Monday's Illustrated Word: "The Devil to Pay" by Jack Oleck (in English)

  art by Ruben Yandoc - Weird Mystery Tales #4 - DC Comics, January-February 1973.

 

 

Good Reading: “The TIDE PROJECTILE TRANSPORTATION Co.” by Will H. Gray (in English)

 

The gigantic spring of the air gun that hurled the passenger and mail projectiles from the Pacific to the Atlantic had not been compressed so tight since its construction seven years before. A combination of the highest tide of the year, and a big westerly gale had raised the mile long pontoon many feet above high water spring tide mark. The fifty-six great, steel lever arms that resembled bridge spans ground and murmured as the unaccustomed bearing surfaces came into play; and no wonder, for this tide was higher than anything the engineers of two hundred years ago had figured upon, when they constructed the piers and wharves where in days gone by the ocean liners of a slow and tedious age had tied up after their ten day journey from the Orient. To-day the water was lapping over these piers long since deserted in favor of Lake Washington, where the huge helicopters came and went in a never ending procession.

A light, two seater machine that looked as simply constructed as a birch bark canoe buzzed slowly from over the city, and hovered above the pontoon.

"How about looking over the bearings first?" suggested Max Norman, the more youthful of the two men who rejoiced in the title of District Assistant Superintendent of the Tide Transportation Projectile Co.

"Perhaps we'd better," replied Fowler, the senior man on the Pacific Coast, "then I want to take a look 'round to see how much rubbish and stuff have gone afloat. If it isn't cleared up, it may be fouling some of the small tide motors up and down the harbor."

The little machine, lifted by two propellers, and navigated by two more, buzzed along from girder to girder like a humming bird, while the engineers leaned out, and examined the twenty-four inch diameter pins on which the great levers pivoted. The propellers made no more noise than an electric fan, so that conversation in ordinary tones could be carried on in the open, boat-shaped hull.

"I hope the pilot of Number Two takes more than a casual glance at the tension gauge this morning," remarked the chief turning to his assistant.

"If he doesn't, he'll find himself dropping half way across the Atlantic. Then there'll be trouble."

"I should think one air blast from the rear end would almost take him all the way this morning. If he lets off the second, goodness knows where it'll take him."

"Personally, I think those projectiles are so protected that the pilots are inclined to become criminally negligent. Surely the barometrically operated, automatic air blast from the nose for land descents along with the shallow diving vanes, ought to be sufficient. With these new radio earth reflection and vibration releases, you might as well dispense with the pilot entirely."

"I think we shall be able to do so in a year or two," said Fowler thoughtfully. "The new springs that they are trying out at Schenectady are almost unaffected by heat or cold; that leaves only wind and atmospheric pressure to be conquered after making allowances for the tides." He paused to think, and then continued:

"The human element is holding us up more every day; the people of the last couple of centuries applied their science to everything but themselves. Every thing was thought except—— There's the whistle Settle down on the pontoon; I don't like to be buffeted about in the air pockets when Number Two leaves."

The little, varnished, boat-shaped affair with the two light masts surmounted by humming, lifting wheels, settled as gracefully as a piece of thistle-down on the flat surface of the pontoon. The two men stepped out, and strolled along eastward. The sky was full of machines, big and little, clumsy freighters, and swift official machines. Two minutes after the whistle, a rocket shot into the clear sky, and broke into a large puff of bright smoke. This was the final warning to all, that the Atlantic projectile was about to be launched. It was noticeable now, that the incoming and outgoing machines steered to right and left of the enormous steel cylinder whose piston was dragged down against that mighty spring by those fifty-six lattice-girder levers. The cylinder was at the base of the great air gun which gave the projectile an initial velocity of sixteen thousand five hundred feet per second.

 

Even in this age of wonders, people still turned aside, or came out of their houses to witness the start of Number Two, just as two hundred years had before, people had looked up whenever an airplane buzzed over head, and before that again, the daily train was the occasion for everyone in the small town to congregate at the depot.

"Five seconds more," murmured Max Norman, and both came to a standstill.

With a tremendous jar and shriek of parted air, the huge projectile was hurled nearly on the vertical into the blue sky, where it disappeared almost at once. The pontoon on which the two men were standing slowly rose two feet, with the relaxing of the enormous spring when the air had left the cylinder.

"She went quite fast," remarked the chief, watching the air ships being buffeted about in the disturbed atmosphere. "Faster than ever I've seen," Max assured his chief. "I hope the pilot isn't asleep," he continued, "for there was to be five pounds of radium aboard, going east, and there'll be a fuss if it goes astray."

"Just call headquarters, will you please?" exclaimed Fowler, "and find out who is piloting Number Two."

The junior engineer took from his pocket a little, square case about the size of a match box. He turned a small dial and pressed several buttons before making the inquiry in an ordinary tone of voice. Out of the instrument came the reply at once.

"So it’s the lady pilot," mused the chief. "We are up against the human element again. I've had the thought-recording machine on her twice now, and each time I got a negative graph. It just means that she thought resistant to these old type recorders. Several times I've asked the directors for one of the newest machines. But you know how hard it is to persuade the heads of these big companies to keep abreast of the times. In fact they said that any one who had sufficient intelligence to resist the old machine, either didn’t need watching, or was too good for the job, and should be promoted. They forget that it was a thought-resister who put Number Three in the bog, out of which it took us seven days to get it. It was a partial thought resister who lost Number Four six years ago."

"Funny it has never been found."

"Well, I was only a student at the time, but I always had the idea that they should have looked further afield, You see, they just assumed that it fell somewhere between here and New York, within fifty miles or so on either side of the direct course."

"It couldn’t very well happen again," exclaimed Max Norman. "With the new recorders, we know to half a mile where they are at any time."

"Yes, but it's a nuisance digging them out of holes, and fishing them out of the sea, and there's always a chance that some one may get hurt, and then of course there's an inquiry and a lot of fool questions and still more foolish suggestions for the future by old fogies who have never in their lives travelled faster than five hundred miles an hour.

"I feel sorry for this girl pilot, because she is of abnormal intelligence. She ranks in the eighty-seven zone, and when you remember that there are only seven hundred people on the earth who have reached the ninetieth, you see how she is wasting her talents piloting for us."

"Well, why is she doing it, when she might be doing much better work?”

"That’s just the trouble. Unfortunately for her, she is of the matrimonial type, and wants to have children. A century ago when eugenics were first brought into use, we tried to breed infant prodigies and mathematical marvels, but through our mitakes, we got instead a crop of lunatics; now we limit the combined intelligence to one hundred and ten, and get splendid results. Therefore the poor girl must choose a man of the twenty-third degree of intelligence or less—corresponding to the clever men of nineteen-ten to nineteen-twenty. Can you blame her for not wanting to tie up with such a man? He would be "too slow to catch cold" an expression used in those far-off days.

"It seems a pity that our brainiest people should be denied a family if they desire one, but people of such intelligence should be far too busy to even think of such things."

"Did you hear the whistle announcing the safe landing of Number Two? That whistle is only a survival of the times when projectile travelling was considered an extra risk, and we had actually to insure the passengers specially."

"No, I didn’t hear it. Just call the head office again, please, and ask if they arrived safely."

Again Max Norman took out the little instrument, and called the office. Both men stiffened up, and looked serious as the spoken words came rather haltingly from the tiny loud speaker."“No, Number Two has not landed in New York."

"What does the recording chart say?" shouted Fowler impatiently.

"Well, Sir, the chart—the chart ran out of ink as the projectile passed Chicago."

 

The movements of the chief were incredibly swift. His first outburst of language was also incredible. The people in that office responsible for the instrument's running out of ink got the same old blowing-up, only a hundred times more cutting, more sarcastic, as the people who made stupid mistakes two centuries before. From his pocket, Fowler took a larger, more complicated instrument and called every large city over which the projectile had travelled and many of the air liners under its high path through the rarefied air, where the meteor dust whirls endlessly around the earth.

There was just a slight clue, and it carried an ominous message. When approaching New York, the projectile pilot had asked for position, stating their finder had been jarred out of order. Here was the wretched, double contingency that was always upsetting things. Two minutes and forty seconds later, the projectile had sent an S. O. S. call that was never finished. Now where was the projectile? When they were given position they were at a very great height, and they still had velocity to carry them a thousand miles. The pilot had the means of steering anywhere—even doubling back on her course, if need be. They also had the means to communicate from the air, from under water, from two hundred feet deep in the earth. There was a dead silence from the projectile. The reserve spring, kept compressed for emergencies, hurled the two engineers to New York in a shade over seventeen minutes. Even during the trip, they had engaged the very best brains of the world to help in the search.

When Miss Henrietta Morgan—to give her her simple name devoid of letters and numbers denoting her qualifications—entered the pilot house of Number Two projectile, she was not thinking of high tides, or gauges, or meters, or complicated direction finders, or the dozens of other intricate instruments that lined the little steel compartment. She was thinking how nice it would be to have a little home of her own, in the country, with a garden and happy children around her. But the husband? That was the sticking point. She could not reconcile herself to the idea of a husband with a mentality of only twenty-three out of a possible hundred units of intelligence. Her beauty was most striking in spite of the severity of dress demanded by the strenuous, mechanical age, and many men had looked at her and regretted the barriers.

She pressed the button that showed that she was all ready, and immediately the starter, below in his office, pulled the trigger. A slight jar was the only effect of that gigantic air blast, so well did the shock absorbers and antigravitators do their work. These shock absorbers depended on the wonderful resilient qualities of rubber foam, a substance similar to, but many times lighter than, rubber sponge. The inner casing of the projectile rested on many layers of this aerated material; each succeeding layer taking up the pressure when the preceding ones had been pressed almost flat. Thus the action really resembled that of a man jumping off a very high building into a succession of blankets, each absorbing its share of the shock before letting him go through into the next. Besides these appliances there were cushions several feet deep in which the occupants sank completely out of sight when the gun was fired, and then came slowly up again.

Henrietta Morgan had not bothered to look at the tension gauge before entering the projectile; nor was she aware of any difference, as the great shell hurtled up into the blue sky, leaving the world many miles beneath, a dull, blue surface, with no clear detail visible.

