THE LONE
STAR RANGER
A ROMANCE OF THE BORDER
BY
ZANE GREY
Author of "The Light of Western Stars,” ‘‘Riders of the Purple Sage,” etc.
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
MCMXV
ESfcf mm . . _
CHAPTER I.
So it was in him, then—an inherited
fighting instinct, a driving intensity to
kill. He was the last of the Duanes,
that old fighting stock of Texas. But
not the memory of his dead father, nor
tho pleading of his soft-voiced mother,
nor the warning of this uncle who
stood before him now, had brought to
Buck Duane so much realization of
the dark passionate strain in his blood.
It was the recurrence, a hundredfold
Increased in power, of a strange emo
tion that for the last three years had
arisen in him
“Yes. Cal Bain's in town, full of
bad whisky an’ huntin' for you,” re
peated the elder man, gravely.
"It's the second time,” muttered
Duane, as if to himself.
"Son, you can't avoid a meetin'.
Leave town till Cal sobers up. He
ain't got it in for you when he's not
drinkin’."
"But what’s he want me for?" de
manded Duane. "To insult me again!
I won't stand that twice."
He's got a fever that's rampant In
Texas these days, my boy. He wants
,gun-play. If he meets you he’ll try to
kill you.”
Here it stirred in Duane again, that
bursting gush of blood, like a wind of
flame shaking all his inner being, and
subsiding to leave him strangely
•chilled.
“Kill me! What for?" he asked.
"Lord knows there ain't any reason.
But what's that to do with most of
the shootin’ these days? Didn't five
cowboys over to Everall's kill one an
other dead all because they got to
Jerkin’ at a quirt among themselves?
An’ Cul has no reason to love you.
His girl was sweet on you.”
“I quit when 1 found out she was
his girl.”
"I reckon she ain't quit. But never
mind her or reasons. Cal's here, just
drunk enough to be ugly. He's achin'
to kill somebody. He’s one of them
four-flush gun-fighters. He'd like to
be thought bad. There's a lot of wild
cowboys who 're ambitious for a rep
utation. They talk about how quick
they are on the draw. They ape Bland
; *n' King Fisher an’ Hardin an' all the
big outlaws. They make threats about
Joinin’ the gangs along the Rio Grande.
"They laugh at the sheriffs an' brag
about how they'd fix tho rangers. Cal's
sure not much for you to bother with,
-if you only keep out of his way.”
“You mean for me to run!” asked
Duane, in scorn.
“I reckon 1 wouldn't put it that way.
Just avoid him. Buck, I’m not afraid
•Cal would get you if you met down
there in town. You’ve your father's
•eye an' his slick hand with a gun.
What I'm most afraid of is that you'll
dtill Bain."
ituane was silent, letting ms uncle s
earnest words sink in, trying to realize
their significance.
"If Texas ever recovers from that
fool war an' kills off these outlaws,
why, a young man will huve a look
out," went on the uncle. "You're 22
mow, an' a powerful sight of a tine fel
low, barrin’ your temper. You've a
chance in life. Hut If you go gun
flghtln'. If you kill a man. you're
ruined. Then you'll kill unother. It'll
be the same old story. An’ the rangers
would make you an outlaw. The rang
ers mean law an' order for Texas.
This even-break business doesn't work
with them. If you resist urrest they’ll
kill you. If you submit, to arrest, then
you go to Jail, an' mebe you hang."
“I'd never hang,” muttered Duane,
darkly.
“I reckon you wouldn’t," replied the
old man. "You'd be like your father.
He was ever ready to draw—too ready.
In times like these, with the Texas
rangers enforcin' the law. you Dad
would have been driven to the river.
An’, son. I’m afratd you’re a chip off
the old block. Can't you hold in—keep
your temper—run away from trouble?
Because it'll only result in you gettin'
the worst ot it in the end. Your futher
was killed in a street tight. An' it was
told of him that he shot twice after a
bullet had passed through his heart.
Think of the terrible nature of a man
to be able to do that. If you have any
«uch blood In you, never give it a
chance.”
“What you say is all very well,
uncle." returned Duane, "but the only
way out for me is to run, and I won't
do it. Cal Bain and his outfit have al
ready made me look like a coward. He
says I'm afraid to come out and face
him. A man simply can't stand that
In this country. Besides, Cal would
shoot me In the back some day if I
didn't face him."
“Well, then, what 're you goin' to
do?" inquired the elder man.
"1 haven't decided—yet."
"No, but you're cornin' to it mighty
fast. That damned spell is workin' in
you. You're different today. I re
member how you used to be moody an’
lose your temper an' talk wild. Never
was much afraid of you then. But
mow you’re gettin’ cool an' quiet, an’
you think deep, an' I don’t like the
light in your eye. It remainds me of
your father."
