia! And but that -the little one would have been a trouble to the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span> -Americano, they—the woman and the man—would -have gone away together before; but he would not -have it so. Now that the little one was no longer to -trouble them, he would take the mother and go away -to the new rancho he had just bought far over on the -other side of the mountains.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/p065.jpg" alt="" /></div> -<p class="caption">“Their eyes met.”—Page <a href="#Page_65">65</a></p> - -<p>“Go!”—said Lucas, when the boy had finished telling -all he had overheard—“Go and tell the señor that -I go now to the corral to ride the roan stallion. And—’Colás, -give to me thy riata for today.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Lucas had driven the horses into one of the corrals. -Alone there he had lassoed the old blaze-face; and -then had driven the others out. Unaided, he had -tied the old stallion down. As he lay there viciously -biting and trying to strike out with his hind feet, -Lucas had fastened a halter on his head and had -drawn a riata (sixty feet long, and strong as the thews -of a lion) tight about him just back of the forelegs. -Twice he had passed it about the heaving girth of the -old roan, whose reeking body was muddy with sweat -and the grime and dust of the corral. The knots were -tied securely and well. The rope would not break. -Had he not made it himself from the hide of an old -toro? From jaw-piece to jaw-piece of the halter -he drew his crimson silk handkerchief, bandaging the -eyes that gleamed red under swollen and skinned lids. -Then, cautiously, Lucas unbound the four hoofs that -had been tied together. The horse did not attempt -to move, though he was consumed by a rage against -his captor that was fiendish—the fury of a wild beast -that has never yet been conquered.</p> - -<p>Lucas struck him across the ribs with the end of -the rope he was holding. The big roan head was -lifted from the ground a second and then let fall, as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span> -he squealed savagely. Again the rope made a hollow -sound against the heaving sides. Again the maddened -horse squealed. When the rope struck the third time, -he gathered himself together uncertainly—hesitated—struggled -an instant—staggered to his feet, and -stood quivering in every muscle of his great body. -His legs shook under him; and his head—with the -bandaged eyes—moved from side to side unsteadily.</p> - -<p>Then Lucas wound the halter-rope—which was -heavy and a long one—around the center-post of the -corral where they were standing.</p> - -<p>As he finished, he heard someone singing; the voice -coming nearer and nearer. A man’s voice it was, -full and rich, caroling a love song, the sound mingling -with that of clattering hoofs.</p> - -<p>Lucas, stooping, picked up the riata belonging to -Nicolás. He was carefully re-coiling it when Guy -Metcalf, riding up to the enclosure, looked down into -the corral.</p> - -<p>“Hello, Lucas! ‘Going to have some fun with the -old roan,’ are you? Well, you’re the boy to ride -him. ‘Haven’t got the saddle on yet, hey?’ Hold -on a minute—— Soon as I tie, I’ll be with you!”</p> - -<p>Lucas had not spoken, neither had he raised his -head. He went to where little Topo was standing. -Shaking the noose into place by a turn or two of the -wrist, while the long loop dragged at his heels through -the dust, he put his foot in the stirrup and swung -himself into the saddle. He glanced at the gate—he -ran the noose out yet a little more. Then he -began to swing it slowly in easy, long sweeps above -his head while he waited.</p> - -<p>The gate opened and Metcalf came in. He turned -and carefully fastened the gate behind him. He was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span> -a third of the way across the corral when their -eyes met.</p> - -<p>Then—with its serpent hiss of warning—the circling -riata, snake-like, shot out, fastening its coils about -him. And Topo, the little cow-horse trained to such -work, wheeled at the touch of the spur as the turns -of the rope fastened themselves about the horn of -the saddle, and the man—furrowing the hoof-powdered -dust of the corral—was dragged to the heels of the -wild stallion. Lucas, glancing hastily at the face, -earth-scraped and smeared and the full lips that were -bleeding under their fringe of gold, saw that—though -insensible for a moment from the quick jerk -given the rope—the blue eyes of the man were opening. -Lucas swung himself out of the saddle—leaving -Topo to hold taut the riata. Then he began the -work of binding the doomed Americano. When he -had done, to the doubled rope of braided rawhide -that was about the roan stallion, he made Carmelita’s -lover fast with the riata he had taken from Nicolás. -He removed it slowly from the man’s neck (the -señor should not have his eyes closed too quickly to -the valley through which he would pass!) and he -put it about the body, under the arms. Lucas was -lingering now over his work like one engaged in -some pleasant occupation.</p> - -<p>The halter-rope was then unknotted, and the turns -unwound from the center-post. Next, he pulled the -crimson handkerchief from the horse’s eyes—shouted—and -shook his hat at him!</p> - -<p>Maddened, terrified, and with the dragging thing -at his heels, the four-footed fury fought man, and -earth, and air about him like the very demon that he -was till he came to the gate that Lucas had set wide -for him, and he saw again the waves of sage and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span> -sand hills (little waves of sweet-scented sage) that -rippled away to the mountains he knew. Out there -was liberty; out there was the free life of old; and -there he could get rid of the thing at his heels that—with -all his kicking, and rearing, and plunging—still -dragged at the end of the rope.</p> - -<p>Out through the wide set gate he passed, mad with -an awful rage, and as with the wings of the wind. -On, and on he swept; marking a trail through the -sand with his burden. Faster and faster, and growing -dim to the sight of the man who stood grim and -motionless at the gate of the corral. Away! away to -those far-lying mountains that are breakers on the -beach of blue skyland!</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/wastes.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">A SHEPHERD OF THE SILENT WASTES</h2> -</div> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/t.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">“TO be hung. To be hung by the neck -until dead.”</p> - -<p>Over and over I say it to myself as I -sit here in my room in the hotel, trying -to think connectedly of the events which -have led to the culmination of this awful -thing that, in so short a time, is to deprive me of life.</p> - -<p>At eleven o’clock I am to die; to go out of the -world of sunshine and azure seas, of hills and vales -of living green, of the sweet breath of wild flowers -and fruit bloom, of light and laughter and the music -of Life, to——what? Where? How far does the -Soul go? What follows that awful moment of final -dissolution?</p> - -<p>At eleven o’clock I shall know; for I must die. -There is no hope, no help; though my hand has never -been raised against mortal man or woman—never -have I taken a human life.</p> - -<p>At the stroke of the hour a great crowd will stand -in the prison yard, and gape at the scaffold, and see -the drop fall, and—fascinated and frowning—gaze -with straining eyes at the Thing dangling at the end -of a hempen rope. A Soul will go out into immeasurable -space. A purple mark on my throat will tell -the story of death by strangulation. Two bodies will -lie stark and dead tonight—his and mine. His will<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span> -be laid in the pine box that belongs to the dishonored -dead; while mine will be housed in rosewood, and -satin, and silver.</p> - -<p>You do not understand?</p> - -<p>Listen, let me tell you! Let me go back to the -first time we ever met—he and I.</p> - -<p>After college days were over, I left the Atlantic -coast and all that Life there meant to me, and came -out to the West of the sagebrush, and the whirlwinds, -and the little horned toads. And there in the wide -wastes where there is nothing but the immensity of -space and the everlasting quiet of the desert, I went -into business for myself. Business there? Oh, yes! -for out there where men go mad or die, cattle and -sheep may thrive. I, who loved Life and the association -of bright minds, and everything that such -companionship gives, invested all I had (and little -enough it was!) in a business of which I knew nothing, -except that those men who went there with a -determination to stick to the work till success should -find them, brought away bags full of gold—all they -could carry—as they came back into the world they -had known before their self-banishment.</p> - -<p>So I, too, went there, and bought hundreds of -sheep—bleating—blear-eyed, stupid creatures that -they are! I, essentially a man of cities and of people, -began a strange, new life there, becoming care-taker -of the flocks myself.</p> - -<p>A lonely life? Yes; but remember there was money -to be made in sheep-raising in the gray wastes; and -I was willing to forego, for a time, all that civilization -could give. So I dulled my recollections of the old -life and the things that were dear to me, and went -to work with a will in caring for the dusty, bleating, -aimlessly-moving sheep. I wanted to be rich. Not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span> -for the sake of riches, but to be independent of the -toil of bread-winning. I longed with all my soul to -have money, that I might gratify my old desires for -travel away to the far ends of the earth. All my -life I had dreamed of the day I was to turn my face -to those old lands far away, which would be new lands -to me. So I was glad to sacrifice myself for a few -years in the monstrous stillness of the gray plains -so that I might the sooner be free to go where I would.</p> - -<p>Friends tried to dissuade me from the isolated life. -They declared I was of a temperament that could -not stand the strain of the awful quiet there—the -eternal silence broken only by some lone coyote’s -yelp, or the always “Baa! Baa!” of the sheep. They -told me that men before my time had gone stark mad—that -I, too, would lose my mind. I laughed at them, -and went my way; yet, in truth, there was many a -day through the long years I lived there, when I -felt myself near to madness as I watched the slow-moving, -dust-powdered woolly backs go drifting -across the landscape as a gray fog drifts in from the -sea. It seemed the desert was the emptier by reason -of the sheep being there, for nothing else moved. -Never a sign of life but the sheep; never a sound but -the everlasting “Baa! Baa! Baa!” Oh! I tell you I was -very near to madness then, and many another man -in my place would have broken under the tension. -But not I. I was strong because I was growing rich. -I made money. I took it eastward to the sea, and -watched the ships go out. It was a fine thing to see -the great waste of waters move, as the desert waste -never had. There was the sea, and beyond lay far -lands! Still, I said to myself:</p> - -<p>“No; not yet will I go. I will wait yet a little -longer. I will wait until I hold so much gold in my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span> -hands that I need never return—need never again -look upon the desert and its ways.”</p> - -<p>So—though I watched the ships sail away to waiting -lands beyond—the time was not yet ripe for me -to go. Back to the money-making a little longer—back -for a while to the stupid, staring-eyed sheep—then -a final good-bye to the desert’s awful emptiness, -and that never-ceasing sound that is worse than silence—the -bleating of the flocks!</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>It was on one of these trips to the Atlantic coast -that I saw, for the first time, him of the Half-a-Soul.</p> - -<p>The hour was late afternoon of a hot mid-summer -day. The sun was red as blood and seemed quadrupled -in size where it hung on the horizon with its silent -warning of another terrible day on the morrow. -Block-pavements and cobbles radiated heat, and the -sidewalks burned my feet painfully as I stepped on -their scorching surfaces coming out of my friend -Burnham’s office. The hot air stifled me, and I flinched -at the dazzling light. Then I stepped in with the -throng, and in a moment more was part of the great -surging mass of heat-burdened humanity. Drifting -with the pulsating stream, I was for the time listlessly -indifferent to what might be coming except that I -longed for the night, and for darkness. It might not, -probably would not, bring any welcome cool breeze, -but at least in the shadows of the night there would -be a respite from the torturing white glare that was -now reflected from every sun-absorbing brick, or -square of granite or stone. I was drifting along the -great current of Broadway life when——</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>There was a sudden clutching at my heart—a tension -on the muscles that was an acute pain—a reeling<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span> -of the brain—and I found myself gazing eagerly into -two eyes that as eagerly gazed back into mine. Dark -eyes they were, smoldering with evil passions and the -light of all things that are bad. The eyes of a man -I had never known—had never seen; yet between -whom and myself I felt existed a kinship stronger -than any tie that my life had hitherto admitted. For -one instant I saw those strange black eyes, blazing -and baleful, the densely black hair worn rather long, -the silky mustache brushed up from the corners of -the mouth, the gleam of the sharp white teeth under -a lifted lip, the smooth heavy eyebrows slightly curving -upward at the outer edges, giving the face the -expression we give to the pictures we make of Satan. -These I saw. Then he was lost in the crowd.</p> - -<p>Where had I seen him before that these details -should all seem so familiar? I knew (and my blood -chilled as I confessed it to myself) that in all my life -I had never seen or known him in the way I had seen -and known others. And, more, I knew that we were -linked by some strange, unknown, unnamed, unnatural -tie. It was as though a hand gloved in steel had -clutched my heart in a strangling grip as he moved -past. I gasped for breath, staggered, caught myself, -and—staggering again—fell forward on the pavement.</p> - -<p>“Sunstroke,” they said. “Overcome by the heat.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>And then——</p> - -<p>Long afterward I saw him again.</p> - -<p>I was traveling in far lands. Going over from -Stamboul to Pera I stood on the Galata bridge watching -the great flood of living, pulsing human life—those -people of many races.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span>There was a fresh breeze from the North that day, -and it set dancing the caiques and barcas where they -threaded their way among the big ferry-boats and -ships of many strange sails, and all the craft of summer -seas. There was a sparkle on the Bosphorus -under the golden sunshine and a gleam on the Golden -Horn. A violet-hued haze hung over the wide expanse, -and through it one could see the repeated graces of -mosque and minaret, the Seven Towers and the -rounded whiteness of Santa Sophia. Higher, there -was the green of laurel and lime, of rose-tree and -shrubbery in profusion—terrace upon terrace—and -now and again darker shadows made by the foliage -of cypress or pine. All the morning I had reveled in -Nature’s great color scheme; had feasted eye and -sense on the amethyst, and emerald, and sapphire of -water, and sky and shore. And then I went to the -Galata bridge.</p> - -<p>There I stood and watched that medley of races -moving by. Arab and Ethiopian, Moslem and Jew; -the garb of modern European civilization, and the -flowing robes of the East; Kurds, Cossacks and Armenians; -the gaudy red fez and the white turban of the -Turk; dogs lean and sneaking-eyed; other eyes that -looked out from under the folds of a yashmak. And -always the babel of voices speaking many tongues. -Greeks and Albanians; the flowing mantle of Bedouins -and the Tartar in sheepskins. Ebbing and flowing—ebbing -and flowing, the restless human tide at the -great Gateway of the East.