The first and second air blasts from the rear end to increase the velocity, went off at their appointed times before she realized that conditions were abnormal. Suddenly she noticed that the hands of the velocity gauge were jammed against the end of the scale. Her first thought was that it was broken, but a glance at the altitude and temperature gauges convinced her that they were far higher up than usual. She switched on the position indicator, only to find that it was out of order. Glancing back into the passenger compartment, she saw that she had two women and three men in her charge, besides the registered mail. Bending again to her switchboard, she turned the miniature wheels that, by remote control, actuated the resistance rings that projected through slots in the shell out into the cold, rarefied air. Pressing some little buttons, she called New York and Chicago, and asked for position; the answer astonished her.

She was already over New York, three minutes ahead of time.

Viciously she shot out two inches of resistance ring, all round. A whirring shriek was followed by a grinding tear as the vanes were carried away. There were emergency vanes of course, and she turned the spare dial. There was no response; the emergancy vanes were stiff from neglect. The human element again! They could still be turned out by a hand wheel in the passenger compartment: "Please turn that wheel quickly." Alas for her peremptory intonation! Human nature was much the same, after two hundred years.

"Young lady, if you are in such a hurry, come and turn it yourself."

She had disturbed the man just at the climax of a good yarn, when no man likes to be interrupted. Jumping into the saloon, she twisted the big wheel with might and main. Glancing out through the forward port hole of quartz glass, she was horrified to see water where blue sky should have been. The projectile was heading earthward with frightful velocity. The broken vane had done it. Springing back with lightning agility, she hit two buttons simultaneously. One operated the forward air blast to check the speed, the other an S. O. S call. A fraction of a second later, they struck the water with an ear-splitting crash, and dived to the bottom, where they glanced sideways off a great rust and weed encrusted object, and continued their journey a hundred feet into the mud of the Atlantic bottom.

 

The big, rusty object rolled slowly, first to port and then to starboard. The writhing coil of an ancient telegraph cable fell away from its propellor, where it had held it fast so many years. A few bubbles rose; and slowly at first, but with increasing speed, the great object came to the surface.

A ray of sunshine shone through a heavy, glass porthole that had been kept clean for two hundred years by the little sea snails industriously licking the slime off the glass. The light flickered on the gray face of a man in uniform, who had lain there for two centuries in a state of suspended animation. His friends had known him as Roger Wells, back in the year nineteen seventeen when the Great War was in full swing.

He opened his eyes, sat up, and jumped to his feet. As he did so his clothes fell off him in rags. His features twitched with pain. Damn his old enemy, the rheumatism! Twenty-five out of forty years at sea had put lines of care about those clean cut features. The Great War culminating in his swift dive to the bottom to avoid being rammed, had ended his career, so far as that age of strife was concerned.

How he and his imprisoned crew had worked to free the submarine from that all-embracing, telegraph cable wound tightly around the propeller and over the conning tower! It was only after several days that he had swallowed the deadly narcotic given to him by a doctor friend in reserve for such a time. The doctor had never tried the effect of hydrogen on this new drug. The escaping fumes from the battery of the submarine mingled with the gas in the man's lungs formed a new substance akin to that isolated in the bodies of tiny rotifers by a scientist of nineteen seventy five. These little wheel animalcules had long puzzled the world by their power of remaining dormant in a dried up state for years, and blossoming into full, active life when placed in a drop of water under the microscope.

Lieutenant Commander Roger Wells put his hand to his brow and looked puzzled. He sat down, and surveyed the pile of rags that had been his clothes. He picked up a handful of the crumbly material of which the gold lace alone remained intact. He was fully awake and conscious now. Groping his way to the conning tower, he saw, in the dim light, the chart protected by a sheet of glass that he had kept marked up to the very last, and the final resting place where he had written "finish" in small letters. He remembered how how he had looked up at the picture of one of the world's powerful rulers, and saluted, uttering the famous words of the gladiators of ancient Rome when they greeted Caesar in the arena before fighting it out to the death for his amusement. "Ave, Caesar! morituri te salutamus," "Hail, Caesar, we who are about to die, salute you." Then he had gone to his cabin, and taken the drug. Now he was alive, and the submarine was heaving up and down gently on the surface of a calm, late autumn sea.

He could not understand the dreadful corrosion and decay. He touched a gauge; it fell to pieces a mass of rust and verdigris. He tried to open the manhole leading out on deck; it was rusted fast. Getting a sledge hammer, he knocked off the fastenings, and the fresh tang of the sea air greeted him in his dungeon, and put the color back into his gray cheeks.

Coming out he looked around in utter astonishment. "We must have been down there nearly a year, by the look of things," he muttered, walking along the slippery deck among the weeds where strange sea monsters stuck out their heads at him, and wriggled back under cover.

Towards the stern was a great dent in the hull, and the metal plates were clean and bright.

"Looks as if we'd been in collision lately," he remarked to himself, "I must see about it."

Groping his way inside again, he felt all around the indentation until a spurt of water confirmed his fears.

"Well I'm glad I'm on the surface where I have a run for my money," he mused. "I never did like being sealed up like a sardine in a can."

He thought of the canvass folding boat, but it, too, had crumbled to dust, and the life belts were in same condition.

"I can swim for two hours or more if the sharks don't get me, and this old craft is good for quite a while yet.

His eyes were getting accustomed to the strong light, and suddenly his gaze became fixed on something in the heavens.

"Looks like a zeppelin, but the shape isn't quite the same; however they've probably improved them while I've been down below in this tin fish. I wonder if the old war is still on, and who's winning."

Presently he went below again, and spent an hour in the dark, trying to plug the leak with the remains of his clothing. When he came up again there was a small pleasure yacht, of a design he had never seen before, within half a mile. He waved, and the people aboard saw him. He scrambled for the chart house, where he wildly searched for something to wear.

Now he stood on the sinking submarine, clothed in a chart.

"Did you see anything of Number Two projectile from the Pacific?" called out a short stout man in yachting costume, who appeared to be the owner of the yacht.

"I'm afraid I didn't, but can you lend me some clothes?" was his reply.

 

The people on the yacht were astonished at his story, accustomed as they were to strange happenings. He learned that it was a common practice to suspend animation in criminals who could not be reformed, and leave them to be judged and dealt with by a future and less prejudiced generation. To him, his present situation seemed absolutely incredible. Two hundred years; Impossible! They must surely be movie actors on this ship, covered with inventions and innovations of which he, a leader in his own age, knew nothing. The things that he now saw were just a beginning, for in less than an hour, in answer to the ship's broadcast, they were surrounded by airships of every type. No one seemed to bother about Roger Wells, the old world man, except a medical health officer who tested his mentality, and innoculated him against every known disease. A little later, while he stood leaning over the rail of the yacht, a great projectile hurtled down with a roar like a thunderbolt not a hundred yards away, and pulled itself up so that it only went about twenty feet under water. It bore an eminent engineer direct from Italy.

The dent in the rusty submarine had been noticed by those on the yacht, from a distance, and they had unerringly come to the right conclusion. The chart helped them considerably, for with so many wrecks scattered about the ocean floor, it meant time wasted to examine each, for their instruments only indicated a mass of metal and not its shape or size with any degree of accuracy.

"Tell me about this projectile, and how it works?" inquired the ancient young man of his host, as they stood watching the preparations for what promised to be a stupendous task.

"It's really very simple. These projectiles are hurled up into the rarefied air by an air gun, the spring of which is compressed by the tide, or other means, to the required tension; then a couple of air blasts from the rear end will take it almost anywhere. They are only partly automatic, so far, and each one must have a pilot to steer it, and stop it, and communicate with the outside world in case of trouble."

"To my old fashioned notions it seems a far riskier job than the one from which I had been so miraculously saved. How often do they go wrong and get lost like this one?"

"Bless you! It hasn't happened for several years. You see the pilot of this one is a lady, and it appears she must have let her mind wander a bit, because her recorded course as far as Chicago indicates that she had done nothing up to then to retard the projectile, although travelling over three miles per second, and far higher than usual."

"Surely you cannot pilot the course of a projectile through the air like you can a ship at sea?"

"Of course we can, only more accurately. I believe wireless direction finders were beginning in your day. Is it not natural that we should have improved them? We use two recording charts, one for the vertical, and the other for the horizontal course. The triangulation is automatic, and makes a dot on the chart that indicates the position every half mile. In particular case, the chart indicates a smooth, regular curve with two humps where the air blasts were let off, just as it would in the case of an unguided projectile. At Chicago, as you know, the double pen-inker ran dry, and that ends the record. Usually these charts show slight ups and downs, so that even the characteristics of the individual pilot can be recognized, just as the flight of a certain pilot could be told on your day."

"All this is clear enough now that you explain it, but I cannot conceive anyone quick enough to turn on the air blast that shoots out of the nose of your projectiles at the exact instant that will check it as it touches the ground."

"Intelligence and practice, nothing else. If you hadn't the intelligence you couldn't do it; practice is all that is necessary. Why, man! In your day they had jugglers who could do feats of conjuring too quickly for the eye to follow. But besides all that, there are automatic controls that turn on the front air blast at the exact time required to counteract the velocity. I am told that the pilots do not consider it good form to use the automatic controls except in emergencies."

"What went wrong with this projectile?"

"Ah well, you see a woman is still an unknown quantity. I'll admit they are much more brainy, but for dependability and consideration, I prefer the man. This woman pilot has missed her vocation, because she is too clever. In this age very clever people are seldom matrimonially inclined. Miss Morgan is the exception. She wants to marry and have a family."

"Then why doesn't she do it?"

"Because she is too intelligent."

"What in the name of heaven has that to do with it?"

"I'm afraid you do not understand these matters yet, but if she married a man of her own intelligence, the chances are her children would be fools or abnormal in some way."

"Well, then what's to stop her marrying a man of less intelligence?"

"She ranks in the eighty seventh division, and as the maximum for husband and wife is one hundred and ten, you see she would have to marry a man of twenty three units or less. How could you expect a pretty, highspirited, clever girl to be willing to do that?"

"Twenty-three? That visiting doctor of yours tested my brain with all sorts of contrivances and tests, and finally put me down at twenty-one."

"Oh, I never thought. I beg your pardon! But you belong to a different age, and the standards are not the same. In most ways you should be at least fifty units; I'm forty eight myself. Naturally enough they can't quite place you yet, but probably they will regrade you when they see how you respond to modern ways of life. If in your day, for instance, some of those Egyptologists had discovered a Pharaoh still alive under a pyramid, where would they have placed him in your society? He might have wanted to kill every one he didn't like, or take somebody's wife, or do a hundred things that weren't done in your day. Many changes have been effected since your time, so you musn't mind being regarded with suspicion until you are better known."