"I wonder what Dad would say to me
today if he were alive and here,” said
Duane.
.“What do you think? What could
you expect of a man who never wore
* glove on his right hand for 20 years?
"Well, he'd hardly have said 'much.
Dad never talked. But he would have
•done a lot. And I guess I'll go down
town and let Cal Bain find me.”
Then folk fed a long silence, during
which Duane sat with downcast eyes,
and the uncle appeared lost in sad
thought of the future. Presently he
turned to Duane with an expression
that denoted resignation, and yet a
spirit which showed wherein they were
of the same blood.
“You've got a fast horse — the
fastest I know of in this coun
try. After you meet Bain hurry back
home. I’ll have a saddle bag packed
for you and the horse ready."
With that he turned on ills heel and
went into the house, leaving Duane to
revolve in Ills rnind his singular speech.
Buck wondered presently if he shared
his uncle's opinion of the result of a
meeting between himself and Bain.
His thoughts were vague. But on the
instant of linal decision, when he had
settled with himself that he would meet
Bain, such a storm of passion assailed
him that he felt as if he was being
shaken with ague. Yet it was all in
terna!, inside his breast, for his hand
■was like a rock and. for all he could
see, not a muscle about him quivered
He had no fear of Bain or of any oth
sr man; but a vague fc.u- of himself
I of this strange force in him, made him
ponder and shake his head. It was as
if ho had not all to say in this matter.
! There appeared to have been in him a
1 reluctance to let himself go, and some
, voice, some spirit from a distance,
| something he was not accountable for,
had compelled him. That hour of Du
ane’s life was like years of actual liv
ing, and in it he became a thoughtful
man.
He went into the house and buckled
on his belt and gun. The gun was a
Colt .45, six-shot, and heavy, with an
ivory handle. He had packed it, on and
off, for five years. Before that it had
been used by his father. There were a
number of notches tiled in the bulge of
the ivory handle. This gun was tho
one his father had fired twice after be
ing shot through the heart, and his
hand had stiffened so tightly upon it in
the death-grip that his lingers had to
be pried open. It had never been drawn
upon any man since it had come into
Duane’s possession. But the cold,
bright polish of the weapon showed
how it had been used. Duane could
draw it with inconceivable rapidity,
and at 20 feet he could split a card
pointing edgewise toward him.
Duane wished to avoid meeting his
mother. Fortunately, as he thought,
she was away from home. He went out
and down the path toward the gate.
The air was full of the fragrance of
blossoms and the melody of birds. Out
side in the road a neighbor woman
stood talking to a countryman in a
wagon; they spoke to him; and he
heard, but did not reply. Then he be
gan to stride down the road toward the
town.
Wellston was a small town, but im
portant in that unsettled part of the
great state because it was the trading
center of several hundred miles of ter
ritory. On the main street there were
perhaps fifty buildings, some brick,
some frame, mostly udobe, and one
third of the lot, and by far the most
prosperous, were saloons. From the
road Duane turned into this street. It
was a wide thoroughfare lined by
hltchlng-rails and saddled horses and
vehicles of various kinds. Duane’s eye
ranged down the street, taking in all
at a glance, particularly persons mov
ing leisurely up and down. Not a cow
boy was In sight. Duane slackened his
stride, and by the time he reached Sol
White’s place, which was the first
saloon, he was walking slowly. Several
people spoke to him and turned to look
back after they had passed. He paused
at the door of White’s saloon, took a
sharp survey of the Interior, then step
ped inside.
The saloon was large and cool, full
of men and noise and smoke. The
noise ceased upon his entrance, and the
silence ensuing presently broke to the
clink of Mexican silver dollars at a
monte table. Sol White, who was be
hind the bar. straightened up when he
saw Duane; then, without speaking, he
bent over to rinse a glass. All eyes
except those of the Mexican gamblers
weir lurncu upon puanp; ana tnese
glances were keen, speculative, ques
tioning. These men knew Bain was
looking for trouble; they probably had
heard his boasts. But what din Duane
intend to do? Several of the cowboys
and ranchers present exchanged glanc
es, Duane had been weighed by uner
ring Texas instinct, by men who all
packed guns. The boy was the son of
his father. Whereupon they greeted him
and returned to their drinks and cards.
Sol White stood with his big red hands
out upon the bar; he was a tail, raw
boned Texan with a long mustache
waxed to sharp points.
"Howdy, Buck," was his greeting to
Duane. He spoke carelessly and avert
ed his dirk gaze for an instant.
"Howdy, Sol," replied Duane, slowly.
"Say, Sol, I hear there’s a gent In town
looking for me bad."