</p> - -<p>As I stood looking and listening, there came again -without warning that clutching at my heartstrings—that -sharp pain in my left side—that same dizzying -whirl of thoughts—that sickening fear of something -(I knew not what) which I could not control; and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span> -out of the flowing tide of faces I saw one not a -stranger—he whom I did not know. His eyes held -mine again; and in that moment something seemed -to tell me that he was my everlasting curse. Through -him would come things dread and evil; from him -there was no escape. I looked long—my eyes starting -in their sockets. I gasped—caught at the air—and -lost consciousness.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>When I recovered myself I was sitting in a little -café whither a young lad had assisted me. I gave him -a few piasters and told him to leave me. He took -them, said:</p> - -<p>“Pek eyi!” and went away.</p> - -<p>Left alone at the café table, after motioning the -attendant also away, I sat and pondered. Where -would this haunting dread end? The basilisk eyes -I so loathed had borne me a message which I could -not yet translate. Not yet. But he would pass me -again some day, and once more his eyes would speak -a message. What was it? Something evil, I knew. -But what?</p> - -<p>So I went away; went away from the Galata -bridge; away from Pera and Stamboul.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>And then——</p> - -<p>Then from the deck of a dahabeeyeh on the Nile!</p> - -<p>I was with the Burnhams. We were eight in the -party. Lucille Burnham (Joe’s sister) and I were -betrothed. Betrothed after months and months of -playing at love, and the making and unmaking of -lovers’ quarrels. Each had thought the other meant -nothing more than what makes for an idler’s pastime, -until drifting on the current of old Nilus we<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span> -read the true love in each other’s heart, and the story -(old as Egypt is old) was told over again there -where it was told centuries before by men and women -who loved in the land of the lotus.</p> - -<p>Joe and his wife, and the Merrills (brother and sister), -Colonel Lamar and his pretty daughter, and my -dear girl and I. What a happy, care-free party we -were! My most precious dreams were coming true; -and now I went up and down the earth’s highways -as I willed.</p> - -<p>Under the awning that day I was lying at Lucille’s -feet, half-asleep, half-awake and wholly happy. I -remember how, just there above Luxor, I noticed two -women on the river bank, the dull-blue dress of the -one, and the other carrying a water-skin to be filled. -A boy, naked and brown-skinned, sprawled in the -sand. Moving—slow moving with the current—we -came drifting out of that vast land that is old as -Time itself reckons age.</p> - -<p>Then between my vision and the banks beginning -the level which reached far and away to the hills -beyond, came the shadow of a lateen sail not our own. -A dahabeeyeh was slipping by, going against the current. -I raised myself on my elbow, and there—unfathomable, -dark as Erebus, and gazing out of deep -sockets—were the eyes of a man who drew me to -him with a power I was unable to resist; a power -fearful as——</p> - -<p>The thin, sneering lips seemed to whisper the word -“Brother!” and “Brother——” I whispered back.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The sight of that face under the shadow of the -lateen sail—like a shadow cast by a carrion bird -where it slowly moves above you in the desert—coming<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span> -as it did, in the midst of my days of love and -new-found joy, left me unnerved and wrecked both -mentally and physically.</p> - -<p>“Come, come! this won’t do,” said Joe; “I am afraid -you are going to have the fever!”</p> - -<p>“It is nothing,” I declared, shrinking from his -scrutiny, “I——I have these attacks sometimes.”</p> - -<p>“Who is he? What is he?” I asked myself the -question hourly. And there in the silence of those -nights under the stars of the East, while we breathed -the soft winds blowing across the sands the Pharaohs -had trod, the answer came to me:</p> - -<p>He was my other Half-Self—the twin half of my -own Soul. This brother of mine—this being for -whom I had a loathing deep and intense—was one in -whom there lived an incomplete Soul (a half that was -evil through and through) and mine was the other -half. I was beginning now to understand. We had -been sent into this world with but one Soul between -us; and to me had been apportioned the good. But -evil or good—good and evil—we were henceforth to -be inseparable in our fate.</p> - -<p>But always I cried out in my helpless, hopeless -agony, “Yet why—why—why?” It is the cry of the -Soul from the first day of creation.</p> - -<p>I turned my back on the far East, and set my face -towards America.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Then——</p> - -<p>Then I started on a trip through California and old -Mexico. My health was broken. My marriage with -Lucille was postponed.</p> - -<p>On the Nevada desert our train was side-tracked -early one morning to allow the passing of the eastbound<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span> -express which was late. A vast level plain -stretched its weary way in every direction. Only the -twin lines of steel and the dark-red section house -showed that the White Man’s footsteps had ever -found their way into the stillness of the dreary plains.</p> - -<p>We had fifteen minutes to wait. I got out with -others and walked up and down the wind-blown track, -smoking my cigar and spinning pebbles, which I picked -up from the road-bed, at a jack-rabbit in the sagebrush -across the way. The wind made a mournful -sound through the telegraph wires, but a wild canary -sang sweetly from the top of a tall greasewood—sang -as if to drown the wind’s dirge. Dull grays were -about us; and we were hemmed in by mountains -rugged, and rough, and dull gray, with here and -there touches of dull reds and browns. On their very -tops patches of snow lay, far—far up on the heights. -Miles down the valley we could see the coming train. -A few minutes later the conductor called to us “All -aboard!” and I swung myself up on the steps of the -last sleeping-car as we began to move slowly down -toward the western end of the switch.</p> - -<p>There was a roar and a clatter—a flash of faces at -the windows—a rush of wind and dust whirled up -by the whirling wheels—and, as the Eastern Express -shot by, I saw (on the rear platform of the last car) -him, between whom and myself a Soul was shared.</p> - -<p>The conductor stepped up on the platform where I -stood, and caught me by the arm as I reeled.</p> - -<p>“The high altitude,” he said, “makes a good many -folks get dizzy. You’d better go inside and sit -down.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Then again.</p> - -<p>On a ferry-boat crossing the bay from the Oakland<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span> -pier to San Francisco. I had just returned that -morning from a four-months’ tour of Mexico. It was -raining dismally, and everything about the shipping -on the bay was dripping and dreary. Gray-white sea -gulls circled and screamed; darting and dipping, they -followed our wake, or dropped down into the foam -churned up by the wheels. Winds—wet and salty, -and fresh from the sea—tugged at our mackintoshes; -and flapped the gowns and wraps of the women where—huddled -together away from the rail—we stood -under shelter. Sheets of flying fog—dense, dark and -forbidding—went by; gray ghosts of the ocean’s -uneasy dead. And back of the curtain of falling -waters and fog, whistles shrieked shrilly, and the fog -horns uttered their hideous sounds. Bellowing—moaning; -moaning—bellowing; suddenly still.</p> - -<p>The city seemed but an endless succession of terraced, -water-washed houses under an endless rain. -The storm lashed the waves in the harbor into running -ridges of foam, and on the billows the ferry-boat -(falling and rising, rising and falling) pushed her -way through gray skeleton-ships at anchor, and into -her slip at the wharf. The drivers of wagons and -trucks on the lower deck, wrapped in oilskins yellow -or black and all dripping with wet, drove down the -echoing planks. Then the people began to descend -the stairways. With my right hand steadying me, I -had taken three downward steps when the gripping at -my heart told me who was passing at my left (always -at the left, it had been; at the left, always) and he of -the smoldering eyes that burned into mine like live -embers passed me quickly, and went on down the -stairway and into the rain-wetted crowd.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>And again——</p> - -<p>It happened when, with a guide and some Club<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span> -friends, we went through the Chinatown slums of -the city.</p> - -<p>It was Saturday night; the night of all others for -hovels and evil haunts to disgorge their hives of human -bees to swarm through passage and alley, or up and -down the dark and wretched stairways.</p> - -<p>We had begun at the Joss Houses—gaudy with tinsel, -and close and choking from the incense of burning -tapers. We had gone to restaurant and theater. -At the one, going in through the back way and on -through their cooking rooms where they were preparing -strange and repulsive looking food; at the -other, using the stage entrance and going on the -stage with the players. Into opium joints our guide -led the way, where the smokers in their utter degradation -lay like the dead, as the drug carried the dreamers -into a land of untranslatable dreams. We had looked -at the pelf in the pawn-shops, and at the painted -faces of Chinese courtesans looking out through their -lattices.</p> - -<p>Then underground we had gone down (three -stories) and had seen places and beings hideous in -their loathesomeness; loathesome beyond description. -To the “Dog Kennel.” Up to earth’s surface again; -to “The Rag Picker’s Paradise.” Through “Cum -Cook Alley”—through “Ross Alley,” where within a -few feet, within a few years, murder after murder -had been committed, and (the murderers escaping -through the network of secret passageways and hidden -doors) the deaths had gone unavenged. Through -the haunts of highbinders, and thugs and assassins -we moved; and once I passed a little child—a half-caste—toddling -through the alley that was reeking -with filth. “Look out, Baby!” I said, as he stumbled<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span> -and fell. “Look out, Man!” he answered in English, -and laughed.</p> - - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/p079.jpg" alt="" /></div> -<p class="caption">“Again the sirocco passed.”—Page <a href="#Page_79">79</a></p> - -<p>Then, somewhere between high walls that reached -to the open air, I found myself alone—left behind -by the others. I could see the guide’s light burning—a -tiny red spark—far ahead in the darkness, but -my own candle had gone out. Away up in the narrow -slit showing the sky, shone the cold, still stars. -Under my feet crunched clinkers and cinders wet -with a little stream from some sewer running over -the ground.</p> - -<p>Then in the dark wall a door opened, and as the -light from within lit up the inky blackness without -I saw him again. Again the sirocco passed, burning—scorching -the life-blood in my veins.</p> - -<p>They came back and found me lying in the wet of -the noisome alley. For weeks, in the hotel, I lay ill; -then, as soon as I was able to walk unassisted, I took -passage for Japan, intending to extend my trip to -Suez, and through Europe, on home. I said to myself -that I would never again set foot in San Francisco. -I feared that horrible something, the power -of which seemed stronger over me there than elsewhere. -Six times we had met and passed. I shrank -from the seventh. Each time that we had come face -to face—met—passed—drifted apart, I heard a voice -saying that my life was being daily drawn closer and -closer into his, to be a part of the warp and woof of -his own. And the end? It would be——when? -Where? In what way? What would be that final -meeting of ours? How far off was it? What would -that fatal seventh meeting mean for us both?</p> - -<p>I fled from the city as one does from the touch of -a leper. I dared not stay.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span>But the third day out on the ocean there suddenly -came over me a knowledge that a greater force than -my own will would compel me to return. Something -bade me go back. I fought with it; I battled -with the dread influence the rest of the voyage. It -was useless. I was a passenger on the ship when it -returned to San Francisco. There I found the whole -city talking and horrified, over a murder hideous, -foul, revolting. Carmen de la Guerra, a young -Spanish woman, had been brutally murdered—butchered -by her lover. I was sick—chilled, when I -heard. A foreboding of the truth came to me as I -listened. I feverishly read the papers; they told of -the tragedy in all its frightful details. I went to the -public libraries for the back files. Then I went to -the jail to look at the face of the fiend who had killed -her. I knew whom I should see behind the bars. It -was he. And it was the seventh meeting.</p> - -<p>His eyes bade me go and get him release.</p> - -<p>“Go!” they said, “Call to your aid all the angels -of your heaven, and the help of the demons who are -one with me in hell, that you may save me from the -gallows. My Soul is your Soul; if I die, you also -must die with me. Keep the rope from me; for you -are fighting for your own life. Go!”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>I went out of the chill jail corridors a madman. I -raved against the hellish destiny. What use? I must -save him, or I must die with him. No one understood. -I told no one my secret. Early and late; day and -night I worked unceasingly to get him pardoned. -God! how I worked to save him. I tried every conceivable -means to secure him his life. I exhausted -all methods known to the law. I spent money as a -mill-wheel runs water.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span>“You believe him innocent?—this fiend!” my -friends cried aghast—amazed at my mad eagerness -to get him acquittal.</p> - -<p>“No! not that!” I answered in my agony, “but he -must not die—shall not hang! Shall not! Do you -hear? Innocent or guilty—what do I care? Only he -must live, that I shall not die.”</p> - -<p>But no one understood.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>It has been in vain. At eleven o’clock he is to -be hung. The death-watch is with him. And the -death-watch is here, too, with me. Two are here; and -the name of one is Horror, and the other’s name is -Fear. Down below I hear the rattle of traffic on the -streets, and in the hotel corridors I hear the voices -of people talking—just now I heard one laugh. They -do not know. And Lucille—— Ah, my poor -Lucille!</p> - -<p>The tide of life is running out, and the end is -drawing nigh. I have come to find at last that evil -is always stronger than good; and in that way he -draws me after him. I cannot hold the half of his -Soul back. Closer and closer together we come. A -Divided Soul—his and mine. His body has housed -the evil half—mine the good. His is all that is vile, -and bestial, and bloodthirsty; mine has always striven -after the best. Yet because of his sin I, too, must die.</p> - -<p>At the hour of eleven he will hang for the murder -of Carmen de la Guerra. At eleven I, too, must die. -As the sheriff cuts the rope, and the evil Divided Soul -swings out eternity-ward from the body which has -housed it evilly, so will I die at that instant—death by -strangulation. For a Divided Soul may not live when -its twin is gone. Death. And then one body in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span> -rosewood casket, and one in its box of pine.</p> - -<p>At eleven——</p> - -<p>“Baa! Baa!” I hear the sheep—— No; it is—— -What is it? I cannot see—— Something is being -pressed down over my eyes, shutting out the light. -My arms—my feet are being tied—I cannot move. -Help! Something is closing on my neck—I cannot -breathe. It is tightening—choking—— I hear the -bleating of the sheep—— God! God! I am strangling! -The rope—— It is the rope—and Death.</p> - -<p>May God have mercy on my Soul!</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/bluff.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">BY THE OIL SEEP UNDER THE BLUFF</h2> -</div> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/j.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap">JON LANDIS turned the bit of black rock -over and over in his hand as he held it -under the searching Nevada sunlight. -The lids of his light blue eyes narrowed as -he looked, and he chewed nervously at -the corner of his long upper lip under its -cropped reddish mustache. Finally, as though wholly -satisfied with the close scrutiny he had given it, he -nodded his head slowly.