Roger Wells was secretly much amused at his host's confusion. He thought it a great joke that he should be regarded as a sort of savage resurrected from the middle ages.

"I don't mind it at all, so long as they don't put me in the zoo or exhibit me on the stage, or dissect me in the medical school," he laughingly replied.

The old world man relapsed into silence and deep thought as to what he was to do in this strange new world, where he had no friends or equals and so very little in common with this new, intellectual race.

"A general broadcast news bulletin," exclaimed his host, taking out the little communicator and adjusting the dial until an orange spot appeared. Presently the voice of the announcer came clear and sharp from the miniature instrument:

"Number Two projectile from the Pacific is at last in communication with the outside world. It appears that the glancing blow when it struck the sunken submarine caused a sideway shock that was not wholly taken up by the shock absorbers, consequently several of the instruments were smashed, including the communicator. Miss Morgan, the pilot, being an exceptionally clever young woman, at once set to work rebuilding the broken equipment. Considering her tools and lack of spare parts, her skill in repairing the sending set is considered a very clever piece of work. The projectile contains oxygen for five days and food tablets for a month, beside the chemical in the medicine chest for suspending animation in case of necessity. The noted engineers now assembled have calculated that three days will be sufficient to complete the rescue."

 

Miss Henrietta Morgan had been told all about the old world man and his survival in the long lost submarine. Since she had been the unconscious cause of his deliverance, she expressed a desire to speak to him. To his surprise and delight, he was conducted to a small dark room on the yacht, hung with black velvet curtains. Here he not alone heard her, but he saw her projected in the air from a series of lenses arranged in semicircle. At first, he thought he had really been transferred to the projectile in some extraordinary way. But when he stood up to shake hands with her, he realized that it was only reflected light in perfect perspective. He knew that she could not see him, for she was looking directly at her transmitter as she talked. She was very beautiful, and there was a softness about her features that reminded him of girls he once had known. To him she seemed a link to the past.

They found they had several things in common. Like many sailors, his ultimate desire was a home, a garden in the country, to say nothing of a wife as well. He gave her a sketch of his career, and she told him quite frankly of her thwarted ambitions. He was just a little surprised, until he learned that this was an age of plain speaking, which left no room for mock modesty or simpering coyness. He thought it would be wise, however, to withhold from her his intelligence-rating. If she knew, she would be looking for signs of imbecility, he thought.

Soon an enormous pontoon was constructed of small, boat-like units that fitted together into the shape of a huge doughnut nearly a mile in outside circumference. Tons and tons of pipe were laid down by freight airships, and men and machinery assembled the pipe in the enclosed lake in the centre of the pontoon.These pipes were in a ring almost touching, and reached to the bottom of the ocean. More pipes formed an inner ring. Now a hundred refrigerating ships lit down on the pontoon, and coupled up with the pipes. After several hours, there was a wall of ice fifty feet thick enclosing a circular space of three hundred feet and extending right to the bottom. Was the space in the middle pumped out? No, two beams of electrical energy were directed into it from the sky, and the water left the great ice tube in huge columns of vapour. Machines hovering above fanned away the steam, so that it would not fall in a drenching, tropical rain on the operators.

All this time Roger Wells, the ancient man, watched and observed and grew accustomed to all these strange, new wonders.

His host in the pleasure yacht was very kind. He even sent to the New York zoo, and had some animal flesh sent out for his guest to eat. However Roger decided to turn vegetarian when he noticed the horror of his host's children when they saw him eat 'dead animal,' as they put it.

He was able to grasp his true position when he tried to match his wits with these children of eight, ten, and twelve. After showing the youngest how to play chess with an improvised set, he was able to beat him twice, but never again. The doctor had rated him at twenty-one units of intelligence; now he wondered if that was not too high.

Spectators had come from all over the world to witness the rescue of Number Two projectile. The work was well in hand, and since twenty-four hours had not yet passed since the disaster, there was no alarm felt for the safety of the prisoners.

All that night the sky was bright as day with search-lights. Toward morning the men in charge became anxious, for a great storm was brewing over the north pole, and in spite of the fact that a fleet of airships were trying to head it off by every known method, it continued to swirl southward. Hence the feverish activity to complete the work before the storm broke.

By noon the next day the storm raged while these super-men stood by, helpless.

The greatest shock of all came when Miss Morgan sent out a message informing them, that, for some reason, the medicine chest was not aboard, and therefore they were without the chemicals that would suspend animation when the oxygen supply was gone.

The last chance had failed. They could not possibly be rescued in the remaining time before the oxygen was exhausted.

Now, for once, the old-world man saw consternation on the faces of these modern marvels. Death from accident was more or less common, but the thought of a lingering death from suffocation was something that seemed to upset them completely.

 

Up to the present he had simply watched, and tried to absorb all that he saw. In this overwhelming emergency his brain began to function costructively again, for quick thinking is second nature to a submarine officer.

His thoughts ran along many lines. Why could they not run a pipe down to supply air? Not with such a sea running, and even if they could, the boring and joining to the chilled steel projectile would be almost impossible under such pressure. Then he thought of the air blast. Surely the blast of air capable of stopping the projectile would be able to blow it backwards until it reached the water, and floated to the surface. All in vain. The compressed air had all been used in a final effort to stop the projectile on its fatal plunge.

All this time the little pleasure yacht had been suspended in mid air by a powerful air tug which had picked her up at the first signs of bad weather. This seemed a very unnautical proceeding to the old world man, in fact, as unnautical as steam to his grandfather who had commanded a frigate in sailing days.

"Surely," he thought, "there must be some way out with the marvellous inventions and equipment available. Could it not be blasted out with one of his rusty old torpedoes?" No, reason told him that it would blow the people in the projectile to pieces, if it reached them at all.

He called Miss Morgan from the little room where he could see and talk to her as privately as if they were really alone together. She spoke with regret that she would never meet him in the flesh, or even see his picture, for the projectile was not fitted for receptive vision.

Then they talked long and earnestly of the might-have-beens of life, always working around to the house and garden in the country where happy children laughed and played. "Goodbye," he said at last, "we have missed happiness in this world by a hair's breadth, perhaps we shall gain it in the next world."

Down on the storm-tossed ocean, the engineers fought the elements with dogged perseverance. Tons and tons of oil had been poured on the troubled waters, more ice barriers had been frozen, but time was slipping by, and they were making little headway.

After he switched off from talking to Miss Morgan, the ancient man sat with his head in his hands thinking of the lottery of life: one day up, the next down. One day free as air, the next confined in the deepest dungeon. "Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die," yes, that was it, "In the midst of life we are in death," "Like a flower in the field—" What was that fleeting thought that seemed to break in on his reverie?

Radium! Radium! why had he not thought of it before? Were there not five pounds of it aboard the projectile? Would not five pounds of radium let loose, disintegrate enough water into gas to blow the projectile to the surface, or to kingdom come?

"Miss Morgan! Miss Morgan!" he called frantically into the little transmitter. "Can't you get some of that radium into your air blast compression chamber and some water along with it? There ought soon to be enough pressure to blow yourself out backwards?"

 

"I never thought of it," she exclaimed. "I'll just call up the Radium Institute, and ask them the best way to use it."

Within an hour Miss Morgan had let off the first blast, which shot the projectile fourteen feet backwards and that much nearer freedom. Breathlessly the world waited for the result of the next blast.

A wave of rejoicing spread over the earth when the next shot indicated twenty seven feet nearer liberty.

All eyes were fixed on the little patch of comparatively calm water in the centre of the great raft. Those standing on its heaving surface could feel the dull thuds as blast after blast was fired in the depths beneath. It was fortunate, indeed, that this projectile was shuttle shaped and rounded at the rear end, otherwise it might not have kept its direction, and it is very doubtful if Miss Morgan could have done anything in the way of steering, as the vanes would almost certainly have been torn off by its pressure through the mud and shale of the sea bottom.

At last the projectile shot to the surface with a mighty rush, and leaped fifty feet into the air. As it did so Miss Morgan left off a final blast that shot it up backwards several miles. Then, to the astonishment of all the watchers, and most of all the old world man, the great projectile came swooping down in a graceful curve, and turned up again as if to skim over the yacht suspended from the great air tug above. Would it actually go between the supporting cables? It did. The pilot lit on the deck of the yacht with her great weight of tempered steel without even displacing a deck chair. The yacht and air tug sank two hundred feet before the pilot speeded up his lifting propellors sufficiently to counteract the extra weight.

Real emotion now broke loose. Brilliant rockets were fired off in thousands, and countless, coloured balloons of every shape and size were thrown from machines doing the most extraordinary gyrations in the air. They were able to act together in perfect unity just as trained armies do after several years of drill and practice. A hundred machines acting together represented a great wheel rolling slowly across the sky. Others would rush into the sky in a group, and then suddenly spread out like a bursting rocket.

All this was performed above a roaring, tumbling sea that in the old days would have driven everything to shelter, if it could be reached, save the largest ocean ships.

 

 

When Miss Morgan swung open the balanced steel door and stepped out, the old world man was the first to grasp her by the hand. In the flesh, she was even more beautiful than her projected picture showed her to be. It was a case of love at first sight.

Later, she explained many puzzling things to him. The transmission of power—mostly tide and water power—could be directed through space by means of a sort of beam wave concentrated on the receptive point and kept there by a whole series of delicate relays. Of course, storage of electricity had greatly improved, liquid electrolyte having long been displaced by a heavy gas impregnated with radium salts; the grids were of the finest metal gauze. Every airship had not one but several sources of reserve power, so that they could travel for days independently of the central station. There was still another source of reserve power in everyday use that astonished the old-world man by its simplicity—just the ordinary coil spring that drove the watches and clocks and phonographs, and pressed up the street car trolley poles when they slipped off the wire. Even the children of this new age had little clockwork helicopters that when wound up at a free winding-station would carry them a couple of miles. They seemed to be perfectly safe, for when the spring ran down, they came slowly to the ground.