“Reckon there is. Buck,” replied
White. "He came in heah aboot an
hour ago. Shore he was some riled an’
a-roarln’ for gore. Told me confid
ential a certain party had given you a
white silk scarf, an’ he was hell-bent
on wearin' it home spotted red.”
“Anybody with him?” queried Duane.
’’Burt an’ Sam Dutcalt an’ a little
cowpuncher I never seen before. They
all was coaxin' him to leave town. But
he’s looked on the flowin’ glass, Buck,
an’ he’s heah for keeps."
’’Why doesn’t Sheriff Oaks lock him
up if lie's that bad?"
"Oake went away with the rangers.
There's been another raid at Fleslier’s
ranch. The King Fisher gang, likely.
An’ so the town’s shore wide open."
Duane stalked outdoors and faced
down the street. He walked the whole
length of the long block, meeting many
people—farmers, ranchers, clerks,
merchants, Mexicans, cowboys, and
women, it was a singular fact that
when he turned to retrace his steps the
street was almost empty. He had not
returned a hundred yards on his way
when the street was wholly deserted. A
few heads protruded from doors and
around corners. That main street of
Wellston saw some such situation
every few days. If it was an instinct
for Texans to light, it was also in
stinctive for them to sense with re
markable quickness the signs of a
coming gun-play. Rumor could not
fly so swiftly. In less than ten min
utes everybody who had been on the
street or in the shops knew that Buck
Duane had come forth to meet his
enemy.
Duane walked on. When lie came
to within 50 paces of a saloon he
swerved Into the middle of the street,
stood there for a moment, then went
ahead and back to the sidewalk. He
passed on in this way the length of the
block. Sol White was standing in the
door of his saloon.
"Buck, I'm a-tippin’ you off,” he
said, quick and low voiced. "Call Bain's
over at Everall’s. If he’s a-huntin' you
bad. as he brags, he'll show there."
Duane crossed the street and started
down. Notwithstanding White's state
ment Duane was wary and slow at ev
ery door. Nothing happened, and he
traversed almost the whole length of
the block without seeing a person.
Everall’s place was on the corner.
Duane knew himself to lie cold,
steady. He was conscious of a strange
, fury that made him want to leap ahead.
He seemed to long for this encounter
more than anything he had ever want
ed. But, vivid as were his sensations,
he felt as if in a dream.
Before he reached Everail's he heard
loud voices, one of which was raised
high. Then the short door swung out
ward as If Impelled by a vigorous hand.
A bow logged cowboy wearing wooly
chaps burst out upon the sidewalk. At
sight of Duane he seemed to bound into
the air, and he uttered a savage roar.
Duane stopped in his tracks at the
outer edge of the sidewalk, perhaps a
dozen rods from Everall's door.
If Bain was drunk he did not show
it in his movement. He swaggered for
ward, rapidly closing up the gap. Red,
sweaty, disheveled, and hatless, his face
distorted and expressive of the most
malignant intent, he was a wild and
sinister figure. He had already killed
a man, and this showed in his de
meanor. His hands wef* extended be
fore him, the right hand a little lower
than the left. At every step he bel
lowed ids rancor in speech mostly
curses. Gradually he slowed his walk,
then halted. A good 25 paces separat
ed 1he men.
| "Won't nothin' make you draw, you
-!" he shouted, fiercely.
"I’m waitin' on you. Cal,” replied
: Duane.
| Bain’s right hand stiffened—moved.
I Duane threw his gun as a boy throws
a ball underhand—a draw his father
had taught him. He pulled twice, his
shots almost as one. Bain's big Colt
boomed while it was pointed downward
and he was falling. His bullet scat
tered dust and gravel at Duane’s feet
He fell loosely, without contortion.
In a flash all was reality for Duane,
i He went forward and held his gun
: ready for the slightest movement on
j the part of Bain. But Bain lay upon
his back, and all that moved were his
breast and his eyes. How strangely the
red had left his fuce—and also the dis
tortion! The devil that had showed in
Bain was gone. He was sober and con
scious. He tried to speak, but failed.
His eyes expressed something pitifully
human. They changed—rolled—set
blankly.
Duane drew a deep breath and
sheathed his gun. He felt calm and
cool, glad the fray was over. One vio
lent expression burst from him: "The
fool!”
When he looked up there were men
around him.
“Plumb center,” said one.
Another, a cowboy who evidently had
just left the gaming table, leaned down
and pulled open Bain’s shirt. He had
the ace of spades in his hand. He laid
it on Bain’s breast, and the black fig
ure on the card covered the two bullet
holes just over Bain’s heart.
Duane wheeled and hurried away.
He heard another man say:
“Reckon Cal got what he deserved.
Buck Duane’s first gun play. Like fa
ther like son!”
CHAPTER II.