</p> - -<p>“You think he good? All same like that other -kin’ you show um me?”</p> - -<p>The young Paiute was peering into his palm, too.</p> - -<p>“I guess so, Nick,” answered Landis; “Anyway, -you no tell um ’nother man ’bout this. Savvy?”</p> - -<p>The Paiute nodded. It was evident that he -“savvied.” He had shown Landis a copper ledge off -in the mountains, two years before, and Landis had -given him a hundred dollars. It was Indian Nick’s -opinion that Landis was “heap pretty good man;” and -he now recognized the value of silence until such a -time as Landis would let him speak. Other white men -had, before this, got him to show them prospects upon -promises, and—without an exception—had cheated -him out of his due. But Jon Landis was different. -This big, quiet man who talked but little, and never -laughed at all—him he would be “partner” with, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span> -show him the place down by the river where the -black rock sample came from, and the bluffs where—underneath—a -queer little spring (that wasn’t water) -oozed forth, and lost itself a dozen feet away in the -muddy current of the greater stream.</p> - -<p>Indian Nick didn’t know what that stream—a very, -very little stream—was; and he didn’t care to know. -Indians as a rule are not inquisitive. He only knew -it looked “heap greasy;” and if the black rock on -the sandy mesa above was like the piece that Landis -showed him, saying it was from California—then -Nick was to have another hundred dollars.</p> - -<p>Now that Landis had “guessed” that the rock -sample was the same sort, Nick (seeing a hundred -dollars easily earned) looked furtively about him as -they stood on the railroad track—where the section -house and the freight house were sole evidence of a -station—to discover if they had been observed talking -together. For even a Paiute knows that precaution -may prevent a secret from being suspected. -No, no one had seen them together. The section foreman -was out on the road with his men, and the -telegraph operator had not come out of his office in -the freight house since he had reported the train that -had just brought Landis back to Nevada. No one -from the town (as the mining camp up in the foothills -was called) had come down to the station that -day. The Indian was satisfied; no one would guess -that he and Landis were “partners.”</p> - -<p>“You come now; I show you that place. He not far—can -walk.”</p> - -<p>“How far?”</p> - -<p>“Maybe two mile, I think. You see. You come -now?”</p> - -<p>Landis deliberated. Presently he asked:</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span>“You got a shovel, Nick? Got a pick at your -wick-i-up?”</p> - -<p>“I got um ol’ one—not much good.”</p> - -<p>“Well, never mind; they’ll do for today. You go -get ’em, and trot on ahead. Where is it?”</p> - -<p>Nick pointed in the direction of the river bluffs; -and when Landis had reached the mesa the Paiute—with -pick and shovel—was already there.</p> - -<p>“The ol’ man—my father—asked um me where I -go. I no tell um. He ask what for I take pick—take -um shovel—what I do. I no say nothin’.”</p> - -<p>“That’s right, Nick! Don’t tell anybody. By an’ -by, when I get the business all fixed, then we’ll talk. -Savvy?”</p> - -<p>And again Nick “savvied.”</p> - -<p>All about them was the black rock from which Nick -had got the sample. Not much of it, but enough to -demonstrate the value of what it indicated. It was -undoubtedly asphaltum; the indication for oil was -good—more than good. Landis was interested. The -Paiute was moving off through the stunted greasewood -to the bluffs near the river edge, and Landis followed.</p> - -<p>The face of the bluffs—eroded and uneven—rose -high above the river level; leaving but a narrow footway -between their base and the stream, here at this -point. Across by the other bank, was a growth of -rabbit-wood and sage. A twisted, leafless buck-bush -stood lonely and alone at the rim of a dry slough. The -carcass of a dead horse—victim of some horse-hide -hunter—furnished a gruesome feast for a half dozen -magpies that fluttered chattering away as the two -figures appeared on the top of the bluffs; and a coyote -that had been the magpies’ companion, slipped away -into the thicket of rabbit-wood. The river was deep -here, and dirty with the debris brought down by its<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span> -rising waters. Froth, and broken twigs, and sticks -swirled around in the eddies. To Landis, there was -something unspeakably depressing about the place, -though he was well used to the country in all its -phases. Its very stillness seemed today to weigh on -him.</p> - -<p>The two men began the descent; the Indian slipping -quickly down the face of the bluffs, and Landis -clambering after.</p> - -<p>There—at the foot—in a gully so narrow it would -escape any but the keenest eye, a tiny, slow-moving, -dark thread of a stream oozed from beneath the -bluffs of clay, and following the bottom of the narrow -cut that ran at right angles to the river—slipped -down into the roily waters that bore it away. Landis -squatted down by it for closer inspection. He rubbed -it between his fingers. He smelt of it. Yes, it was oil!</p> - -<p>“All right, Nick! You’ll get your hundred dollars!”</p> - -<p>Nick grinned delightedly; but the face of Landis—from -the high cheek bones down to the square set -jaws that were burned as red as the skin of an Indian -is supposed to be—was a mask of immobility. This -find meant many thousands of dollars to him, but he -only said:</p> - -<p>“Here, boy! Pitch in now, and dig out under that -bank!” as he pointed out a part of the bluff at the -very edge of the gully. And Nick—strong, and young, -and keen as himself to know how much of the -“greasy” stream was dammed up behind the bluffs -that the pick could disclose, swung it with strong -strokes that ate into the clay in a way that did Landis -good to see.</p> - -<p>He had been working but a short time when the -pick point caught into something other than lumps of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span> -clay; caught at it—clawed at it—and then dragged -out (one—two—half a dozen) bones stripped of all -flesh.</p> - -<p>Nick stopped.</p> - -<p>“What are you stopping for?” Landis asked sharply. -“Go on! It’s only some horse or a cow that’s died -here.” But already he himself had seen the thigh -bone of a human being. Nick hesitated; still staring -at what lay there.</p> - -<p>“Damn you, go on! What’s the matter with you?”</p> - -<p>The steady strokes recommenced. Little by little -there was uncovered and dragged out the skeleton -of someone Who Once Was. Nick looked sullen and -strange, but he did not falter. He worked steadily -on until they lay—an indistinguishable heap—beside -the narrow gully. Landis said nothing, and the pick -strokes ate farther and farther into the bank.</p> - -<p>Suddenly there was a terrible sound—half a -shriek and half a gurgle that died away in the throat—which -startled them; and swinging around, Landis -saw an old Indian tottering along the narrow ledge -that bordered the river there. He was stumbling and -blindly staggering toward them, waving his arms -above his head as he came. A bareheaded, vilely -dirty and ragged old man—how old no one might be -able to say. As his bleared eyes found the skeleton -heap, he shrieked forth in the Indian tongue something -(though Landis knew no word of what he -might say) that sent a chill over him of prescient -knowledge of what was to come. He turned his back -on the old man, and addressed himself to Nick.</p> - -<p>“What does he say?”</p> - -<p>The younger Paiute looked old and gray with a -horror that Landis refused to translate.</p> - -<p>“My father——”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span>“Yes, I know. Your father. What does he say?”</p> - -<p>“My father——” Nick’s words came slowly, -“He say——them——bones——”</p> - -<p>“For God’s sake, what? Why don’t you say what? -Can’t you talk?”</p> - -<p>“Them,” Nick’s teeth were chattering now, “my——my——mother.”</p> - -<p>Landis caught his breath. Then a stinging pain -shot through his left arm, and something fell to the -ground. He swung around in time to see the old -Paiute, with another stone in his raised hand, his face -distorted with hate and fury.</p> - -<p>“Quit that!” Landis yelled, and strode toward him. -But the old man’s fury was now turned to fear as -he saw this white giant bearing down on him, and the -stone fell short of its mark. He started to flee before -the strength he feared, but the narrow ledge that lay -between the river and the bluff would have been but -insecure foothold for steadier steps than his. He -tripped—reeled—and then with a cry that Landis will -remember so long as he lives—he went backward; and -down into the muddy river the eddies sucked him—down -and down—and so out of sight.</p> - -<p>Then Jon Landis fought with the one who, with -raised pick, stood ready to avenge the death of his -father, and the desecration of his other dead. The -struggle was not long, but they fought as men do -who know that but one man shall live when the combat -be done. Twice the pick descending almost struck -the bared head of the white man; thrice his adversary -forced him to the very water’s edge. Landis knew he -was fighting for his life, and he watched his opportunity. -It came. Eluding that rain of death-meant -blows, he caught the Indian close to him, and with a -quick movement flung the pick far out into the river.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span> -Then they clinched in the final struggle for life that -to the white man or the brown man is equally dear. -Back and forth, swaying and bending, the hot breath -of each in the other’s face, they moved over the narrow -confine. It was not for long; for—with one mighty -final effort—Landis wrenched himself loose, caught at -the other, shoved—flung him off, and it was over. Jon -Landis stood there alone.</p> - -<p>The fleshless skull grinned out at him from the -heap of bones. Landis shivered; he felt cold. Overhead, -clouds like swansdown were beautiful against -the sapphire blue of the afternoon sky. A soft wind -blowing down the valley brought him the sound of a -locomotive’s whistle; and the breeze was sweet with -the breath of spring flowers growing upon the banks, -away from the bluffs. A little brown bird began to -warble from the buck-brush across the river.</p> - -<p>It must have been five minutes that Landis stood -there without moving. Then he picked up the shovel -and walked over to the Indian woman’s bones. It -did not take him long to dump them into the little -gully where the oil ran, and to cover them over with -loose earth from the place she had lain for thirty -years. Afterward, he scraped the earth about with -the broken shovel, to destroy all footprints. Then he -dropped it into the stream. He would never come -here again; and now there was no evidence that he -had ever been there.</p> - -<p>Then he climbed the bluffs. Nor did he look back as -he walked rapidly away.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/chief.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">THE BLUE-EYED CHIEF</h2> -</div> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">IT sounds a bit melodramatic, in these -days of “Carlisle” education for the -Indian, and with “Lo” himself on the -lecture platform, to tell of a band of one -time hostile red men having a white chief—once -a captive—who so learned to love -his captivity that when freedom was to be had for the -taking, he refused it, and still lives among them, -voluntarily. Contentedly—happily? Who knows? -He says so; and with no proof to the contrary we must -needs believe him.</p> - -<p>Once in every three years he leaves his home among -the mountains of eastern Oregon, and goes for a week -to San Francisco by the sea. Once in every three -years he may be seen there on the streets, in the parks, -at the theaters, on the beach, at the Cliff or the -Heights, as strangers are seen daily, and with nothing -about him to mark him in any wise different from a -thousand others. You might pass him dozens of times -without particularly observing him, save that he is -always accompanied by a woman so evidently of a -different world than that which he has known, that -your attention is at once arrested, and your curiosity -is whetted to know the story—for story there is, you -are sure. And what a story! One does not have to -go to fiction for tales of the marvelous; and these -two—he, roughened, bearded and browned, clothed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span> -as the average American laborer taking a holiday; -she, with the bearing of a gentlewoman, and dressed -as they do who have found the treasure-trove that -lies at the end of the rainbow—these two have a tragic -story, all their own, that few know. It is this:</p> - -<p>Back in those far days when the Pacific Railroad -was undreamed of—before we had so much as ever -guessed there might in reality be a stage line between -the Missouri and the Sacramento—one noon the -wheels of an emigrant wagon were moving down a -wide Nevada valley, where the sage gray of the short -greasewood was the only thing remotely green; moving -so slowly that they seemed not to move at all. -It was a family from one of the States of our Middle -West, going to California. The man walked beside -the slow-moving wagon. Sometimes some of the -children walked, too. The woman rode and held in -her arms a wee boy whose own arms fought and -sturdy legs struggled often to walk with the others—a -blue-eyed boy, bonny and beautiful.</p> - -<p>Days and days of unblinking sunshine; and always -the awful stillness of the plains. There had been -weeks of it; and this day when they came down the -broad wash that was the drain from the bordering -mountain range, a thick heat lay on the land, making -welcome the promised noon rest where the greasewood -grew tall. All down the length of the now dry -wash the brush was more than shoulder high—annually -wetted as it was by the full spring creek.</p> - -<p>When the greasewood grows so high it may easily -hide a foe.</p> - -<p>The wagon bumped and ground its wheels over the -stones of the road here in the wash toward the row of -tall greasewood, a dozen yards away. Over there -they would halt for a noon rest. Over there they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span> -would eat their noon meal—drink from their scanty -water supply—and then resume the dreary journey.</p> - -<p>This day was just such an one as all their other -desert days had been; the place seemed to them not -different in any way from the other miles of endless -monotony. As they neared the high brush, one of the -children—a fair-haired girl of eight—picking up a -bright pebble from the road, held it up that her father -might see. The other children walking beside the -wagon picked up pebbles, too—pebbles red, and purple, -and green, that had come down the bed of the creek -when the flood came. In the wagon the woman sat -holding the blue-eyed boy in her arms.</p> - -<p>Then——</p> - -<p>There was a swift, singing sound in the air, and -one of the oxen staggered—bellowed—fell!</p> - -<p>The sound of an arrow boring the air isn’t quite like -anything else one may ever hear; and the man knew—before -he heard the big steer’s roar of pain—that the -thing he had feared (but had at last come to believe -he had no cause to fear, when weeks passed and it -had not happened) had finally come to them.</p> - -<p>Dashing out from the greasewood cover, the Indians—half -naked and wholly devilish—made quick work -of their victims. They did not dally in what they had -to do. Back on the plains another wagon—two, -three, four, a train!—was coming; they did not dare -to stay to meet such numbers. They struck only -when sure of their strength. Now they were two to -one—nay, ten men to one man! And he, that man, -went down with a wife’s shrieks and the screaming -of children’s voices in his ears.</p> - -<p>It was the old story of early times and emigrants on -the plains. You have heard it time and again.</p> - -<p>After the arrow, the knife; and bloody corpses left<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span> -by a burning wagon. Things done to turn sick with -horror the next lone wayfarers who should reach this -gruesome spot. Human flesh and bone for the vultures -of the air and the wolves of the desert to feed -upon, till—taken from their preying talon and tooth—they -might be laid in the shallow graves hollowed by -the roadside.