It was evening, the storm had died away, and the yacht was again floating on the slightly heaving surface of the ocean. The owner and his family had retired, and the ship was heading leisurely south for Bermuda. In the moonlight Miss Morgan and Roger Wells slowly paced the deck. They were not talking very much, but they were thinking a great deal. He was wondering if men proposed and got married in this age as they had in the beginning of the twentieth century. She was feeling the old rebellious feeling against the powers that made the laws. Here was a man whom she could really like, but she supposed he was rated at least in the fortieth division or higher.

At last she turned to him and said "Have you been rated by the doctor yet?"

His face fell, for he felt that his answer would mean the end of their friendship. The words of his host came forcefully back to him, "How do you expect a clever, high spirited girl to marry a man rated below 23?" And he was rated only twenty-one units of intelligence out of a possible hundred. And she had eighty-seven!

She saw the look of misery cross his face, and felt glad.

"He must like me," she thought, "for he is sad that our combined intelligence stands between us."

At last he replied with a deep sigh: "Twenty-one units."

She gazed at him in bewildered astonishment, and then—: "In that case there is nothing to stop us getting married at once," she replied.

"Nothing," he agreed, "if you can stand a husband of such low mentality."

She laughed joyously, "Intelligence tests and rating may be necessary in this age, but they have very little to do with real love. However we must hurry, for I feel sure that they will realize that a mistake has been made; then they will send another doctor, or appoint a commission to go into your case thoroughly. If they give you a much higher rating all our lovely plans will be destroyed.

"I have an idea," she exclaimed a few minutes later. "As you know, we will be in Bermuda in a couple of days, and there will he a great reception. I have yet to give my official account of the accident; then there will be many people to see you, and," she laughed, "you will be lucky if they don't put you in the museum!"

"I don't care so long as they mount you on the next pedestal." he smilingly replied.

"You must be serious," she exclaimed, "while I explain, for we cannot risk our happiness now; I could not live without you."

"Nor I without you," he vowed, holding her closely.

"My plan is to leave at once for the mainland, and get married quietly at some little place. Once married they cannot separate us without our consent."

"How can we leave the yacht?" he questioned; "we could not row to land."

"Take one of the flying life boats" she explained. "We won't be missed until morning.”

"I hardly like to do it," he explained, "our host has been so kind and considerate, I am even wearing some of his clothes at the present moment."

"I will leave a note explaining it all to him, and he'll understand. We might even return to the yacht after we are married, and proceed to Bermuda."

"That would be splendid," he exclaimed.

 

With the greatest caution they undid the fastenings of the little lifeboat. A glance into the pilot house where gyrocompass, depth indicators, fog warnings, and many other instruments made it quite unnecessary to have an officer on constant duty, assured them that they could slip away unseen and unheard.

With just a faint humming they shot off into the darkness, and headed due west. She taught him how to manage the little craft, and then lay down to sleep while he remained at the controls. Presently the sun came up out of the sea behind them bathing the distant land ahead of them with rosy light. It seemed a glorious prospect for the crowning event in the lives of these two who had been kept apart by centuries and by land and water, and still had to use all their ingenuity to accomplish their purpose.

Gently he woke her, and she navigated the little craft to a perfect landing near a small town. Here he saw many of the wonderful things he had been told about. The registrar was not yet in his office, so they repaired to a restaurant for breakfast.

"How do we pay?" he asked feeling awkward because he had no money.

"We just give our numbers," she said, "and the State settles our food account, for everyone is entitled to three meals a day. Other things that we buy are charged to our accounts which can be verified almost instantly. The luxuries that we enjoy are in proportion to the service we perform for the good of the public. We will just inquire how you stand."

Using her pocket communicator she was soon in touch with the right department, and was informed that Roger Wells, late lieutenant commander of the submarine U5 had been duly registered as a world citizen, and credited with one thousand units pending his entry into a suitable vocation. As a further token of appreciation for his suggestion for recovering Number Two projectile the Government would present him with any airplane or flying machine he chose up to five thousand horse power.

"How splendid," she exclaimed, "just the thing for our honeymoon."

"Will it cost much to run?" he asked anxiously.

"Oh, no! You are allowed a reasonable amount of power free. I think it will be half a million miles a year for a five thousand horse machine."

"It sounds too good to be true," he rejoiced.

A few minutes later they stood before the registrar.

"So you wish to be married at once?" he inquired.

"Yes, at once," They both answered him.

"I'll just call up the chief registry department, and verify these particulars."

They waited a little nervously for the result.

"I think it would be better to postpone your marriage," he said at last. "Your rating, Miss Morgan, is very high, and the authorities tell me that Roger Wells will probably be rerated very shortly. His new rating added to yours might bring your combined rating above the allowable maximum."

"You have the particulars before you, and you have verified them; we insist on being married at once."

"It is your right, if you insist," he agreed.

"We do insist," exclaimed both together.

In a few minutes the simple ceremony was over, and they were pronounced man and wife, "for as long as you both desire it," following the custom that marriage is an earthly arrangement and useless when it becomes repugnant to the parties concerned.

Their very first act was to call up the yacht, and tell the astonished owner what they had done. He had only just missed them, and had been wondering what he should do. Their return would make everything right, and they could continue to Bermuda just as everything had been planned. Soon they were on their return journey, and Roger Wells expressed the utmost astonishment when his bride of an hour switched on the automatic recording chart which not alone marked their course, but that of the yacht, so that to have missed them would have been impossible.

Great was the rejoicing on board that evening when they returned. News of their marriage was broadcast.

Later a message came from the Government saying that Roger Wells had been appointed to assist the Historical experts of the National Library in going over the records of his period.

Now, as he faced this new world, he did not feel lonely any more, for all the dreams of his life were coming true, and his beautiful and gifted wife was radiant with joy.

 

The End

Friday's Sung Word: "Tarzan, o Filho do Alfaiate" by Noel Rosa (in Portuguese)

Quem foi que disse que eu era forte?
Nunca pratiquei esporte, nem conheço futebol...
O meu parceiro sempre foi o travesseiro
E eu passo o ano inteiro sem ver um raio de sol
A minha força bruta reside
Em um clássico cabide, já cansado de sofrer
Minha armadura é de casimira dura
Que me dá musculatura, mas que pesa e faz doer

Eu poso pros fotógrafos, e destribuo autógrafos
A todas as pequenas lá da praia de manhã
Um argentino disse, me vendo em Copacabana:
'No hay fuerza sobre-humana que detenga este Tarzan'

De lutas não entendo abacate
Pois o meu grande alfaiate não faz roupa pra brigar
Sou incapaz de machucar uma formiga
Não há homem que consiga nos meus músculos pegar
Cheguei até a ser contratado
Pra subir em um tablado, pra vencer um campeão
Mas a empresa, pra evitar assassinato
Rasgou logo o meu contrato quando me viu sem roupão.

 

You can listen "Tarzan, o Filho do Alfaiate" sung by Almirante here.

Thursday's Serial: “The Light of Western Stars” by Zane Grey (in English) - II

II - SECRET KEPT

Because of that singular reply Madeline found faith to go farther with the cowboy. But at the moment she really did not think about what he had said. Any answer to her would have served if it had been kind. His silence had augmented her nervousness, compelling her to voice her fear. Still, even if he had not replied at all she would have gone on with him. She shuddered at the idea of returning to the station, where she believed there had been murder; she could hardly have forced herself to go back to those dim lights in the street; she did not want to wander around alone in the dark.

And as she walked on into the windy darkness, much relieved that he had answered as he had, reflecting that he had yet to prove his words true, she began to grasp the deeper significance of them. There was a revival of pride that made her feel that she ought to scorn to think at all about such a man. But Madeline Hammond discovered that thought was involuntary, that there were feelings in her never dreamed of before this night.

Presently Madeline's guide turned off the walk and rapped at a door of a low-roofed house.

“Hullo—who's there?” a deep voice answered.

“Gene Stewart,” said the cowboy. “Call Florence—quick!”

Thump of footsteps followed, a tap on a door, and voices. Madeline heard a woman exclaim: “Gene! here when there's a dance in town! Something wrong out on the range.” A light flared up and shone bright through a window. In another moment there came a patter of soft steps, and the door opened to disclose a woman holding a lamp.

“Gene! Al's not—”

“Al is all right,” interrupted the cowboy.

Madeline had two sensations then—one of wonder at the note of alarm and love in the woman's voice, and the other of unutterable relief to be safe with a friend of her brother's.

“It's Al's sister—came on to-night's train,” the cowboy was saying. “I happened to be at the station, and I've fetched her up to you.”

Madeline came forward out of the shadow.

“Not—not really Majesty Hammond!” exclaimed Florence Kingsley. She nearly dropped the lamp, and she looked and looked, astounded beyond belief.

“Yes, I am really she,” replied Madeline. “My train was late, and for some reason Alfred did not meet me. Mr.—Mr. Stewart saw fit to bring me to you instead of taking me to a hotel.”

“Oh, I'm so glad to meet you,” replied Florence, warmly. “Do come in. I'm so surprised, I forget my manners. Why, Al never mentioned your coming.”

“He surely could not have received my messages,” said Madeline, as she entered.

The cowboy, who came in with her satchel, had to stoop to enter the door, and, once in, he seemed to fill the room. Florence set the lamp down upon the table. Madeline saw a young woman with a smiling, friendly face, and a profusion of fair hair hanging down over her dressing-gown.

“Oh, but Al will be glad!” cried Florence. “Why, you are white as a sheet. You must be tired. What a long wait you had at the station! I heard the train come in hours ago as I was going to bed. That station is lonely at night. If I had known you were coming! Indeed, you are very pale. Are you ill?”

“No. Only I am very tired. Traveling so far by rail is harder than I imagined. I did have rather a long wait after arriving at the station, but I can't say that it was lonely.”

Florence Kingsley searched Madeline's face with keen eyes, and then took a long, significant look at the silent Stewart. With that she deliberately and quietly closed a door leading into another room.

“Miss Hammond, what has happened?” She had lowered her voice.

“I do not wish to recall all that has happened,” replied Madeline. “I shall tell Alfred, however, that I would rather have met a hostile Apache than a cowboy.”

“Please don't tell Al that!” cried Florence. Then she grasped Stewart and pulled him close to the light. “Gene, you're drunk!”

“I was pretty drunk,” he replied, hanging his head.

“Oh, what have you done?”

“Now, see here, Flo, I only—”

“I don't want to know. I'd tell it. Gene, aren't you ever going to learn decency? Aren't you ever going to stop drinking? You'll lose all your friends. Stillwell has stuck to you. Al's been your best friend. Molly and I have pleaded with you, and now you've gone and done—God knows what!”

“What do women want to wear veils for?” he growled. “I'd have known her but for that veil.”

“And you wouldn't have insulted her. But you would the next girl who came along. Gene, you are hopeless. Now, you get out of here and don't ever come back.”

“Flo!” he entreated.

“I mean it.”

“I reckon then I'll come back to-morrow and take my medicine,” he replied.

“Don't you dare!” she cried.

Stewart went out and closed the door.

“Miss Hammond, you—you don't know how this hurts me,” said Florence. “What you must think of us! It's so unlucky that you should have had this happen right at first. Now, maybe you won't have the heart to stay. Oh, I've known more than one Eastern girl to go home without ever learning what we really are cut here. Miss Hammond, Gene Stewart is a fiend when he's drunk. All the same I know, whatever he did, he meant no shame to you. Come now, don't think about it again to-night.” She took up the lamp and led Madeline into a little room. “This is out West,” she went on, smiling, as she indicated the few furnishings; “but you can rest. You're perfectly safe. Won't you let me help you undress—can't I do anything for you?”

“You are very kind, thank you, but I can manage,” replied Madeline.

“Well, then, good night. The sooner I go the sooner you'll rest. Just forget what happened and think how fine a surprise you're to give your brother to-morrow.”

With that she slipped out and softly shut the door.

As Madeline laid her watch on the bureau she noticed that the time was past two o'clock. It seemed long since she had gotten off the train. When she had turned out the lamp and crept wearily into bed she knew what it was to be utterly spent. She was too tired to move a finger. But her brain whirled.

She had at first no control over it, and a thousand thronging sensations came and went and recurred with little logical relation. There were the roar of the train; the feeling of being lost; the sound of pounding hoofs; a picture of her brother's face as she had last seen it five years before; a long, dim line of lights; the jingle of silver spurs; night, wind, darkness, stars. Then the gloomy station, the shadowy blanketed Mexican, the empty room, the dim lights across the square, the tramp of the dancers and vacant laughs and discordant music, the door flung wide and the entrance of the cowboy. She did not recall how he had looked or what he had done. And the next instant she saw him cool, smiling, devilish—saw him in violence; the next his bigness, his apparel, his physical being were vague as outlines in a dream. The white face of the padre flashed along in the train of thought, and it brought the same dull, half-blind, indefinable state of mind subsequent to that last nerve-breaking pistol-shot. That passed, and then clear and vivid rose memories of the rest that had happened—strange voices betraying fury of men, a deadened report, a moan of mortal pain, a woman's poignant cry. And Madeline saw the girl's great tragic eyes and the wild flight of the big horse into the blackness, and the dark, stalking figure of the silent cowboy, and the white stars that seemed to look down remorselessly.

This tide of memory rolled over Madeline again and again, and gradually lost its power and faded. All distress left her, and she felt herself drifting. How black the room was—as black with her eyes open as it was when they were shut! And the silence—it was like a cloak. There was absolutely no sound. She was in another world from that which she knew. She thought of this fair-haired Florence and of Alfred; and, wondering about them, she dropped to sleep.

When she awakened the room was bright with sunlight. A cool wind blowing across the bed caused her to put her hands under the blanket. She was lazily and dreamily contemplating the mud walls of this little room when she remembered where she was and how she had come there.

How great a shock she had been subjected to was manifest in a sensation of disgust that overwhelmed her. She even shut her eyes to try and blot out the recollection. She felt that she had been contaminated.

Presently Madeline Hammond again awoke to the fact she had learned the preceding night—that there were emotions to which she had heretofore been a stranger. She did not try to analyze them, but she exercised her self-control to such good purpose that by the time she had dressed she was outwardly her usual self. She scarcely remembered when she had found it necessary to control her emotions. There had been no trouble, no excitement, no unpleasantness in her life. It had been ordered for her—tranquil, luxurious, brilliant, varied, yet always the same.

She was not surprised to find the hour late, and was going to make inquiry about her brother when a voice arrested her. She recognized Miss Kingsley's voice addressing some one outside, and it had a sharpness she had not noted before.

“So you came back, did you? Well, you don't look very proud of yourself this mawnin'. Gene Stewart, you look like a coyote.”

“Say, Flo if I am a coyote I'm not going to sneak,” he said.

“What 'd you come for?” she demanded.

“I said I was coming round to take my medicine.”

“Meaning you'll not run from Al Hammond? Gene, your skull is as thick as an old cow's. Al will never know anything about what you did to his sister unless you tell him. And if you do that he'll shoot you. She won't give you away. She's a thoroughbred. Why, she was so white last night I thought she'd drop at my feet, but she never blinked an eyelash. I'm a woman, Gene Stewart and if I couldn't feel like Miss Hammond I know how awful an ordeal she must have had. Why, she's one of the most beautiful, the most sought after, the most exclusive women in New York City. There's a crowd of millionaires and lords and dukes after her. How terrible it'd be for a woman like her to be kissed by a drunken cowpuncher! I say it—”

“Flo, I never insulted her that way,” broke out Stewart.

“It was worse, then?” she queried, sharply.

“I made a bet that I'd marry the first girl who came to town. I was on the watch and pretty drunk. When she came—well, I got Padre Marcos and tried to bully her into marrying me.”

“Oh, Lord!” Florence gasped. “It's worse than I feared.... Gene, Al will kill you.”

“That'll be a good thing,” replied the cowboy, dejectedly.

“Gene Stewart, it certainly would, unless you turn over a new leaf,” retorted Florence. “But don't be a fool.” And here she became earnest and appealing. “Go away, Gene. Go join the rebels across the border—you're always threatening that. Anyhow, don't stay here and run any chance of stirring Al up. He'd kill you just the same as you would kill another man for insulting your sister. Don't make trouble for Al. That'd only make sorrow for her, Gene.”

The subtle import was not lost upon Madeline. She was distressed because she could not avoid hearing what was not meant for her ears. She made an effort not to listen, and it was futile.

“Flo, you can't see this a man's way,” he replied, quietly. “I'll stay and take my medicine.”

“Gene, I could sure swear at you or any other pig-head of a cowboy. Listen. My brother-in-law, Jack, heard something of what I said to you last night. He doesn't like you. I'm afraid he'll tell Al. For Heaven's sake, man, go down-town and shut him up and yourself, too.”

Then Madeline heard her come into the house and presently rap on the door and call softly:

“Miss Hammond. Are you awake?”

“Awake and dressed, Miss Kingsley. Come in.”

“Oh! You've rested. You look so—so different. I'm sure glad. Come out now. We'll have breakfast, and then you may expect to meet your brother any moment.”

“Wait, please. I heard you speaking to Mr. Stewart. It was unavoidable. But I am glad. I must see him. Will you please ask him to come into the parlor a moment?”

“Yes,” replied Florence, quickly; and as she turned at the door she flashed at Madeline a woman's meaning glance. “Make him keep his mouth shut!”

Presently there were slow, reluctant steps outside the front door, then a pause, and the door opened. Stewart stood bareheaded in the sunlight. Madeline remembered with a kind of shudder the tall form, the embroidered buckskin vest, the red scarf, the bright leather wristbands, the wide silver-buckled belt and chaps. Her glance seemed to run over him swift as lightning. But as she saw his face now she did not recognize it. The man's presence roused in her a revolt. Yet something in her, the incomprehensible side of her nature, thrilled in the look of this splendid dark-faced barbarian.

“Mr. Stewart, will you please come in?” she asked, after that long pause.

“I reckon not,” he said. The hopelessness of his tone meant that he knew he was not fit to enter a room with her, and did not care or cared too much.

Madeline went to the door. The man's face was hard, yet it was sad, too. And it touched her.

“I shall not tell my brother of your—your rudeness to me,” she began. It was impossible for her to keep the chill out of her voice, to speak with other than the pride and aloofness of her class. Nevertheless, despite her loathing, when she had spoken so far it seemed that kindness and pity followed involuntarily. “I choose to overlook what you did because you were not wholly accountable, and because there must be no trouble between Alfred and you. May I rely on you to keep silence and to seal the lips of that priest? And you know there was a man killed or injured there last night. I want to forget that dreadful thing. I don't want it known that I heard—”

“The Greaser didn't die,” interrupted Stewart.

“Ah! then that's not so bad, after all. I am glad for the sake of your friend—the little Mexican girl.”

A slow scarlet wave overspread his face, and his shame was painful to see. That fixed in Madeline's mind a conviction that if he was a heathen he was not wholly bad. And it made so much difference that she smiled down at him.

“You will spare me further distress, will you not, please?” His hoarse reply was incoherent, but she needed only to see his working face to know his remorse and gratitude.

Madeline went back to her room; and presently Florence came for her, and directly they were sitting at breakfast. Madeline Hammond's impression of her brother's friend had to be reconstructed in the morning light. She felt a wholesome, frank, sweet nature. She liked the slow Southern drawl. And she was puzzled to know whether Florence Kingsley was pretty or striking or unusual. She had a youthful glow and flush, the clear tan of outdoors, a face that lacked the soft curves and lines of Eastern women, and her eyes were light gray, like crystal, steady, almost piercing, and her hair was a beautiful bright, waving mass.

Florence's sister was the elder of the two, a stout woman with a strong face and quiet eyes. It was a simple fare and service they gave to their guest; but they made no apologies for that. Indeed, Madeline felt their simplicity to be restful. She was sated with respect, sick of admiration, tired of adulation; and it was good to see that these Western women treated her as very likely they would have treated any other visitor. They were sweet, kind; and what Madeline had at first thought was a lack of expression or vitality she soon discovered to be the natural reserve of women who did not live superficial lives. Florence was breezy and frank, her sister quaint and not given much to speech. Madeline thought she would like to have these women near her if she were ill or in trouble. And she reproached herself for a fastidiousness, a hypercritical sense of refinement that could not help distinguishing what these women lacked.