</p> - -<p>Yet one was spared. The wee bonny laddie wrested -from the clinging arms of a dying mother, was held -apart to witness a butchery that strained the childish -eyes with terror. He lived, but never was he to forget -the awful scene of that hour in the desert. And when -the brutal work was over, savage arms bore him away -to their homes on the heights of near mountains gashed -by many a cañon.</p> - -<p>There, for years upon years—growing from babyhood -to boyhood—from boyhood to youth—he lived -among them; and so became as one of their tribe. -They were a small tribe—these—of renegade Bannocks; -shifting their camps further and further into -the North, and away from the White Man’s approach -as civilization began to force them back. Northward; -and at last into Oregon.</p> - -<p>The sturdy little frame remained sturdy. Some -children there are who persist in thriving under the -most adverse conditions. And he was one of these. -Yet, it must be admitted, his captors were kind; for -the Indian—savage though he may be—deals gently, -always, with his children; and this boy had become -to them as their own.</p> - -<p>The baby words of the White Man’s tongue were -soon forgotten, and Indian gutterals took their place. -The little feet were moccasined with deerskin, and -the round cheeks daubed with paint. The little body -was kept warm in a rabbitskin robe. Their food was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span> -his food—grass seeds ground into paste, and game; -and his friends were themselves. To all intents and -purposes he had become an Indian.</p> - -<p>When, at length, he reached early manhood he took -to himself an Indian bride. Then the tribe made -him their chief.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Mines in the mountains had brought an army of -prospectors into the once wild country. The mines -prospered, and camps—permanent ones—multiplied. -The Red Men saw their enemy growing in numbers -beyond their strength to battle, so the depredations -became fewer and fewer, and finally ceased altogether. -“Lo” is something of a philosopher, and he generally -accepts defeat with a better grace than his white -brother. These knew they were beaten, so they were -willing to accept peace; and began to mix, by degrees, -with the Whites. They adopted the White Man’s -dress—some learned his speech. The blue-eyed chief, -too, whose position among them was never quite clear -to the miners, again learned the language that seemed -as one he had never known.</p> - -<p>It was a long time before he came to realize that -his chains of captivity had dropped away—rusted -apart by time and circumstances—and that he might -now, if he so chose, go back to the people of his own -blood. He thought of it dully, indifferently, at first—then -deeply. The way was open for him! He could -go! But he came to know that down in the depths -of his heart an affection had grown up for these people -who had made him their own, that no other people -could lay claim to, ever. That for all the days of his -life his lot was here.</p> - -<p>The awful events of that long gone day in the desert -were too deeply branded into his recollection ever to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span> -be forgotten (young child though he was at the time); -but the years had dimmed its horrors, and the associations -of a lifetime had dulled his sensibilities.</p> - -<p>No! he would remain among them. As he had been, -he would still be—one of them. He had lost all desire -to go. How many years had come and gone since the -longing for liberty left him? He could not remember. -This was his home—these were his people—he would -stay.</p> - -<p>And there he is today. There, a dozen years ago, a -San Franciscan, drawn by the mines, found him; and -during a summer’s companionship, gaining his confidence, -learned from his lips his story.</p> - -<p>Months later, this thrice strange tale served to -entertain half a score of people who met together in -his parlors on his return. They gathered around the -story teller—close listeners—intent on every syllable; -but one there was who went white as she heard. And -when she could see him apart and unnoted, she said:</p> - -<p>“He is my brother! I saw them take him away. I -was hid behind a greasewood bush—I do not know how -they overlooked me. I saw it all—everything! Then, -those in an emigrant train behind ours, came and took -me with them. I was a little child then—only eight; -and he—my brother—was younger. I thought they -had taken him away and killed him—I never guessed -he lived. I know—I am sure this is he. Tell me all -you can; for I must go and find him.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>What that meeting was, no one can say. She found -him there surrounded by those who were his nearest -and dearest—a brown-skinned wife and little bronze -bairns—his! She stood face to face with him—she -clasped hands with him; yet a lifetime and all the -world lay between. Children of the loins of one<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[96]</span> -father—born of the same mother—these two had nothing -in common between them—nothing—save the -yearning for a something that was always to lie just -beyond.</p> - -<p>He yielded to her persuasions and went home -with her to see the city by the sea of which he -had heard much, but knew nothing. It was a visit of -but a few days; yet in that time no hour struck for -each alike. Try as each would for a feeling of kinship, -the other was ever a stranger.</p> - -<p>She showed him the sights of the city, but he was -more and more bewildered by what he saw. At the beach -it was better; he seemed to understand the ocean best, -though seeing it for the first time. She sought to -awaken in him an interest in the things of her world. -And to his credit be it said, he honestly tried to respond -in the way she would have him.</p> - -<p>But up and away to the Northeast was all he had interest -in or heart for; and so at the end of a week he -went back. Going, he pledged himself to come to her -every third year for a week’s stay; for “blood is -thicker than water,” and though they might never -strike the same chord, yet, after all, she was his sister.</p> - -<p>The years wax and wane. Every third one brings -in fulfillment of the promise, the very commonplace-looking -brother who is something of a mystery to her -metropolitan friends. Time has brought brother and -sister a little more closely together, but it will never -bridge the chasm. Always there is a restraint, a reserve, -which comes from a common knowledge that -there are things in his past life he may not tell—yet, -which she guesses with an unspoken, unnamed fear.</p> - -<p>Once (when the bronze-brown woman was dead), he -tried to accept civilized life as a finality. The month<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span> -had not rounded out to fullness when each saw the -futility of the attempt.</p> - -<p>Back on the rough Oregon mountains were sons -and daughters, “flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone,” -brown-skinned though they were; and he turned his -back on the White Man and his unfamiliar ways, and -set his face toward those whom he knew best and -loved.</p> - -<p>Somehow, you like and respect the man for going, -as you couldn’t had he stayed.</p> - -<p>The story reads like fiction, doesn’t it? But the pity -of it is that it is true.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/one.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">ACCORDING TO ONE’S STANDPOINT</h2> -</div> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/t.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap">THERE were three people in the group on -the station platform at Humboldt. The -two who were standing were a white -man and a white woman.</p> - -<p>The man was tall, with breadth in his -shoulders, five-and-thirty, and rather -good looking. His dress evidenced prosperity, and -his manner betokened long residence in a city—one -of the cities east of the Mississippi.</p> - -<p>The woman also was tall; and graceful, and very -pretty, and not over twenty-five years of age. She was, -without doubt, a bride, and—equally without doubt—a -fit mate for the man. She carried her chin high (a -trick common to those wearing eye-glasses) and moved -with an air of being quite sure of her social position. -She was inconspicuously dressed, but her gown, when -she walked, rustled in the way that speaks of silken -linings. She looked like a woman whose boots were -always made to order, and who, each night, had an -hour spent upon brushing her hair.</p> - -<p>The third person in the group was an Indian. A -Paiute fifty years old, but who looked twenty years -older. Old George. His little withered brown face -was puckered into a whimsical smile as with head -aslant he looked up from where he sat on the bench -that was built round a tree-box. This was his frequent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span> -seat when the trains came in, and here he came -daily to answer the inquisitive questions of people who -deem themselves well bred.</p> - -<p>He was old, and much dirtier than even the others -of his race. But he afforded entertainment for the -travelers whose pleasure it was to put questions.</p> - -<p>“Yep, me old. ‘Forty?’ I guess so. ‘One hundred?’ -Maybe so; I no know.” He chuckled. It was the -same thing over and over again that they—on the -trains—asked him every day. Not a whit cared he -what they asked, nor was it worth while telling the -truth. When they asked he answered; saying the -things they wanted to hear. And sometimes they -gave him nickels. That was all there was about it.</p> - -<p>“Where did he live?” “What did he eat?” “Did -he work?” his inquisitors queried. “Was he married?” -and “Had he any children?” “Had he ever -killed any white men?” Then they would note his -maimed, misshapen limbs. “How long ago had his -leg been broken?” “In what way had he crippled his -hands?” But to all there were the same replies:</p> - -<p>“I no know. Maybe so. I guess so.”</p> - -<p>What did it matter? They were satisfied. And -meddlers they were. Yet——generally he got the -waited-for nickel.</p> - -<p>So today he answered even as they questioned. Then -the woman (pretty, and with an unmistakable air of -good breeding) nodded and said: “Good-by!” and the -man (well-mannered, well-groomed and self-complacent) -gave him a silver quarter as he went back to -the “Pullman.”</p> - -<p>“Henry, dear,” she asked, after they had settled -themselves comfortably again in their compartment -of the sleeping-car, “how do such creatures exist?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span> -Do they work, or only sit idly in the sun waiting for -someone to give them one or two nickels?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, he is a confirmed beggar, one can see! They -never work—these Paiutes. Mere animals are they, -eating, drinking and sleeping as animals,” her husband -replied. “So degenerate have they become since the -days when they were a wild tribe and warriors that -they go through life now in docile stupidity, without -anything rousing them to what we would call a live -interest in their surroundings. I doubt very much if, -in the life of any one of them, there ever occurs any -stirring event. Perhaps it is just as well, for at least -it gives them a peaceful old age, and they can have -no harassing recollections.”</p> - -<p>“And no happy ones, either,” the woman said. -“Think what it must be to live out one’s allotted time -of physical existence without ever experiencing the -faintest romance—without even a gleam of what love -means! I presume that the sense of attachment is -unknown to them; such affection as——”</p> - -<p>“As ours?” he interrupted laughingly. “Well, rather -unknown I should say.”</p> - -<p>The man looked with fond eyes into the eyes of the -woman; then, as the train pulled out of the station, -they saw the old Indian limping away toward his camp.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Are the individual histories of Indians—even Paiutes—even -the “degenerate tribes”—uneventful or -wholly devoid of human interest? Let us see.</p> - -<p>Old George can tell you a different story, it may be. -From his point of view there is perhaps love; perhaps -even romance. Much depends upon the standpoint one -takes. The hills that look high from the valley, seem -low looking down from the mountain.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span>When I first knew George (he was “Young George” -then), he was married and had children. Four; two -boys and two girls. More than other Indians, he -aped the Whites in their ways, and was reckoned (for -a Paiute) a decent fellow. His camp was the best, his -food the most plentiful, and his children the best kept -and cleanest. The mother sewed well, and neither she -nor the children ever went ragged. Among Indians -they were as the hard-working, temperate laborer’s -family is among the white men who work—work with -their hands for a living.</p> - -<p>George had money laid by—joint earnings of his -own and of Susan, his wife. He worked at the settlers’ -wood-piles in winter, chopping wood; and in -summer he worked in the hay fields. She washed and -ironed for the white families. Wage was high in -those days, and George and Susan prospered. That was -a contented little camp built there in the tall sagebrush, -and they were happy as needs be.</p> - -<p>And then——</p> - -<p>There happened that which is not always confined -to the camp of the red man. It was the old story— -another woman. Well, has not the world seen such -things before? There are women—even those without -the dower of beauty—of whose strange power no explanation -can be given save that they can, and do, -“charm men.” And in no less measure was this -brown-skinned woman a charmer. She had already -parted more than one husband and wife—had destroyed -the peace and quiet of more than one home, when she -and George stood where the ways met.</p> - -<p>If this had happened some three thousand years -ago, and she had lived on the banks of the Nile, and if -you were a poet, or a recorder of history, no doubt you -would have written her down a siren—a dark-eyed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[102]</span> -charmer of men—a sorceress of Egypt; but she lived on -the Humboldt river instead, and all this happened -within the last four decades, and she was only a squaw -of one of our North American tribes. Neither was she -a pretty squaw judged by our cañons of beauty. Yet -are not such things matters of geography governed by -traditions? And when a man is bewitched by a -man, brown-skinned or white, he is very apt to see -charms where another cannot discover them.</p> - -<p>Sophy, the siren, came into the camp, and with her -coming fled peace. Poor Susan, unloved and deserted, -sat apart and cried her heart out—as many a white -woman has done before her, and since—when powerless -to prevent, or right the wrong that was done her. -So, bewitched and befooled, George gave himself up -to the madness that was his undoing. The money which -had been laid by went like water held in the hand. -The camp was neglected; the stores were wasted. The -children, from whom the mother had been banished, -went ragged and oftentimes hungry.</p> - -<p>It took George a long time to awake from his delirium, -but he did awaken finally—after many months. -All things come—some day—to the writing of “finis.” -And no joy falls so soon and so completely as the joy -built on an unsound foundation. One day George -came to his senses. Then he cast the woman out; cast -her out, and forever. He brought back to his home the -mother of his children, and she foregave him. Well, -what would you?—she was his wife, and a woman forgives -much for the sake of the children she has held -to her breast. So the camp was made tidy again and -the children cared for as of old, and there were new -stores gathered, and money was again saved.</p> - -<p>Now George—being an Indian, being a Paiute—had -never heard of Colley Cibber, else he might have been<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[103]</span> -reminded that “we shall find no fiend in hell can match -the fury of a disappointed woman—scorned! slighted! -dismissed without a parting pang.” Neither did George—being -a Paiute Indian—know the meaning of the -word “Nemesis.”