“Can you ride?” Florence was asking. “That's what a Westerner always asks any one from the East. Can you ride like a man—astride, I mean? Oh, that's fine. You look strong enough to hold a horse. We have some fine horses out here. I reckon when Al comes we'll go out to Bill Stillwell's ranch. We'll have to go, whether we want to or not, for when Bill learns you are here he'll just pack us all off. You'll love old Bill. His ranch is run down, but the range and the rides up in the mountains—they are beautiful. We'll hunt and climb, and most of all we'll ride. I love a horse—I love the wind in my face, and a wide stretch with the mountains beckoning. You must have the best horse on the ranges. And that means a scrap between Al and Bill and all the cowboys. We don't all agree about horses, except in case of Gene Stewart's iron-gray.”

“Does Mr. Stewart own the best horse in the country?” asked Madeline. Again she had an inexplicable thrill as she remembered the wild flight of Stewart's big dark steed and rider.

“Yes, and that's all he does own,” replied Florence. “Gene can't keep even a quirt. But he sure loves that horse and calls him—”

At this juncture a sharp knock on the parlor door interrupted the conversation. Florence's sister went to open it. She returned presently and said:

“It's Gene. He's been dawdlin' out there on the front porch, and he knocked to let us know Miss Hammond's brother is comin'.”

Florence hurried into the parlor, followed by Madeline. The door stood open, and disclosed Stewart sitting on the porch steps. From down the road came a clatter of hoofs. Madeline looked out over Florence's shoulder and saw a cloud of dust approaching, and in it she distinguished outlines of horses and riders. A warmth spread over her, a little tingle of gladness, and the feeling recalled her girlish love for her brother. What would he be like after long years?

“Gene, has Jack kept his mouth shut?” queried Florence; and again Madeline was aware of a sharp ring in the girl's voice.

“No,” replied Stewart.

“Gene! You won't let it come to a fight? Al can be managed. But Jack hates you and he'll have his friends with him.”

“There won't be any fight.”

“Use your brains now,” added Florence; and then she turned to push Madeline gently back into the parlor.

Madeline's glow of warmth changed to a blank dismay. Was she to see her brother act with the violence she now associated with cowboys? The clatter of hoofs stopped before the door. Looking out, Madeline saw a bunch of dusty, wiry horses pawing the gravel and tossing lean heads. Her swift glance ran over the lithe horsemen, trying to pick out the one who was her brother. But she could not. Her glance, however, caught the same rough dress and hard aspect that characterized the cowboy Stewart. Then one rider threw his bridle, leaped from the saddle, and came bounding up the porch steps. Florence met him at the door.

“Hello, Flo. Where is she?” he called, eagerly. With that he looked over her shoulder to espy Madeline. He actually jumped at her. She hardly knew the tall form and the bronzed face, but the warm flash of blue eyes was familiar. As for him, he had no doubt of his sister, it appeared, for with broken welcome he threw his arms around her, then held her off and looked searchingly at her.

“Well, sister,” he began, when Florence turned hurriedly from the door and interrupted him.

“Al, I think you'd better stop the wrangling out there.” He stared at her, appeared suddenly to hear the loud voices from the street, and then, releasing Madeline, he said:

“By George! I forgot, Flo. There is a little business to see to. Keep my sister in here, please, and don't be fussed up now.”

He went out on the porch and called to his men:

“Shut off your wind, Jack! And you, too, Blaze! I didn't want you fellows to come here. But as you would come, you've got to shut up. This is my business.”

Whereupon he turned to Stewart, who was sitting on the fence.

“Hello, Stewart!” he said.

It was a greeting; but there was that in the voice which alarmed Madeline.

Stewart leisurely got up and leisurely advanced to the porch.

“Hello, Hammond!” he drawled.

“Drunk again last night?”

“Well, if you want to know, and if it's any of your mix, yes, I was-pretty drunk,” replied Stewart.

It was a kind of cool speech that showed the cowboy in control of himself and master of the situation—not an easy speech to follow up with undue inquisitiveness. There was a short silence.

“Damn it, Stewart,” said the speaker, presently, “here's the situation: It's all over town that you met my sister last night at the station and—and insulted her. Jack's got it in for you, so have these other boys. But it's my affair. Understand, I didn't fetch them here. They can see you square yourself, or else—Gene, you've been on the wrong trail for some time, drinking and all that. You're going to the bad. But Bill thinks, and I think, you're still a man. We never knew you to lie. Now what have you to say for yourself?”

“Nobody is insinuating that I am a liar?” drawled Stewart.

“No.”

“Well, I'm glad to hear that. You see, Al, I was pretty drunk last night, but not drunk enough to forget the least thing I did. I told Pat Hawe so this morning when he was curious. And that's polite for me to be to Pat. Well, I found Miss Hammond waiting alone at the station. She wore a veil, but I knew she was a lady, of course. I imagine, now that I think of it, that Miss Hammond found my gallantry rather startling, and—”

At this point Madeline, answering to unconsidered impulse, eluded Florence and walked out upon the porch.

Sombreros flashed down and the lean horses jumped.

“Gentlemen,” said Madeline, rather breathlessly; and it did not add to her calmness to feel a hot flush in her cheeks, “I am very new to Western ways, but I think you are laboring under a mistake, which, in justice to Mr. Stewart, I want to correct. Indeed, he was rather—rather abrupt and strange when he came up to me last night; but as I understand him now, I can attribute that to his gallantry. He was somewhat wild and sudden and—sentimental in his demand to protect me—and it was not clear whether he meant his protection for last night or forever; but I am happy to say be offered me no word that was not honorable. And he saw me safely here to Miss Kingsley's home.”

 

 

III - SISTER AND BROTHER

Then Madeline returned to the little parlor with the brother whom she had hardly recognized.

“Majesty!” he exclaimed. “To think of your being here!”

The warmth stole back along her veins. She remembered how that pet name had sounded from the lips of this brother who had given it to her.

“Alfred!”

Then his words of gladness at sight of her, his chagrin at not being at the train to welcome her, were not so memorable of him as the way he clasped her, for he had held her that way the day he left home, and she had not forgotten. But now he was so much taller and bigger, so dusty and strange and different and forceful, that she could scarcely think him the same man. She even had a humorous thought that here was another cowboy bullying her, and this time it was her brother.

“Dear old girl,” he said, more calmly, as he let her go, “you haven't changed at all, except to grow lovelier. Only you're a woman now, and you've fulfilled the name I gave you. God! how sight of you brings back home! It seems a hundred years since I left. I missed you more than all the rest.”

Madeline seemed to feel with his every word that she was remembering him. She was so amazed at the change in him that she could not believe her eyes. She saw a bronzed, strong-jawed, eagle-eyed man, stalwart, superb of height, and, like the cowboys, belted, booted, spurred. And there was something hard as iron in his face that quivered with his words. It seemed that only in those moments when the hard lines broke and softened could she see resemblance to the face she remembered. It was his manner, the tone of his voice, and the tricks of speech that proved to her he was really Alfred. She had bidden good-by to a disgraced, disinherited, dissolute boy. Well she remembered the handsome pale face with its weakness and shadows and careless smile, with the ever-present cigarette hanging between the lips. The years had passed, and now she saw him a man—the West had made him a man. And Madeline Hammond felt a strong, passionate gladness and gratefulness, and a direct check to her suddenly inspired hatred of the West.

“Majesty, it was good of you to come. I'm all broken up. How did you ever do it? But never mind that now. Tell me about that brother of mine.”

And Madeline told him, and then about their sister Helen. Question after question he fired at her; and she told him of her mother; of Aunt Grace, who had died a year ago; of his old friends, married, scattered, vanished. But she did not tell him of his father, for he did not ask.

Quite suddenly the rapid-fire questioning ceased; he choked, was silent a moment, and then burst into tears. It seemed to her that a long, stored-up bitterness was flooding away. It hurt her to see him—hurt her more to hear him. And in the succeeding few moments she grew closer to him than she had ever been in the past. Had her father and mother done right by him? Her pulse stirred with unwonted quickness. She did not speak, but she kissed him, which, for her, was an indication of unusual feeling. And when he recovered command over his emotions he made no reference to his breakdown, nor did she. But that scene struck deep into Madeline Hammond's heart. Through it she saw what he had lost and gained.

“Alfred, why did you not answer my last letters?” asked Madeline. “I had not heard from you for two years.”

“So long? How time flies! Well, things went bad with me about the last time I heard from you. I always intended to write some day, but I never did.”

“Things went wrong? Tell me.”

“Majesty, you mustn't worry yourself with my troubles. I want you to enjoy your stay and not be bothered with my difficulties.”

“Please tell me. I suspected something had gone wrong. That is partly why I decided to come out.”

“All right; if you must know,” he began; and it seemed to Madeline that there was a gladness in his decision to unburden himself. “You remember all about my little ranch, and that for a while I did well raising stock? I wrote you all that. Majesty, a man makes enemies anywhere. Perhaps an Eastern man in the West can make, if not so many, certainly more bitter ones. At any rate, I made several. There was a cattleman, Ward by name—he's gone now—and he and I had trouble over cattle. That gave me a back-set. Pat Hawe, the sheriff here, has been instrumental in hurting my business. He's not so much of a rancher, but he has influence at Santa Fe and El Paso and Douglas. I made an enemy of him. I never did anything to him. He hates Gene Stewart, and upon one occasion I spoiled a little plot of his to get Gene in his clutches. The real reason for his animosity toward me is that he loves Florence, and Florence is going to marry me.”

“Alfred!”

“What's the matter, Majesty? Didn't Florence impress you favorably?” he asked, with a keen glance.

“Why—yes, indeed. I like her. But I did not think of her in relation to you—that way. I am greatly surprised. Alfred, is she well born? What connections?”

“Florence is just a girl of ordinary people. She was born in Kentucky, was brought up in Texas. My aristocratic and wealthy family would scorn—”

“Alfred, you are still a Hammond,” said Madeline, with uplifted head.

Alfred laughed. “We won't quarrel, Majesty. I remember you, and in spite of your pride you've got a heart. If you stay here a month you'll love Florence Kingsley. I want you to know she's had a great deal to do with straightening me up.... Well, to go on with my story. There's Don Carlos, a Mexican rancher, and he's my worst enemy. For that matter, he's as bad an enemy of Bill Stillwell and other ranchers. Stillwell, by the way, is my friend and one of the finest men on earth. I got in debt to Don Carlos before I knew he was so mean. In the first place I lost money at faro—I gambled some when I came West—and then I made unwise cattle deals. Don Carlos is a wily Greaser, he knows the ranges, he has the water, and he is dishonest. So he outfigured me. And now I am practically ruined. He has not gotten possession of my ranch, but that's only a matter of time, pending lawsuits at Santa Fe. At present I have a few hundred cattle running on Stillwell's range, and I am his foreman.”

“Foreman?” queried Madeline.

“I am simply boss of Stillwell's cowboys, and right glad of my job.”

Madeline was conscious of an inward burning. It required an effort for her to retain her outward tranquillity. Annoying consciousness she had also of the returning sense of new disturbing emotions. She began to see just how walled in from unusual thought-provoking incident and sensation had been her exclusive life.

“Cannot your property be reclaimed?” she asked. “How much do you owe?”

“Ten thousand dollars would clear me and give me another start. But, Majesty, in this country that's a good deal of money, and I haven't been able to raise it. Stillwell's in worse shape than I am.”

Madeline went over to Alfred and put her hands on his shoulders.

“We must not be in debt.”

He stared at her as if her words had recalled something long forgotten. Then he smiled.

“How imperious you are! I'd forgotten just who my beautiful sister really is. Majesty, you're not going to ask me to take money from you?”

“I am.”

“Well, I'll not do it. I never did, even when I was in college, and then there wasn't much beyond me.”

“Listen, Alfred,” she went on, earnestly, “this is entirely different. I had only an allowance then. You had no way to know that since I last wrote you I had come into my inheritance from Aunt Grace. It was—well, that doesn't matter. Only, I haven't been able to spend half the income. It's mine. It's not father's money. You will make me very happy if you'll consent. Alfred, I'm so—so amazed at the change in you. I'm so happy. You must never take a backward step from now on. What is ten thousand dollars to me? Sometimes I spend that in a month. I throw money away. If you let me help you it will be doing me good as well as you. Please, Alfred.”

He kissed her, evidently surprised at her earnestness. And indeed Madeline was surprised herself. Once started, her speech had flowed.

“You always were the best of fellows, Majesty. And if you really care—if you really want to help me I'll be only too glad to accept. It will be fine. Florence will go wild. And that Greaser won't harass me any more. Majesty, pretty soon some titled fellow will be spending your money; I may as well take a little before he gets it all,” he finished, jokingly.

“What do you know about me?” she asked, lightly.

“More than you think. Even if we are lost out here in the woolly West we get news. Everybody knows about Anglesbury. And that Dago duke who chased you all over Europe, that Lord Castleton has the running now and seems about to win. How about it, Majesty?”

Madeline detected a hint that suggested scorn in his gay speech. And deep in his searching glance she saw a flame. She became thoughtful. She had forgotten Castleton, New York, society.

“Alfred,” she began, seriously, “I don't believe any titled gentleman will ever spend my money, as you elegantly express it.”

“I don't care for that. It's you!” he cried, passionately, and he grasped her with a violence that startled her. He was white; his eyes were now like fire. “You are so splendid—so wonderful. People called you the American Beauty, but you're more than that. You're the American Girl! Majesty, marry no man unless you love him, and love an American. Stay away from Europe long enough to learn to know the men—the real men of your own country.”

“Alfred, I'm afraid there are not always real men and real love for American girls in international marriages. But Helen knows this. It'll be her choice. She'll be miserable if she marries Anglesbury.”

“It'll serve her just right,” declared her brother. “Helen was always crazy for glitter, adulation, fame. I'll gamble she never saw more of Anglesbury than the gold and ribbons on his breast.”

“I am sorry. Anglesbury is a gentleman; but it is the money he wanted, I think. Alfred, tell me how you came to know about me, 'way out here? You may be assured I was astonished to find that Miss Kingsley knew me as Majesty Hammond.”

“I imagine it was a surprise,” he replied, with a laugh, “I told Florence about you—gave her a picture of you. And, of course, being a woman, she showed the picture and talked. She's in love with you. Then, my dear sister, we do get New York papers out here occasionally, and we can see and read. You may not be aware that you and your society friends are objects of intense interest in the U. S. in general, and the West in particular. The papers are full of you, and perhaps a lot of things you never did.”

“That Mr. Stewart knew, too. He said, 'You're not Majesty Hammond?'”

“Never mind his impudence!” exclaimed Alfred; and then again he laughed. “Gene is all right, only you've got to know him. I'll tell you what he did. He got hold of one of those newspaper pictures of you—the one in the Times; he took it away from here, and in spite of Florence he wouldn't fetch it back. It was a picture of you in riding-habit with your blue-ribbon horse, White Stockings—remember? It was taken at Newport. Well, Stewart tacked the picture up in his bunk-house and named his beautiful horse Majesty. All the cowboys knew it. They would see the picture and tease him unmercifully. But he didn't care. One day I happened to drop in on him and found him just recovering from a carouse. I saw the picture, too, and I said to him, 'Gene, if my sister knew you were a drunkard she'd not be proud of having her picture stuck up in your room.' Majesty, he did not touch a drop for a month, and when he did drink again he took the picture down, and he has never put it back.”

Madeline smiled at her brother's amusement, but she did not reply. She simply could not adjust herself to these queer free Western' ways. Her brother had eloquently pleaded for her to keep herself above a sordid and brilliant marriage, yet he not only allowed a cowboy to keep her picture in his room, but actually spoke of her and used her name in a temperance lecture. Madeline just escaped feeling disgust. She was saved from this, however, by nothing less than her brother's naive gladness that through subtle suggestion Stewart had been persuaded to be good for a month. Something made up of Stewart's effrontery to her; of Florence Kingsley meeting her, frankly as it were, as an equal; of the elder sister's slow, quiet, easy acceptance of this visitor who had been honored at the courts of royalty; of that faint hint of scorn in Alfred's voice, and his amused statement in regard to her picture and the name Majesty—something made up of all these stung Madeline Hammond's pride, alienated her for an instant, and then stimulated her intelligence, excited her interest, and made her resolve to learn a little about this incomprehensible West.

“Majesty, I must run down to the siding,” he said, consulting his watch. “We're loading a shipment of cattle. I'll be back by supper-time and bring Stillwell with me. You'll like him. Give me the check for your trunk.”

She went into the little bedroom and, taking up her bag, she got out a number of checks.

“Six! Six trunks!” he exclaimed. “Well, I'm very glad you intend to stay awhile. Say, Majesty, it will take me as long to realize who you really are as it'll take to break you of being a tenderfoot. I hope you packed a riding-suit. If not you'll have to wear trousers! You'll have to do that, anyway, when we go up in the mountains.”

“No!”

“You sure will, as Florence says.”

“We shall see about that. I don't know what's in the trunks. I never pack anything. My dear brother, what do I have maids for?”

“How did it come that you didn't travel with a maid?”

“I wanted to be alone. But don't you worry. I shall be able to look after myself. I dare say it will be good for me.”

She went to the gate with him.

“What a shaggy, dusty horse! He's wild, too. Do you let him stand that way without being haltered? I should think he would run off.”

“Tenderfoot! You'll be great fun, Majesty, especially for the cowboys.”

“Oh, will I?” she asked, constrainedly.

“Yes, and in three days they will be fighting one another over you. That's going to worry me. Cowboys fall in love with a plain woman, an ugly woman, any woman, so long as she's young. And you! Good Lord! They'll go out of their heads.”

“You are pleased to be facetious, Alfred. I think I have had quite enough of cowboys, and I haven't been here twenty-four hours.”

“Don't think too much of first impressions. That was my mistake when I arrived here. Good-by. I'll go now. Better rest awhile. You look tired.”

The horse started as Alfred put his foot in the stirrup and was running when the rider slipped his leg over the saddle. Madeline watched him in admiration. He seemed to be loosely fitted to the saddle, moving with the horse.

“I suppose that's a cowboy's style. It pleases me,” she said. “How different from the seat of Eastern riders!”

Then Madeline sat upon the porch and fell to interested observation of her surrounding. Near at hand it was decidedly not prepossessing. The street was deep in dust, and the cool wind whipped up little puffs. The houses along this street were all low, square, flat-roofed structures made of some kind of red cement. It occurred to her suddenly that this building-material must be the adobe she had read about. There was no person in sight. The long street appeared to have no end, though the line of houses did not extend far. Once she heard a horse trotting at some distance, and several times the ringing of a locomotive bell. Where were the mountains, wondered Madeline. Soon low over the house-roofs she saw a dim, dark-blue, rugged outline. It seemed to charm her eyes and fix her gaze. She knew the Adirondacks, she had seen the Alps from the summit of Mont Blanc, and had stood under the great black, white-tipped shadow of the Himalayas. But they had not drawn her as these remote Rockies. This dim horizon line boldly cutting the blue sky fascinated her. Florence Kingsley's expression “beckoning mountains” returned to Madeline. She could not see or feel so much as that. Her impression was rather that these mountains were aloof, unattainable, that if approached they would recede or vanish like the desert mirage.

Madeline went to her room, intending to rest awhile, and she fell asleep. She was aroused by Florence's knock and call.

“Miss Hammond, your brother has come back with Stillwell.”

“Why, how I have slept!” exclaimed Madeline. “It's nearly six o'clock.”

“I'm sure glad. You were tired. And the air here makes strangers sleepy. Come, we want you to meet old Bill. He calls himself the last of the cattlemen. He has lived in Texas and here all his life.”

Madeline accompanied Florence to the porch. Her brother, who was sitting near the door, jumped up and said:

“Hello, Majesty!” And as he put his arm around her he turned toward a massive man whose broad, craggy face began to ripple and wrinkle. “I want to introduce my friend Stillwell to you. Bill, this is my sister, the sister I've so often told you about—Majesty.”

“Wal, wal, Al, this's the proudest meetin' of my life,” replied Stillwell, in a booming voice. He extended a huge hand. “Miss—Miss Majesty, sight of you is as welcome as the rain an' the flowers to an old desert cattleman.”

Madeline greeted him, and it was all she could do to repress a cry at the way he crunched her hand in a grasp of iron. He was old, white-haired, weather-beaten, with long furrows down his checks and with gray eyes almost hidden in wrinkles. If he was smiling she fancied it a most extraordinary smile. The next instant she realized that it had been a smile, for his face appeared to stop rippling, the light died, and suddenly it was like rudely chiseled stone. The quality of hardness she had seen in Stewart was immeasurably intensified in this old man's face.