</p> - -<p>That was more than twenty years ago; and for more -than twenty years the woman, Sophy, made his life -a series of persecutions. If he builded aught at the -camp, it was torn down; what he raised in his garden -was destroyed; what he bought, was quickly broken. -Horses were driven far astray; and his favorite dogs -were poisoned. Then, when she had exhausted all -her ingenuity in these and a hundred other ways of -making his life a torment, she turned her wiles on -Doctor Jim, one of the great medicine men of the tribe, -married to Susan’s mother, and an inmate of George’s -camp. Doctor Jim’s long residence in the house had -given to George a certain enviable status among the -Indians, and this prestige the woman now meant to -destroy. On Doctor Jim were bestowed her blandishments, -and—like George before him—he was fain to -follow whither she led. With the medicine man’s -going, departed the glory of the house. And it left, -in the person of the deserted wife, another mouth for -George to feed; while at the same time the assisting -support which Doctor Jim had given the household was -taken away.</p> - -<p>Troubles came thick and fast to Old George. He -had begun to be called “Old” George now. One day -while he was handling a cartridge it accidentally exploded -and tore away part of his hand. This hampered -him in what work he got to do; and sometimes because -of it he was refused employment. Then the evil fate -that had chosen him for a plaything, threw him from a -train running at full speed, and left him lying on the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</span> -track with broken legs, and pitifully crippled. He got -well after many weary months while Susan nursed him, -and between whiles of nursing earned the living for the -dwellers within the camp. When Spring came, Susan -died.</p> - -<p>On George fell the care of the four children. It was -harder for him to work now, and there was less to be -earned; yet he worked the harder for his four. Another -year; and there were but two for him to shelter and -to feed. The great White Plague stops not at the camps -of the White man, but has hunted out the Red man in -his wick-i-up, and is fast decreasing the number of the -tribe; so two—the older two—of the children had gone -to answer its call, and George was alone with the two -that were hardly more than babies. Mourning for his -dead, he must yet work for the living.</p> - -<p>We give our sympathy to the woman left widowed -who has little children looking to her for support. But -she seldom fails in her trust, for the world is usually -kind to a woman and ready to lend her aid. Rather -give of your pity to the father who has babes to provide -for when there is no woman to take up the burden -with him. He must care for the home, and must go -out in the world, as well, to work. Remember the burden -is no less hard for him to bear even so be he is an -Indian. It may not seem so to you, a white man, but -you must recollect that the Indian takes a different -point of view.</p> - -<p>Long, long after his children were grown, and the -old grandmother was dead, and George was living -in his camp with grandchildren about him, the woman -came again—she, Sophy, came to him—trying to win -him back now that the woman he cared most for was -dead. Sophy at last had tired of her revenge, had tired -of jealousy and strife; had tired of everything in life<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</span> -but the one man who had once cast her off. Doctor -Jim was dead—had died many years before. And so -she came to the one she cared for still—as even she -had cared most for. For George she cared always; so -she came and stood at his door. Many snows had come -and gone since his blood had moved at her will; and -now it was too late for her influence to weigh with -him. He was old; and when he sat before the campfire -and saw a woman’s face move to and fro in the -the smoke wreaths, it was the face of the woman who -best loved him, always—not the face of the one he had -loved for a time—that he saw.</p> - -<p>So she went away, and at last there was peace between -them. She died the other day. But George—Old -George—lives still, and alone. He goes to the -station day after day, as is his habit, and watches the -trains as they come in, and answers the questions of -the inquisitive travelers.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>If my characters were white you might call this a -love story with a bit of romance threaded in. Perhaps -you will, anyway. For it all depends upon how -you look at it. It is just a little story of what is happening -all the while everywhere in the world. Love -and jealousy; hatred and revenge. It does not very -much matter whether they live on the water side of -Beacon street (as they do who stood talking to Old -George yesterday); or whether it is in the wick-i-ups -of the sagebrush out on the great Nevada plains. These -things come into the lives of all races alike.</p> - -<p>George paid for the folly of his youth, as the transgressor -usually does have to pay. If you live by the -sea in the East, you will perhaps call this a punishment -for George laid upon him as a rebuke by the “hand of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span> -divine Providence.” But if your home is by the Western -sea, and you have knocked about a bit on the rough -trails in the West, you will mayhap see in it only the -workings of “natural law.”</p> - -<p>That is all. It is a little story, but quite true. It -might very easily have been made a White man’s -story; but it isn’t, it is only the true story of a Paiute.</p> - -<p>George is an Indian; but one in a whole tribe—each -having his own story. And the tribe is but one of -the race. And the race——</p> - -<p>Are we not brothers?</p> - -<p>For, the world over, under white skin or skin of -bronze-brown, the human heart throbs the same; for -we are brothers—ay! brothers all.</p> - -<p>Yet, even so, there is still the point of view.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/burros.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">WHERE THE BURROS BROWSED</h2> -</div> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/h.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap">“HELLO, Dick!”</p> - -<p>“Hello, Reddy!”</p> - -<p>Seven little gray burros—browsing -upon the dust-covered chamiso—lifted -their heads at the words; and -turned seven mealy noses and seven pairs -of inquisitive ears toward the speakers in indolent curiosity.</p> - -<p>The two men who met upon the mesa had been drawing -slowly together on the long white road winding -up toward the mountain a dozen miles away. The dust, -raised by the shuffling feet of their horses, floated—a -long streamer of white—down toward the muddy, -crooked river in the valley far below. The dust had -whitened, too, the slouch hats and worn blue overalls -they wore; and their faces were marked with furrows, -burned deep by the harsh, relentless sun of the -plains. It was pouring its rays down now with the -fierce malignance of some demon bent on destroying -every vestige of plant-life that had the temerity to put -forth its young shoots; and save for the scant bunch-grass, -and the sage, and the greasewood, and a few distant -and scattering junipers that grew dark upon the -mountains beyond, no growth of vegetation was to be -seen. It was within an hour of noon, and the scorching -rays descended upon the blistered earth through a silver-gray<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span> -haze that—reaching across the valley—quivered -over the scene like the heat that comes through an -open furnace-door.</p> - -<p>Little gray lizards with black, shining eyes; little -horned toads with prickly backs, lay with palpitating -bodies in the scant shade. The saucy Paiute squirrels -which earlier in the day darted in and out of their burrows, -had now disappeared into subterranean darkness. -Jack-rabbits, with limp ears lying back, crouched under -the edges of the greasewood. The three horses stood -with listless, drooping heads; the two men sat with -listless, drooping bodies—one leaning forward to rest -his crossed arms on the horn of the Mexican saddle he -bestrode; the other, with loosely held reins between -his fingers, leaned with his elbows on his knees.</p> - -<p>After the brief Western greeting, the one on the -buckskin horse asked carelessly:</p> - -<p>“Been in with some hides, Reddy?”</p> - -<p>“Yep.”</p> - -<p>“What luck you been havin’?”</p> - -<p>“Poor. Tell you what ’tis, Dick, I ain’t seen more’n -fifty head o’ horses sence we been a-campin’ at Big -Deer Spring; an’ the’re so wild you can’t git to within -a mile of ’em. Tommy an’ me are goin’ to move. -They’re waterin’ over to them deep springs north.”</p> - -<p>“Yaas,” drawled the other, “they’ve been shot among -so much they’re gittin’ scarry. Me an’ my pardner are -campin’ over at the mine with them Dagos there; but -we don’t see many bunches of horses around, nohow. -Guess we’ll skin out next week, an’ go over to The -Cedars. I don’t s’pose——” he moved his horse -nearer to the wagon, and bent a contemplative gaze -upon one of the front wheels—“I don’t s’pose Austin -an’ the Kid’ll kick if we do crowd over on their lay-out -a little; for there must be near a thousand head<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span> -o’ mustangs over ’round them Cedars that ain’t never -heard a gun yit. So’t there’d be good shootin’ for -all of us, an’ plenty o’ horses to go ’round. Hey?”</p> - -<p>The other nodded his head affirmatively.</p> - -<p>“But that Austin’s a queer sort of a feller! Wanted -him to come in with my pardner an’ me (he’s an all-fired -good shot—good as I am myself; an’ I c’n shoot all I -c’n skin in a day), an’ I thought him an’ me could do -the shootin’, an’ my pardner an’ the Kid could do the -skinnin.’ But, no sir-ee; he wouldn’t have it! Just -said the Kid couldn’t come; an’ ’t two was enough in a -camp, anyway. He’s about as stand-offish as anybody -I ever see. I ain’t sorry now’t he didn’t take up with -my offer; for the boys say that the Kid wouldn’t be -no ’count along anyway. He can’t shoot; and he just -nat’rally won’t skin ’em—too squeamish an’ ladylike. -Aw!”</p> - -<p>“I know. He just tags ’round after Austin all day; -an’ don’t never seem to want to git more’n a hunderd -yards from him. An’ Austin’s just about as bad stuck -on the Kid,” said Reddy.</p> - -<p>“Yaas, I know it; an’ that’s what beats me. I don’t -see what they’re stuck so on each other for,” said -Dick, as he leaned back in the saddle and rammed -a hand into the depths of a pocket of his overalls. As -he drew forth a section of “star plug” he tapped the -buckskin’s flanks with his heels to urge the sorry specimen -of horseflesh closer to the wagon.</p> - -<p>“Chaw?”</p> - -<p>The smaller man accepted. Turning the square over -and giving each side a cursory glance, he picked off the -tin tag—a tiny star—and set his jaws into an inviting -corner, bending it back and forth in his endeavor to -wrench off a generous mouthful. Passing it in silence -back to the owner (who regaled himself also with a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span> -like quantity before returning it to his pocket), and -having—with the aid of thumbnail and forefinger—snapped -the shining little star at a big horse-fly that -was industriously sucking blood from the roan’s back, -he remarked:</p> - -<p>“Hides is gone up.”</p> - -<p>“That so?” exclaimed Dick, with animation; “what -they worth now?”</p> - -<p>“Dollar an’ a quarter, to a dollar an’ six bits; and -three dollars for extra big ones. Manes is worth two -bits a pound. What you comin’ in for?”</p> - -<p>“Ca’tridges. Shot mine all away.”</p> - -<p>“I c’n let you have some till you git your’n, if you -want. What’s your gun—forty-five eighty-five Marlin?” -asked Reddy.</p> - -<p>“Nope—won’t do,” answered Dick; “mine’s Remington -forty-ninety. Much ’bliged, though.”</p> - -<p>“Say, Dick!” exclaimed Reddy, “them Mexicans -down on the river are comin’ out to run mustangs. I -saw that Black Joaquin an’ his brother yist’day, an’ -told ’em if they wanted to run ’em anywheres out on -our lay-out, that we wouldn’t make no kick if they’d -let us in for a share. See? They think they c’n run -in about a hunderd an’ fifty head, anyway. An’ they’ll -furnish the manada, an’ the saddle horses, an’ all, for -the whole crowd. So, I told ’em. ‘All right! go ahead, -as far as me an’ my pardner are concerned.’ He says -Austin’s agreed. How are you an’ Johnny? Willin’?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes; I’m willin’,” answered Dick, as he jerked -at the bridle-rein, disturbing the buckskin’s doze. -“Well, good luck to you! See you again!”</p> - -<p>“Same to yourself. So long!” answered Reddy.</p> - -<p>The saddle-horse fell into a jog trot again to the -pricking of the spur; and the sorry span started the -wagon groaning and rattling on its way up the road<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span> -whose furrows were cut deep by the great teams that -hauled sulphur and borax from the furthest mountains -down to the railroad in the valley.</p> - -<p>The creaking and rattling of the wagon had only -just recommenced, when Reddy stopped his team to -call back.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Dick!”</p> - -<p>“Hello!”</p> - -<p>The little burros that had returned to nibbling on the -brush, again lifted their heads at this second interruption.</p> - -<p>“Say! Austin ast me to git him a San Fr’ncisco paper -so as he could see what hides is quoted at; an’ I plum -clean forgot it. Wisht you’d bring out one to him -when you come!”</p> - -<p>“All right! So long!”</p> - -<p>“So long!”</p> - -<p>The men moved on again. And the two streamers of -white dust grew farther and farther apart, till they -had faded out of sight in the hazy distance.</p> - -<p>The burros were left in undisturbed possession of the -mesa the rest of the stifling hot day, while they browsed -along on the greasewood. Late in the afternoon their -little hoofs turned into a wild horse trail which led -them, single-file, down to the river where the mealy -muzzles were plunged into the swift, muddy current -for a drink.</p> - -<p>But while they had been munching the uninviting -brush and sage, and flicking the flies away with their -absurd paint-brush tails, Harvey Austin, over on the -foothills near the Cedars, sat in the tent which was -now the only home he knew; and with his hat fanned -the face of the one whom the horse-hunters had named -“The Kid.”</p> - -<p>The boy, who had been ailing, was asleep now; but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</span> -the flushed cheeks, and parched lips that were always -calling for water, were cause enough for the fear that -came over Austin as he sat there. What if this were but -the beginning of a long fever? Suppose there should -be a serious illness for him?</p> - -<p>Again Austin asked himself the same questions that -he was putting to himself daily. What had the future -in store for them? From here, where were they to go? -To stay through the long winter, with the mercury below -zero, and the wild blasts of wind about their -tent—perhaps to be buried in deep snow—all these -things were not to be considered for a moment. Before -the coming of winter they must go. But where? Only -away from civilization were they safe.</p> - -<p>He had come to see, at last, that they had both made -a horrible mistake of life. In the beginning of this, it -had not seemed so; things looked differently—at first. -But, at times, of late there had come a feeling of repulsion -over him for which he could not account. Was -it the aftermath of wrong-doing? Well, he must make -the best of it; it was too late to undo all that had been -done. He must bear it—the larger share—as best he -could. He said to himself that, thank God! at least he -was enough of a man to hide from the “little one” -what he himself was beginning to feel.</p> - -<p>It is the great immutable law that the fruits of pleasure, -plucked by the hands of sin, shall turn to bitterness -between the lips. For sin, there is suffering; and -for wrong-doing, regret. None escape the great law of -compensation. Justice must have payment for the defiance -of her laws.</p> - -<p>Austin drew his breath in sharply. Oh, merciful -God! how long was this way of living to last? Why, -he might live on thirty—forty—fifty years yet! Penniless, -what was their future to be? To return to that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span> -world which, through their past years, had surrounded -them with all those things that make life worth living, -would be to tempt a worse fate than awaited them here. -The desolation which spread around them in the foothills -of the bare, lonely mountains was as naught to the -humiliation of returning to the peopled places where -most would know them, yet few would choose to recognize.</p> - -<p>It had not seemed that the price they would have to -pay would be so dear when first he had faced the -possible results of their rash act. Was it only a twelve-month -ago? Why, it might have been twelve times -twelve, so long ago did it seem since he was walking -among men holding his head up, and looking fearlessly -into the eyes of honest fellows who greeted him with -warm hand-clasps.</p> - -<p>His face had a strained look as he let his eyes fall -on the unconscious figure beside him; and a strange expression—almost -one of aversion—swept across his features. -But he drew himself up quickly, tossing his -head back with a movement as though—by the act—he -could cast off something which might, perhaps, master -him. For some time he sat there, his sensitive, refined -face rigid and set, fixing his eyes on vacancy. -Then he sank back, sighing wearily.</p> - -<p>Before him was memory’s moving panorama of a -splendid past. Out of the many pictures—plainer than -all the rest—rose the face of the man who had befriended -him; the one to whom he owed all he had ever -been, or enjoyed. The one but for whom he would have -been left, when a boy, to the chill charity of strangers. -From that generous hand he had received an education -befitting the heir to great wealth, and that noble heart -had given such love and care as few sons receive from -a parent. He could now, in recollection, see the austere<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span> -face of his guardian softening into affectionate smiles -as his tender gaze fell on his two wards—himself, and -the pretty, willful Mildred. Only they whom he so -fondly loved knew the great depths of tenderness and -gentleness in his nature. It stung Austin now to think -of it; it shamed him as well.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>And was he—this coward hiding in the mountains -of the West, leading a hateful existence hunting wild -horses for the few dollars that the hides would bring, -that he might be able to buy the necessaries of life, -since he had failed to get work in any other calling—was -he the one whom John Morton had once loved and -trusted? He shuddered with disgust; no man could -feel a greater contempt for him, than he felt for himself.</p> - -<p>He rose abruptly and walked to the opening of the -tent, looking out on the sweep of sagebrush-covered -foothills about him. It was useless to think of the past, -or to give way to remorse or idle regrets. What was -done could not be undone. He must arrange, as best -he could, for the future years, and provide for the needs -of the present. He must do his best in caring for and -protecting the one for whom this life was harder—far -harder—than for himself.</p> - -<p>He turned his back on the dreary landscape before -him, and came back into the tent, busying himself about -camp duties till the other awoke. And the young eyes—wistful -and sad—that kept seeking Austin’s, saw no -trace of the heartache and remorse he was bravely -trying to bury.</p> - -<p>When the sun had gone down behind their mountain, -and a welcome coolness had settled itself over the -burning ground, they went to sit by the spring that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span> -bubbled out of the hillside. All through the twilight -they sat without speaking, their thoughts far away. -Then darkness came and hid the barren hills, mercifully -shutting from their sight the pitiful poverty of -the life that was now theirs. A soft west wind sprung -up; and the balmy night air, cool and dry, seemed to -have driven away much of the illness the boy had felt -through the day. They sat in a silence unbroken only -by the crickets’ perpetual shrilling, the hoot of a -ground owl, and a coyote yelping to its mate across -the cañon. When the first prolonged cry pierced the -air, the slight form had nestled instinctively closer to -Austin. Then the mournful wail of the little gray -ghost of the plains grew fainter and fainter, and finally -ceased altogether, as he trotted away over the ridge, in -quest of a freshly-skinned carcass where some unfortunate -horse had fallen a victim to the sure aim of some -horse hunter.</p> - -<p>They sat for nearly an hour in the silence of night -in the mountains, Austin wondering if the time would -ever come when the “little one” would guess how miserably -tired of it he had become in less than a year. He -hoped—prayed, the other would never know. And -(worse still) would a sickening disgust ever find its -way into that other heart, as it had into his own? With -all his soul he silently prayed it might never be so.</p> - -<p>“Come, little one,” he said, gently, “we must go in. -It is late.”</p> - -<p>The other made no response.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you want to go yet? Are you not sleepy—and -a little bit tired, poor child?”</p> - -<p>Still no answer, though Austin knew he was heard. -He waited. Then——</p> - -<p>“Harvey,”—the voice was almost a whisper—“we -have seen some happy days—sometimes—and you have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span> -always been good to me; but, do you—— I mean, -when you remember what we have lost, and what we -are and must always remain, do you find in this life -we are living, compensation enough for all that we suffer? -Do you? Tell me!”</p> - -<p>So! it had come to the other one, too.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>A day of fast, hard riding had drawn to its close. -Reddy and Dick, and their “pardners,” and Black -Joaquin and his brother, together with two or three -others had made their first day’s run of wild mustangs. -Three or four “bunches” of native wild horses had -been surrounded and driven with a rush, in a whirl -of alkali dust, into a juniper corral far down in the -cañon. Then the circling riatas had brought them—bucking -and kicking—down to the earth; and biting -and striking at their captors, they fought for their -liberty till exhausted and dripping with sweat—their -heads and knees skinned and mouths bleeding—they -found themselves conquered, necked to gentler horses, -or else hoppled.</p> - -<p>At early morning Dick had come to Austin’s camp, -bringing the newspaper; and the two had ridden away -together. And now that each man had made his selection -in the division of the day’s spoils, Austin turned -his pony’s head toward the far-off tent—a little white -speck in the light of the sunset on one of the distant -foothills.</p> - -<p>“Well, good-night, boys! I’ll join you again in the -morning.” He loped away to the place where the -“little one” was awaiting him.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The morrow’s sun shone blood-red—an enormous -ruby disc, in the east through the smoky haze that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span> -hung over the valley still. By eight o’clock the air -was stifling, and the men standing about camp ready -for the second day’s run were impatient to be off. -It was easier to endure the heat when in the saddle -and in action, than to be idling here at the corral. They -were wondering at Austin’s delay. And most of them -had been swearing. Finally, Black Joaquin was told -to go across to the white speck on the foothills, and -“hustle him up;” for they were short of men to do -the work, if he did not come. So the Mexican threw -himself across the saddle, and digging his spurs into -the flanks of the ugly-looking sorrel, loped over the hill -to Austin’s camp.</p> - -<p>Half an hour later he came back at racing speed to -tell a story which made the men look at each other -with startled glances, and even with suspicion at himself -(so surely are evil deeds laid at the door of one -with an evil reputation); but when they rode over to -where the stilled forms lay beside the rifle whose aim -had been true, they saw it had not been Black Joaquin.</p> - -<p>Who, then? Too plainly, they saw. But why?</p> - -<p>The newspaper Dick had brought lay folded open at -an article that told the pitiful story of their love, and -their sin, and their shame. It was Johnny, Dick’s partner, -who saw it, and read:</p> - -<p>“Living among Horse Hunters—An Erring Couple -Traced to Nevada—Harvey Ashton and Mrs. John Q. -Morton Seen—The Woman in Male Attire.</p> - -<p>“The public no doubt remembers press dispatches of -a year ago from Boston, regarding the sensational elopement -of Harvey Ashton and the young and beautiful -wife of John Q. Morton, a prominent and wealthy -commission merchant of that city. All parties concerned -moved in the most exclusive circles of society.</p> - -<p>“Young Ashton had returned home from a prolonged<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span> -tour of Europe to find that Morton (who, though not -related to him, has always assumed the part of an indulgent -father) had just wedded his ward, Miss Mildred -Walters, a handsome young woman many years -his junior; and whose play-fellow he—Ashton—had -been when a boy, but whom she had not seen for a number -of years. She had matured into a beautiful, attractive -woman, and Ashton soon fell a willing victim -to her charms. Soon after, society of the Hub was -startled and shocked to hear of the elopement of Harvey -Ashton with his benefactor’s wife.</p> - -<p>“Subsequently they were discovered to have been -in San Francisco, where all traces of them, for the time, -were lost. Nothing was heard of them again till, some -two months ago, when they were seen in Reno, Nevada, -by an old acquaintance who cannot be mistaken in -their identity.</p> - -<p>“He states he had come down from Virginia City, -and was waiting to take the train for the East, when -he saw Ashton pass by the station once or twice, in -company with what was apparently a small, slightly-built -young man, but who, he is positive, is none other -than Mrs. Morton in male attire. He purposely avoided -the couple, but inquiries elicited the facts that Ashton -was passing under the name of Austin, and had stated -that his companion was a young brother. It was also -learned that they were practically without means, and -were leaving Reno for the interior part of the State. -Later reports locate them in a range of mountains a -short distance from the railroad, where they are with -a number of cowboys and sheep-herders who are out -of work, and who are at present engaged in shooting -wild horses, furnishing hides for the San Francisco -market.</p> - -<p>“The friend who recognized the couple at once communicated<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span> -with the deserted husband, who, it is reported, -is on his way West in quest of the erring pair.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>This was their story, then! The story waiting in the -newspaper for Austin when he got back to the “little -one” the evening before.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The afternoon’s shadows were slanting down the -valley when the seven little burros saw Reddy’s wagon -come down the long, dusty road leading toward the -river. From where they browsed they could see it go -over the bridge and the alkali flats, on its way to the -railroad station in the hazy valley. The big sheet of -canvas, taken from Dick’s bed, covered something that -lay in the bottom of the wagon. Two somethings there -were—side by side, rigid and cold—sharply outlined -under the folds of white canvas.</p> - -<p>The wagon creaked, and rattled, and groaned on -its way. The afternoon sun parched and burned the -earth, as it had done for weeks. Rabbits hid under -the edges of the greasewood on the side where the -greater shadows fell. The burros still flicked with -their absurd tails at the sand-flies. Buzzing above -the canvas were some big green flies that followed the -wagon till after the sun went down. A buzzard circled -overhead; and a lean coyote trotted behind the -wagon on the mesa for a mile or more.</p> - -<p>The burros, too, crossed the bridge that night, and -morning found them browsing along the foothills nestling -against the mountains across the valley, where -feed was better. Near the base of the mountain, and -not far from the little railroad station, was a graveyard. -Treeless, flowerless, unfenced. There were no -headstones, ’tis true; but the graves were well banked<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span> -with broken rock, to keep the hungry coyotes and -badgers from digging up the dead.</p> - -<p>At the station Black Joaquin had helped lift the new -pine boxes into the wagon. As he watched them start -on their ride to the place of rock-covered mounds near -the foothills, he said to the men gathered about:</p> - -<p>“Por Dios! Not so muchos hombres to shoot mostang -now!”</p> - -<p>And his brother Domingo, who had been drinking, -answered with more freedom:</p> - -<p>“’Sta ’ueno! Not so muchos hombres; more mostang -por me. ’Sta ’ueno; si, ’sta muy ’ueno!”</p> - -<p>He laughed slyly. Then he went over to the saloon, -followed by the other men.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The little gray burros watched the wagon for a long -time, as it went rattle—rattle—rattle over the stony -road. By and by it stopped. Then they began nibbling -again on the scant bunch-grass and white sage.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/waters.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">AT THE WILL OF THE WATERS</h2> -</div> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/b.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">“BLOCKHEAD! idiot! ass! ‘Tenderfoot’ -isn’t adequate for such a fool as I have -been!” he exclaimed bitterly.</p> - -<p>He tried not to care; even he tried to -forget that the good-looking, successful -mining engineer had given him a title -which had made him wince: “the deckle-edged tenderfoot!” -But it stung, nevertheless. Perhaps the reason -that it hurt, was because of its fitness. And what hurt -more, was the fact Cadwallader had taken pains that -Evaleen Blaine should hear it said—Cadwallader, who -seemed so well fitted to take his place in the rough -Western way of battling with life, where he himself -did but blunder and stumble, and earn the name of “the -deckle-edged tenderfoot!” That Teamster Bill had -christened him “this yer gentlemanly burro frum Bost’n,” -cut far less keenly. But then, Bill wasn’t trying -to move heaven and earth to get Miss Blaine. Whereas -Elwyn Cadwallader was.</p> - -<p>However, on all sides opinion was the same, if differently -expressed. The fact of his being a gentleman -had not prevented him from becoming a fool—chiefest -of fools—else he never would have trusted -so implicitly in old Zeke Runkle’s misrepresentations -of the group of mining claims in those foothills that -lay just below the Monarch group. The Monarch was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span> -the talk of the camp for its richness. If there was a -fortune in the one group (he argued to himself), then -why not also in those so nearly adjoining. At any rate, -it seemed to him it was his one chance to find a fortune -by a short cut; so, paying for them with all he -had, save a few hundreds that afterwards went for useless -development work, the mines became his. The -camp welcomed him into its midst, and winked, and -grinned when he wasn’t looking; and (to a man) voted -him “an easy thing!”</p> - -<p>His eyes not having been focused for fraud, he -never doubted but that the rich samples shown him -had come from the mines represented; nor ever suspected -that, under his very eyes, the tests he himself -made had been tampered with.</p> - -<p>Old Zeke Runkle’s annual swindles had been a camp -joke for a score of years; but Sherwood—being an in-experienced -stranger—saw only in him an honest (if -usually drunken) prospector. A kindly, if simple, old -man, too; for Zeke had generously made him a gift of -an entire mining claim which had not been included in -the original number—one quite distinct from the original -group. True, it seemed to be but an undeveloped -claim—its one tunnel only running in ten or fifteen -feet. And the gift had been tendered him at the suggestion -of Cadwallader, from whom Sherwood was -surprised to receive evidence of a kindly feeling which -had not been previously displayed. That this unusual interest -in him had surprised old Zeke, too, was plain; for -he seemed puzzled at first, as though it were not possible -for him to comprehend Cadwallader’s meaning. -After a few whispered words from the younger man, -however, Zeke’s face had brightened with understanding, -and he turned to Sherwood insisting he must accept -it. The unexpected part Cadwallader had taken,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[123]</span> -and the old man’s unselfish attitude, showed to Sherwood -such a fine glimpse of Western good-fellowship -that he warmed to the place and the people as he -had done at no time before. It turned the scale and -the bargain was closed.