“Miss Majesty, it's plumb humiliatin' to all of us thet we wasn't on hand to meet you,” Stillwell said. “Me an' Al stepped into the P. O. an' said a few mild an' cheerful things. Them messages ought to hev been sent out to the ranch. I'm sure afraid it was a bit unpleasant fer you last night at the station.”

“I was rather anxious at first and perhaps frightened,” replied Madeline.

“Wal, I'm some glad to tell you thet there's no man in these parts except your brother thet I'd as lief hev met you as Gene Stewart.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, an' thet's takin' into consideration Gene's weakness, too. I'm allus fond of sayin' of myself thet I'm the last of the old cattlemen. Wal, Stewart's not a native Westerner, but he's my pick of the last of the cowboys. Sure, he's young, but he's the last of the old style—the picturesque—an' chivalrous, too, I make bold to say, Miss Majesty, as well as the old hard-ridin' kind. Folks are down on Stewart. An' I'm only sayin' a good word for him because he is down, an' mebbe last night he might hev scared you, you bein' fresh from the East.”

Madeline liked the old fellow for his loyalty to the cowboy he evidently cared for; but as there did not seem anything for her to say, she remained silent.

“Miss Majesty, the day of the cattleman is about over. An' the day of the cowboy, such as Gene Stewart, is over. There's no place for Gene. If these weren't modern days he'd come near bein' a gun-man, same as we had in Texas, when I ranched there in the 'seventies. But he can't fit nowhere now; he can't hold a job, an' he's goin' down.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” murmured Madeline. “But, Mr. Stillwell, aren't these modern days out here just a little wild—yet? The conductor on my train told me of rebels, bandits, raiders. Then I have had other impressions of—well, that were wild enough for me.”

“Wal, it's some more pleasant an' excitin' these days than for many years,” replied Stillwell. “The boys hev took to packin' guns again. But thet's owin' to the revolution in Mexico. There's goin' to be trouble along the border. I reckon people in the East don't know there is a revolution. Wal, Madero will oust Diaz, an' then some other rebel will oust Madero. It means trouble on the border an' across the border, too. I wouldn't wonder if Uncle Sam hed to get a hand in the game. There's already been holdups on the railroads an' raids along the Rio Grande Valley. An' these little towns are full of Greasers, all disturbed by the fightin' down in Mexico. We've been hevin' shootin'-scrapes an' knifin'-scrapes, an' some cattle-raidin'. I hev been losin' a few cattle right along. Reminds me of old times; an' pretty soon if it doesn't stop, I'll take the old-time way to stop it.”

“Yes, indeed, Majesty,” put in Alfred, “you have hit upon an interesting time to visit us.”

“Wal, thet sure 'pears to be so,” rejoined Stillwell. “Stewart got in trouble down heah to-day, an' I'm more than sorry to hev to tell you thet your name figgered in it. But I couldn't blame him, fer I sure would hev done the same myself.”

“That so?” queried Alfred, laughing. “Well, tell us about it.”

Madeline simply gazed at her brother, and, though he seemed amused at her consternation, there was mortification in his face.

It required no great perspicuity, Madeline thought, to see that Stillwell loved to talk, and the way he squared himself and spread his huge hands over his knees suggested that he meant to do this opportunity justice.

“Miss Majesty, I reckon, bein' as you're in the West now, thet you must take things as they come, an' mind each thing a little less than the one before. If we old fellers hedn't been thet way we'd never hev lasted.

“Last night wasn't particular bad, ratin' with some other nights lately. There wasn't much doin'. But, I had a hard knock. Yesterday when we started in with a bunch of cattle I sent one of my cowboys, Danny Mains, along ahead, carryin' money I hed to pay off hands an' my bills, an' I wanted thet money to get in town before dark. Wal, Danny was held up. I don't distrust the lad. There's been strange Greasers in town lately, an' mebbe they knew about the money comin'.

“Wal, when I arrived with the cattle I was some put to it to make ends meet. An' to-day I wasn't in no angelic humor. When I hed my business all done I went around pokin' my nose beak an' there, tryin' to get scent of thet money. An' I happened in at a hall we hev thet does duty fer' jail an' hospital an' election-post an' what not. Wal, just then it was doin' duty as a hospital. Last night was fiesta night—these Greasers hev a fiesta every week or so—an' one Greaser who hed been bad hurt was layin' in the hall, where he hed been fetched from the station. Somebody hed sent off to Douglas fer a doctor, but be hedn't come yet. I've hed some experience with gunshot wounds, an' I looked this feller over. He wasn't shot up much, but I thought there was danger of blood-poison-in'. Anyway, I did all I could.

“The hall was full of cowboys, ranchers, Greasers, miners, an' town folks, along with some strangers. I was about to get started up this way when Pat Hawe come in.

“Pat he's the sheriff. I reckon, Miss Majesty, thet sheriffs are new to you, an' fer sake of the West I'll explain to you thet we don't hev many of the real thing any more. Garrett, who killed Billy the Kid an' was killed himself near a year or so ago—he was the kind of sheriff thet helps to make a self-respectin' country. But this Pat Hawe—wal, I reckon there's no good in me sayin' what I think of him. He come into the hall, an' he was roarin' about things. He was goin' to arrest Danny Mains on sight. Wal, I jest polite-like told Pat thet the money was mine an' he needn't get riled about it. An' if I wanted to trail the thief I reckon I could do it as well as anybody. Pat howled thet law was law, an' he was goin' to lay down the law. Sure it 'peared to me thet Pat was daid set to arrest the first man he could find excuse to.

“Then he cooled down a bit an' was askin' questions about the wounded Greaser when Gene Stewart come in. Whenever Pat an' Gene come together it reminds me of the early days back in the 'seventies. Jest naturally everybody shut up. Fer Pat hates Gene, an' I reckon Gene ain't very sweet on Pat. They're jest natural foes in the first place, an' then the course of events here in El Cajon has been aggravatin'.

“'Hello, Stewart! You're the feller I'm lookin' fer,' said Pat.

“Stewart eyed him an' said, mighty cool an' sarcastic, 'Hawe, you look a good deal fer me when I'm hittin' up the dust the other way.'

“Pat went red at thet, but he held in. 'Say, Stewart, you-all think a lot of thet roan horse of yourn, with the aristocratic name?'

“'I reckon I do,' replied Gene, shortly.

“'Wal, where is he?'

“'Thet's none of your business, Hawe.'

“'Oho! it ain't, hey? Wal, I guess I can make it my business. Stewart, there was some queer goings-on last night thet you know somethin' about. Danny Mains robbed—Stillwell's money gone—your roan horse gone—thet little hussy Bonita gone—an' this Greaser near gone, too. Now, seein' thet you was up late an' prowlin' round the station where this Greaser was found, it ain't onreasonable to think you might know how he got plugged—is it?'

“Stewart laughed kind of cold, an' he rolled a cigarette, all the time eyin' Pat, an' then he said if he'd plugged the Greaser it 'd never hev been sich a bunglin' job.

“'I can arrest you on suspicion, Stewart, but before I go thet far I want some evidence. I want to round up Danny Mains an' thet little Greaser girl. I want to find out what's become of your hoss. You've never lent him since you hed him, an' there ain't enough raiders across the border to steal him from you. It's got a queer look—thet hoss bein' gone.'

“'You sure are a swell detective, Hawe, an' I wish you a heap of luck,' replied Stewart.

“Thet 'peared to nettle Pat beyond bounds, an' he stamped around an' swore. Then he had an idea. It jest stuck out all over him, an' he shook his finger in Stewart's face.

“'You was drunk last night?'

“Stewart never batted an eye.

“'You met some woman on Number Eight, didn't you?' shouted Hawe.

“'I met a lady,' replied Stewart, quiet an' menacin' like.

“'You met Al Hammond's sister, an' you took her up to Kingsley's. An' cinch this, my cowboy cavalier, I'm goin' up there an' ask this grand dame some questions, an' if she's as close-mouthed as you are I'll arrest her!'

“Gene Stewart turned white. I fer one expected to see him jump like lightnin', as he does when he's riled sudden. But he was calm an' he was thinkin' hard. Presently he said:

“'Pat, thet's a fool idee, an' if you do the trick it'll hurt you all the rest of your life. There's absolutely no reason to frighten Miss Hammond. An' tryin' to arrest her would be such a damned outrage as won't be stood fer in El Cajon. If you're sore on me send me to jail. I'll go. If you want to hurt Al Hammond, go an' do it some man kind of way. Don't take your spite out on us by insultin' a lady who has come hyar to hev a little visit. We're bad enough without bein' low-down as Greasers.'

“It was a long talk for Gene, an' I was as surprised as the rest of the fellers. Think of Gene Stewart talkin' soft an' sweet to thet red-eyed coyote of a sheriff! An' Pat, he looked so devilishly gleeful thet if somethin' about Gene hedn't held me tight I'd hev got in the game myself. It was plain to me an' others who spoke of it afterwards thet Pat Hawe hed forgotten the law an' the officer in the man an' his hate.

“'I'm a-goin', an' I'm a-goin' right now!' he shouted. “An' after thet any one could hev heerd a clock tick a mile off. Stewart seemed kind of chokin', an' he seemed to hev been bewildered by the idee of Hawe's confrontin' you.

“An' finally he burst out: 'But, man, think who it is! It's Miss Hammond! If you seen her, even if you was locoed or drunk, you—you couldn't do it.'

“'Couldn't I? Wal, I'll show you damn quick. What do I care who she is? Them swell Eastern women—I've heerd of them. They're not so much. This Hammond woman—'

“Suddenly Hawe shut up, an' with his red mug turnin' green he went for his gun.”

Stillwell paused in his narrative to get breath, and he wiped his moist brow. And now his face began to lose its cragginess. It changed, it softened, it rippled and wrinkled, and all that strange mobility focused and shone in a wonderful smile.

“An' then, Miss Majesty, then there was somethin' happened. Stewart took Pat's gun away from him and throwed it on the floor. An' what followed was beautiful. Sure it was the beautifulest sight I ever seen. Only it was over so soon! A little while after, when the doctor came, he hed another patient besides the wounded Greaser, an' he said thet this new one would require about four months to be up an' around cheerful-like again. An' Gene Stewart hed hit the trail for the border.”