</p> - -<p>So he became sole owner of the seven mines on the -sagebrush-covered hills, that comprised the Golden -Eagle group; and of the one isolated claim in the foot -of the bluffs that rose abruptly at the edge of an old-time -ruined mining camp which had been deserted for -more than thirty years.</p> - -<p>It lay there in a cañon where once men came in -search of precious metals; and in that cleft of the -mountains they built their homes. Along the cañon -sides, from end to end, there trailed a double line of -houses, now all in ruins—fallen walls of adobe or stone. -Roofless and floorless, with empty casements and doorways, -the houses stood mute witnesses of the false -hopes which once led men to squander money, and -youth, and strength of purpose there in the long-ago, -when the State was new.</p> - -<p>Almost a double score of years had gone since the -place knew human voice or human movement, save -when some lone prospector passed along the brush-grown -street that crept upward with the cañon’s slope. -The dead town’s very stillness and desolation were full -of charm, albeit tempered with that sadness a ruin always -has for the beholder. For through the empty -doorways came the whisperings of those who were -gone; and looking through the sashless windows as -you rode by, you saw wraithlike figures pass and repass -within. It might have been only the wind’s -breath as it rustled the dark leaves of branches overhanging -the crumbling walls, and the ghosts, mayhap, -were but the waving boughs which tremulously<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span> -moved over the gray adobes; but when you were there—in -that stillness and amid all that mystery—you felt -it was true. You hushed your quickening breath to listen -for the breath of some other. You moved through -the silence with wide-lidded eyes looking for—you -knew not what. You felt yourself out of place there—an -alien. Only the lizards on the decaying walls, -and the little brown birds that pecked at berries growing -on the bushes along the creek, and the cottontails -that scurried away to hide in the brush, seemed to -have honest claim there.</p> - -<p>On a level with the dead camp’s one street, the -short tunnel of the Spencer mine ran into the cliff which -pushed itself forward from the cañon’s general contour—the -mouth itself being all but hidden by the falling -walls of what had once been an adobe dwelling, its -rear wall but a few feet from the limestone bluffs. To -it, old Zeke brought Sherwood and showed him the tunnel -below and the croppings of white quartz on the -cliff top. It looked barren and worthless; but an assay -certificate, in which the values were marked in four -figures, held before Sherwood’s astonished eyes, sent -his hopes up to fever mark, and left him eager to begin -the work whereby he might reach the precious stuff -hidden well away within the dull-colored bluffs. If the -croppings promised such wealth, what might not the -mine itself yield when he extended the tunnel, and -had tapped the ledge at a greater depth? He felt -his heart beating the faster for his dreams. A fortune! -His, and—hers! All that was needed to bring -it about were pick strokes, powder and patience. It all -seemed very simple to Hume Sherwood. Without doubt -he was a “tenderfoot.”</p> - -<p>So the Summer found him putting every pulse-throb -into his labor. Was it not for her that he wanted it?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span> -For what other end was he working, than to win the -maid who had come into this land of enchantment? -To him, it was as Paradise—these great broad levels -of alkali, and sand (blotches of white on a blur of gray) -and the sagebrush and greasewood-covered foothills -that lay, fold upon fold, against the base of grim mountains—prickly -with splintered and uncovered rocks.</p> - -<p>Each day he blessed the fate which had called her -from her home by the Western sea and placed her under -the same roof that sheltered him in the rough little Nevada -camp that called itself a town since a railroad -had found it, and given it a name.</p> - -<p>Here Judge Blaine and his daughter settled themselves -for the Summer. That is, an array of suit-cases -and handbags, great and small, and a trunk or two, -proclaimed the hotel their headquarters. That was -all. Every day saw the Judge up near the top of the -mountain, getting the Monarch’s new machinery into -running order; while trails, and roads—old and new—and -even the jack-rabbit paths that lay like a network -over the land, saw more of the young woman in -khaki than ever the hotel did, so long as daylight -lasted—the light which she grudged to have go.</p> - -<p>It was Evaleen herself who had suggested coming -to Nevada with her father, instead of spending the -season in the usual way with Mrs. Blaine and the -other girls at whatsoever place fashion might dictate -as the Summer’s especial (and expensive) favorite for -the time.</p> - -<p>“Daddy, dear,” she had said, standing behind his -chair, with both arms tight clasped around his neck, -“I’ve made up my mind to do something that is going -to surprise you. Listen; I’m not going with Mamma -and the girls when she shuts up the house for the Summer. -But, I—am—going—with—you! Oh, yes, I am!<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span> -No, no! Not a word! I’ve always wanted to know -what a mining camp was like; and this is my golden -opportunity. You know you do want me there. Say -so! While you are putting up the new works, I can go -roaming over the country in old clothes. Listen to that, -Daddy—old clothes! A lovely Summer; and not a cent -spent on gowns!”</p> - -<p>Ways and means at just that time being matters of -difficult solution with the Judge, her argument had -force and bore fruit. Midsummer found them where -the alkali plains stretched away to distant ranges, and -the duns and drabs of valleys reached across to the -blended purples and blues. Such distances! And such -silence! She had never dreamed of their like before.</p> - -<p>On the levels or on the heights, she was day by day -finding life a new and a beautiful thing. It was all -so good; so fresh, and sweet, and strong! How easily -she had fitted into her new surroundings and the new -order of things—crude though they were, beyond any -of her preconceived ideas. And now how far away -seemed all the other Summers she had ever known. -She felt that, after all, this was the real life. The -other (that which Jean and Lili had their part in) was -to her, now, as something known only in a dream. She -was learning a grander, fuller sense of living since all -that other world was shut away. So (companioned by -her would-be lovers, Hume Sherwood and Elwyn Cadwallader, -through a Summer of glad, free, full indrawn -breaths) she rode the days away, while under -the campaign hat she wore her face was being browned -by the desert winds. Hot winds. But, oh, how she -had learned to love their ardent touch! No sun was -ever too hot, nor road too rough or long, to keep -her back from this life in the open; and in the saddle<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span> -she had come to know the valleys and mountains as one -born to them.</p> - -<p>The cañon which held the ruined walls had for her -an especial charm, and toward it she often turned her -horse’s head. It lay but a short distance from the road -leading to her father’s mines. So, turning aside, she -often took this short cut through the deserted town. -There, one day she heard from Cadwallader the story -of Crazy Dan, whose home had once been within the -walls that hid the entrance to the tunnel of the Spencer—the -mine which had been a gift to Sherwood.</p> - -<p>Daniel Spencer—Crazy Dan (for whom old Zeke -named the claim he had given away, because on the -very ground there Dan had made his home) had -worked in the creek for placer gold during all the long -gone years when others worked the higher ground for -silver lodes. An ill-featured, ill-natured old man, having -no friends, and seeking none; he had burrowed the -cañon’s length for gold as persistently as a gopher does -the ground for roots, and—as all had prophesied—with -as little showing of the yellow metal. Only a crazy -man, they said, would ever have prospected that cañon -for gold. It was a cañon for ledges, not placers; for -silver, not gold. So the miserly, morose old man followed -a phantom to the last; working alone from day-dawn -till dusk with rocker and pan, in ground that -pitying neighbors vainly tried to lead him away from. -Admitting he had never found gold, yet working day -after day, Crazy Dan could be seen there for twelve -long years. Twelve years of toil that showed no reward -for his labor. Then he died. One morning they -saw there was no smoke issuing from the cabin chimney; -and guessing what they would find, they pushed -the door open.</p> - -<p>Death had come when he was alone; there had been<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span> -none to close the staring eyes. He had been near to -starvation; there was scarcely any food within the -cabin; there were no comforts. Years of toiling for -something that was always just beyond; and a lonely -death at the end—that was the story.</p> - -<p>As she heard, Miss Blaine was stirred with a profound -pity. When Cadwallader ceased speaking, her -thoughts went straying to those far days, in wonder of -the man who made up the sum of the town’s life. -Dead, or scattered to the four corners of the earth. -Crazy Dan’s death was no more pathetic, perhaps, than -that of many another of their number. She rode on in -silence, saddened by the recital.</p> - -<p>Suddenly Cadwallader’s ringing laugh startled her. -But as quickly he checked himself, saying:</p> - -<p>“I beg of you, Miss Blaine, don’t misjudge me. I -wasn’t thinking then of poor old Dan’s tragic death, or -more than tragic life. I happened to remember the sequel -to this story; and which, I’m sure, you’ve never -heard. Let me tell you——” He hesitated. “Or, no; -you’ve heard enough for today, and its humor would -jar now on what you’ve just heard. I’ll tell you some -other time.”</p> - -<p>Nothing more was said about it by either; but she -felt confident it related in some way to Hume Sherwood -and the Spencer mine.</p> - -<p>The latter had kept men continuously at work on his -newly acquired property since coming into possession -of them; but the faith that was his in the beginning, -grew fainter with the waning of Summer. Autumn -brought decided doubt. With the coming of Winter -came a certainty of their worthlessness, he knew he -had been befooled by a sharp trickster, but how far -his ignorance had been played upon he did not yet -know. Nevertheless, he felt he had well earned the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span> -titles the camp had bestowed on him, for the claims, he -found, were but relocations that had been abandoned -years before as utterly worthless. He had simply -thrown his dollars into the deep sea.</p> - -<p>If only that had been all!</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Evaleen Blaine and her father, contrary to all their -earlier plans for a return to San Francisco at the beginning -of Autumn, were still in Nevada, and there -Winter found them, though the machinery was all -placed and the big reservoir and dam completed. But -an offer to buy the Monarch property—mines, mill, and -all that went with them—had come from a New York -syndicate, and the Judge was now detained by their -agents. He must stay yet a few days more—then -home to “mother and the girls.” Nor would Evaleen -leave without him; so for the first time in all his married -life he was to be away from home on Christmas. -Thus matters stood when the greater half of December -had gone.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>A storm was brewing. There had been scarcely -any rain or snow thus far, but a damp wind from the -south had shut away the mountain behind dark and -threatening clouds. The Judge found he was needed -at the mine that morning, but had promised Evaleen -he would be back the next night, to make Christmas -eve as merry as possible for them both—separated from -the others. By staying one night at the mine he could, -without doubt, return on the morrow. He had kissed -her good-bye and left her looking out of the window -in the gloom of the early day. Fifteen minutes -later she heard his heavy tread again on the stairs, -and he stormed into the room.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span>“See here, daughter!” he panted in indignation, -“I’ve just heard of the —— —— (I beg your pardon, -child); I mean the shameful trick that that cur of a -Zeke Runkle played on young Sherwood. Sherwood -has just told me—just heard of it himself. Have you -heard anything about it? No? Well, I thought not—I -thought not! It seems everybody around the place, -though, has known of it all along—but us. Why -didn’t anybody tell me? Hey? What? Yes; but why -didn’t anybody tell me, I want to know! Ah, they -knew better. I’d have told Sherwood that he’d been -played for a sucker! Yes, sir!” (forgetting his audience -again) “and a —— shame it is, too! There -I go again—but I don’t know when anything has so -worked me up!”</p> - -<p>“But, Daddy, what is it?” faltered Evaleen. “What -has happened? I don’t understand.”</p> - -<p>“What has happened?” shouted the Judge. “Everything -has happened—everything. Of course, you don’t -understand. I don’t, myself—all of it. Somebody (I -haven’t found out yet who, but I will!) put up that -miserable old rascal—that drunken thief of a Zeke Runkle—to -palming off on Sherwood as a bona fide mine, -the worst fake I ever heard of. Hey? What? Why! -a dug-out, I tell you—a hole in the cliff—a tunnel-like -cellar-above-ground, if you want, that Crazy Dan, it -seems, used to store away bacon, and flour, and potatoes -in, more than thirty years ago. Just an old store-room, -nothing else. That’s what! Made him a present -of it (the foxy old rascal) so the law couldn’t touch -him. Oh, he’s a clever swindler! I’m sorry for Sherwood—mighty -sorry for him. I like the fellow; there’s -good stuff in him. It’s a —— A—hum! But, for -the life of me I can’t see old Zeke’s object; for he made -nothing by it. Somebody must have put him up to it—mark<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[131]</span> -my words. And I’d like to know who.”</p> - -<p>Who had done it? Evaleen was again hearing Cadwallader’s -laugh, and the words, “An amusing sequel -to the story.” And “I’ll tell you some day.” He -need not tell her now. She knew; and she knew why.</p> - -<p>All that day she stayed within her room. She felt -she couldn’t see Sherwood in his humiliation; and Cadwallader -she wouldn’t see.</p> - -<p>That evening when she went down to dinner she was -purposely late that she might avoid both men. Elwyn -Cadwallader was out of town, she learned, called away -unexpectedly on business. Hume Sherwood, after having -been with her father all day, up on the mountain, -had just returned—going directly to his room. He -had declined dinner.</p> - -<p>Almost any man can bear censure, but it takes a -giant to brave ridicule.</p> - -<p>When Miss Blaine went back to her room she found -two letters awaiting her. She read the first with the -angry blood mounting to her forehead, and lips tightened -into a straight, hard line. It was from Cadwallader. -He closed by saying:</p> - -<p>“Give me the one thing I most want in all the world! -I will go to you Christmas morning for it—for your -‘yes!’”</p> - -<p>Miss Blaine’s face was very stern as with quick, -firm steps she walked across the floor to the stove in -which a fire was burning cheerily. She opened the -door and flung the letter into the flames.</p> - -<p>The letter from her father was hurriedly scrawled, -“so that Sherwood can take it down to you,” it said. -There were but a dozen brief sentences: He couldn’t -be with her, after all, on Christmas eve—he had about -closed the deal with Akerman, and there was much -business to settle up. She was to pack their suit-cases<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span> -and trunks at once; to be ready to start home any day. -He hoped (didn’t know—but hoped) to leave the evening -of Christmas day, etc. There was a postscript: -“Akerman (acting on my advice) bought Sherwood’s -little group today for seven hundred and fifty dollars; -which is just seven hundred and fifty dollars more than -they are worth—as mining claims. But Akerman wants -the ground for other purposes, and will use it in connection -with his other property. I’m glad for the boy’s -sake he got it, for I guess Sherwood needed the money. -Of course he hasn’t said so (he’s too much of a thoroughbred -to whimper) but I don’t believe he has a -nickel left.”</p> - -<p>Evaleen Blaine laid the letter down with a tender -smile on her face. “Dear old Daddy!” she murmured. -She understood the sympathetic heart which had been -the factor in bringing about the sale of Sherwood’s -claims. “Oh, Daddy, you’re good—good! I love you!”</p> - -<p>Four or five hours after, she had finished packing -and got up from where she had been kneeling, and -looked about the room. Everything was folded away -in place and awaiting the turning of the key, except -the khaki suit and the wide-brimmed hat. She would -soon be miles and miles away from Nevada and its -joys. A very sober face looked out at her from the -mirror, making her force her thoughts into other channels.</p> - -<p>“Not spend Christmas eve with you, Daddy? ’Deed, -an’ I will! I’ll just astonish you tomorrow morning!”</p> - -<p>She laughed to herself in anticipation of his surprise. -Then her face sobered, remembering that—for -the first time—she would make the trip alone. She -knew every inch of the way. She wasn’t afraid; there -was nothing to harm her. And by taking her coffee -and toast by lamplight, she would be with him by nine<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span> -o’clock. As she fell asleep that night she was wishing -some good fortune might come to Hume Sherwood, -making his Christmas eve less lonely.</p> - -<p>When day broke, though as yet no rain was falling, -a storm was already gathering itself for the onslaught. -Fine dust filled the air, and the wind was racing up the -valley with the swiftness of a prairie fire, where, on -the alkali flats, great breakers of white dust rose from -the sea of dry storm that ran ahead of the rain. Dead -branches of greasewood, tumble-weeds light as sea-spume -on the waves of the wind, rabbit-brush wrenched -from the roots—these (the drift-wood of desert seas), -were swept on and away!</p> - -<p>In the gray early dawn Miss Blaine’s horse had been -saddled under protest.</p> - -<p>“We’re a-goin’ to hev a Nevady zephyr, I’m -a-thinkin’, an’ th’ house is a mighty good place f’r -wimmin-folks ’bout now!” were the words she heard -through the whistling wind as she mounted.</p> - -<p>There was something electric in the strange storm -that drew her into its midst—some kinship that called -her away! She was sure she could reach shelter before -the rain reached her. “Then, hurrah for the -ring of the bridle-rein—away, brave steed, away!”</p> - -<p>Mountain Boy snuffed at the dust-laden air and -broke into the long stride that soon carried them into -the foothills. At times the wind nearly swept her -from the saddle, but she loped on and on. Then she -gained the high ground; and the dust that had smarted -her eyes and nostrils lay far below. It was misty, and -the wind came in strong buffetings. Up, and still up -they climbed. The rain-clouds were surely keeping -their burden back for her! But, nay! she had almost -reached the mill—was almost under shelter, when the -storm swept down upon her and the waters fell in a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span> -flood. Drenched and disheveled she reached the mill. -Disappointment and consternation awaited her—her -father was not there! Nearly two hours before—just -the time she was leaving the valley—the Judge, with -Mr. Akerman, had driven away by the north road to -take the morning express from the station above, and -were now at the county seat thirty miles away, if they -had met with no mishap.</p> - -<p>Evaleen was aghast! What to do? Her father believed -her to be at the hotel, to which place she must -return at once—there was nothing else for her to do. -Back through the wind and the wet! She heard the -foreman’s voice in warning and entreaty swept away by -the gale as she turned; but—shaking her head—she -plunged down the road and back into the storm. Away -and away! The road ran with many a curve and turn—easy -grades, made for wagon use—; so, though -steep it was for such riding, she loped down the mountain, -while the wind, and the rain, and the roar of the -storm shut the world away.</p> - -<p>A feeling of numbness came over her, a something -that was neither terror nor awe, yet which held something -of each. As time went on she seemed to have -been riding hours innumerable—it seemed days since -she had seen a human face. Down, farther down must -she go. She was becoming exhausted, and the sleet -was chilling her to the very center of her being. It -was terrible—terrible! To reach the valley and shelter! -There on the mountain the wind shrieked and -howled about her; the air was filled with voices that -were deafening, dizzying, frightful. The horse himself -was half mad with fright. Twice he had almost -thrown her as thunder claps and flashes of lightning -had seemed to surround them on all sides. Three -miles yet to shelter! Could she stand it? But where—where<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span> -was there nearer relief? Ah! the Spencer tunnel—— There -would be safety there till the worst -of the storm was over. A turn of the rein, and Mountain -Boy was running straight for the old tunnel under -the cliffs.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Hark! What was that? There came to her ears -a great roaring that was neither the howling of the -wind, nor the rush of the rain, nor the mingled awful -sounds of the storm as she tore along the cañon. She -could see nothing of the thing she heard, for the wet -slap of the rain blinded her. Closer and closer it -came! As she slipped from the saddle at the tunnel’s -mouth, the horse—terrified at the roaring which rose -above the voice of the storm, and which was coming -nearer—broke from her, and was off and away, with a -ten-foot wall of water racing at his heels. The overtaxed -dam had bursted its bounds, and the flood was -cutting a waterway down the center of the cañon, but -below the level of the old tunnel! She was safe! But——alone, -and her horse was gone!</p> - -<p>When, more than two hours afterward, Hume Sherwood -found her, it seemed the most natural thing in the -world that he should take her in his arms, and her -head should lie on his breast, while she told him how -it had happened. Without question he claimed her as -his own; without a word she gave him her troth.</p> - -<p>“I knew you would come, Hume—I knew you would -find me,” she said, softly.</p> - -<p>“Dear!”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>So simply were they plighted to one another; so -easily does a great danger sweep away all disguises.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>When the riderless bay had come into camp, Sherwood<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span> -(half mad with an awful fear) had hurried away -to the hills, lashing his span without mercy over the -storm-washed road—or out through the open country -where the road was gullied out. When in the up-piled -drift where the flood had left it—he found the gray -campaign hat he knew so well, a sickening fear fell -upon him as though he had already looked upon the -face of the dead. At length he thought of the tunnel, -after fruitless search elsewhere; and there—in the dug-out -that had been palmed off on him as a joke on his -credulity, he found his heart’s desire. After all, Spencer’s -old store-room—his cellar-above-ground—was -worth a king’s ransom—when valued by this man and -this maid.</p> - -<p>The waters had gone down, but left the tunnel entrance -flooded; for the fallen walls of the old adobe -created a small dam which the flood overflowed. To -get past this—without wading knee-deep in the mud—was -a problem. The whirling waters had eaten away -the earth which formed the front part of the tunnel—wider -now by two feet—and in the place where the -earth had melted away stood a small box. Sherwood -put his foot against it, to pry it out of the mud.</p> - -<p>“I’ll get this out for you to stand on, dear; then -you can jump across I think, with my help.”</p> - -<p>But, deep settled into the mud and debris, it resisted -him. He went back in the tunnel and got a pick from -among the tools he had used in extending the “cellar” -to strike the ledge that wasn’t there; for the “croppings” -that had been shown him had been hauled there—salted, -to deceive the “tenderfoot.”</p> - -<p>The box refused to move, even when Sherwood’s -pick—used as a lever—was applied; so, swinging it -over his head, he brought the pick down into the box,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span> -shattering the lid into pieces. It was more than half -filled with small rusty tin cans, bearing soiled and -torn labels, on which were the printed words in colors -still bright: “Preston & Merrill’s Yeast Powder.” -A case of baking powder of a sort popular five-and-thirty -years before. Strange!</p> - -<p>Sherwood laughed. “We’ve found some of Crazy -Dan’s stores!” and attempted to take one of the little -cans. It lifted like lead. He stopped—afraid to put -it to the test—and looked at Evaleen queerly; and she -(remembering the story she had heard of Dan’s persistence -in working the cañon for placer gold) gave a -little cry as he started to open it. It seemed too much -to dare to believe—to hope for—— Yet——.</p> - -<p>He lifted the lid. Gold! The gold dust that Crazy -Dan (ay! Miser Dan) had, back in the dead years, -hoarded away in the safest place he knew; adding to it -month after month, as he delved, and died with his secret -still his own.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The Judge was at the County Seat—at the station -buying his ticket to go back to his “little girl”—when -the train from the West came in. In the dusk he -caught a glimpse of a tailor-made suit which seemed -familiar to his eye, and that made him look twice at -the wearer.</p> - -<p>“Why! Bless my soul, child—and Sherwood, too! -Well! Well! What are you doing here? I wrote to -you about it. Didn’t you get my message, Evy?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Daddy, dear; you said: ‘Be at the station tonight -ready to go home—I start from here.’ But as -everything was packed I thought I’d come up and -join you, and we could both start from here.”</p> - -<p>“And,” added Sherwood, after they had gone into<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span> -the now empty waiting-room, “I wanted to see you, sir, -before you left.”</p> - -<p>“Why, of course! Glad you came to see me off, -Sherwood. You must come down to see us, you know; -and meet mother and the girls. We’ll—— Eh! -What’s that? * * * What! * * * Evy—my little girl?”</p> - -<p>The Judge stuttered and stammered, bewildered at -the suddenness of the attack.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Sherwood talked long and earnestly; and the Judge’s -eyes wandered to the daughter who had, until now, -never seemed other than his “little girl.” But she had -“grown up” under his unseeing eyes; and now somebody -wanted to take her from him. Sherwood—— Well, -Sherwood was a fine fellow; he would make his -way in the world in spite of the luck that was against -him now.</p> - -<p>“My boy,” (and the Judge laid his hands affectionately -on the young man’s shoulders as they stood -facing each other) “I know you to be a gentleman, and -I believe you to be every inch a manly man. I want my -child to marry not what a man has made, but what he -is made of. You will win in the world’s rough and -tumble of money-making, if you’re only given a -chance; and I’ve been going to tell you that there’s a -place waiting for you in our San Francisco office when -you are ready for it. And now I’ll add, there’s a -place in my family, whenever Evy says so.</p> - -<p>“As to your not having much more than the proverbial -shilling just now, that cuts no figure with me. -Why not? Let me tell you.”</p> - -<p>He put his arm around Evaleen, drawing her to him.</p> - -<p>“This child’s mother took me ‘for better or worse’ -twenty-five years ago this very night, when I hadn’t<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span> -a dollar in the world that I could call my own—married -me on an hour’s notice, and without any wedding -guests or wedding gowns. She trusted me and loved -me well enough to take me as I was, and to trust to -the future (God bless her!) and neither of us have ever -had cause to regret it.”</p> - -<p>To have this assurance from the Judge before he -knew of the wonderful story Sherwood had to tell of -the secret of Crazy Dan’s tunnel, added to the joy of -the young people who now felt they were beloved of -the gods.</p> - -<p>The Judge’s joy over the finding of the treasure -box was even greater than Sherwood’s; for the older -man had lived long enough to realize (as a younger -generation could not) that this wealth would put many -possibilities for happiness within their reach that otherwise -might not be theirs. To them—the lovers in the -rose-dawn of youth, with love so new—love itself -seemed enough; save perhaps that the money would -make marriage a nearer possibility.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>“Darling”—and a new thought, a new hope rang -through Sherwood’s earnest tones—“do you believe -you love me as well as she—your mother—loved him?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Hume!” was all she said, but the reproach in -her eyes answered him.</p> - -<p>“Then marry me now, as she did your father, at an -hour’s notice. Here—this evening, before the train -comes. Judge, why can not this be so? What is there -to prevent our being married at once, without all the -fussing and nonsense that will be necessary if we wait -till she gets home? Let us be married here, and now, -and all go away together.”</p> - -<p>“Why, bless my soul! This takes my breath away.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span> -You young people—what whirlwinds you are! You—Yes, -yes, but—— Hey? What’s that? I did? -I know; but—— What? I should rather think it -would be a surprise to mother and the girls to bring a -son home to Christmas dinner. Oh, yes, I know; -but—— What’s that you say? Her mother did——! -Yes, yes, I know.... Well, well, my lad, I don’t know -but you’re right. Her mother—— Love is the one -thing—the rest doesn’t matter. Evy, child, it is for you -to say.”</p> - -<p>And remembering that girl of the long-ago who -twenty-five years before had gone to a penniless lover -with such a beautiful love and trust Evaleen Blaine, -putting her hand with a like trust into her lover’s, -walked with him across to the little parsonage, and -there became Hume Sherwood’s wife.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>When Cadwallader got back to the camp the next -morning, he heard much he was unprepared for; for -news travels fast where happenings are few. What -he heard did not tend to make his Christmas a merry -one.</p> - -<p>Evaleen Blaine and Hume Sherwood were now man -and wife! He did not want to believe it, yet he felt it -was true. And Sherwood had sent to the mint (from -the “Spencer” mine, too,) the largest shipment of bullion -that had ever gone out of the county! Neither -did he want to believe this—and did not. There must -be some mistake.</p> - -<p>He went over to the express office through the snow -and the cold; for the rain had turned to snow and the -Nevada winter had begun. It would be a cheerless -yule-tide for him. It was true as he had heard—true -in all particulars, except that the consignment to -the mint had been in gold dust, not in bullion.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span>Elwyn Cadwallader knew mines. Therefore he knew -ledges do not produce gold dust; and Sherwood had -owned no placers. Whatever suspicion he had of the -truth he kept to himself. It was enough for him to -know that all he had done to make Hume Sherwood the -butt of the camp, that he might all the more surely part -him from Evaleen Blaine, had been but the means of -aiding him in winning her; and that the richest joke -of the camp had proved to be rich indeed, in that it had -placed a great fortune in the hands of “the deckel-edged -tenderfoot.”</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>And here ends “The Loom of the Desert,” -as written by Idah Meacham Strobridge, -with cover design and illustrations made -by L. Maynard Dixon, and published by -the Artemisia Bindery, which is in Los -Angeles, California, at the Sign of the -Sagebrush; and completed on the Twelfth -day of December, One thousand nine hundred -and seven.</p> -</div></div> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="transnote"> -<p class="ph1">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:</p> - -<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.</p> - -<p>Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.</p> - -</div></div> - - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOOM OF THE DESERT ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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