A thought kept repeating itself to
Duane, and it was that he might have
spared himself concern through his
imagining how awful it would be to
kill a man. He had no such feeling
now. He had rid the community of a
drunken, bragging, quarrelsome cow
boy.
When he came to the gate of his
home and saw his uncle there with a
mettlesome horse, saddled, with can
teen, rope, and bags all in place, a
subtle shock pervaded his spirit. It
had slipped his mind—-the consequence
of his act. But the sight of the horse
and the look of his uncle recalled the
fact that he must now become a fu
gitive. An unreasonable anger took
hold of him.
"The d—d fool!’’ he exclaimed, hot
ly. "Meeting Bain wasn't much. Uncle
Jim. He dusted my boots, that's all.
And for that I’ve got to go on the
dodge.”
"Son. you killed him—then?” asked
the uncle, huskily.
"Yes; I stood over him—watched him
die. I did as I would have been done
by."
“I knew it. Dong ago I saw it corn
in’. But now we can’t stop to cry over
spilt blood. You've got to leave town
an' this part of the country.”
’’Mother!’’ exclaimed Duane.
“She's away from home. You can’t
wait. I’ll break it to her—what she
always feared."
Suddenly Duane sat down and otjv
ered his face with his hands.
“My God! Uncle, what have I done?"
Ills hroad shoulders shook.
“Listen. son. an' remember what I
say,” replied the elder man, earnestly.
“Don’t ever forget. You're not to
blame. I’m glad to see you take it this
way. because maybe you’ll never grow
hard an’ callous. You're not to blame.
This is Texas. You’re your father’s
son. These are wild times. The law
as the rangers are laying it down now
can’t change life all in a minute. Even
vour mother, who's a good, true woman,
had had her share in making you what
you are this moment. For she was one
of the pioneers—the flghtin’ pioneers
of this state. Those years of wild
times, before you was born, developed
in her instinct to fight, to save her life,
her children, an’ that instinct has
cropped out in you. It will be many
years before it dies out of the boys
born in Texas.”
i m a muraerer, saia uuane, snua
dering.
"No, son. you’re not. An’ you never
will be. Hut you've got to be an outlaw
till time makes it safe for you to come
home.”
"An outlaw?"
“I said it. If we had money an' in
fluence we'd risk a trial. But we've
neither. An' I reckon the scaffold or
tail is no place for Buckley Duane.
Strike for the wild country, 'an Wher
ever you go an' whatever you do—be a
I man. Live honestly, if that's possible.
| If it isn’t, be as honest as you can. If
i you have to herd with outlaws try not
to become bad. There are outlaws
j who’re not all bad— many who have
j been driven to the river by such a deal
1 as this you had. When you get among
| these men avoid brawls. Don't drink:
don't gamble. I needn't tell you what
, to do if it comes to gun play, as likely
j it will. You can’t come home. When
j this thing is lived down, if that time
ever comes. I’ll get word into the un
settled country. It’ll reach you some
day. That's all. Remember, be a man.
Goodby."
| Dunne, with blurred sight and con
tracting throat, gripped his uncle’s
hand and bade him a wordless fare
well. Then he leaped astride the black
and rode out of town.
| As swiftly as wns consistent with a
care for his steed, Duane put a distance
of 15 or 18 miles behind him. With
| that he slowed up. and the matter of
riding did not require all his faculties.
He passed several ranches and wns
seen by men. This did not suit him,
and he took an old trail across country,
it was a flat region with a poor growth
of mosquito and prickly pear cactus
Occasionally he caught a glimpse of
I low hills in the distance. He had
hunted often in that section, and knew
where to find grass and water. When
he reached his higher ground he did
not, however, halt at the first favor
able camping spot, but went on and
on. Once he came out upon the brow of
a hill and saw a considerable stretch
of country beneath him. It had the
gray sameness characterizing all that
he had traversed. He seemed to want
to see wide spaces—to get a glimpse of
the great wilderness lying somewhere
beyond to the southwest. It was sun
set when he decided to camp at a like
ly spot he came across. He led the
horse to water, end then began search
ing through the shallow valley for a
' suitable place to camp. He passed by
old camp sites that he well remem
. tiered. These, however, did not strike
his fancy this time, and the signifi
cance of the change in him did not oc
cur at the moment. At last he found
a secluded spot, under cover of thick
mesqultes and oaks, at a goodly dis
tance from the old trail. He took sad
dle and pack off the horse. He looked
among his effects for a hobble, and,'
finding that his uncle had failed to
put one in, he suddenly remembered
that he seldom used a hobble, and
never on his horse. He cut a few feet
off the end of his lasso and used that.
The horse, unused to such hampering
of his free movements, had to be driven
out upon the grass.
Duane made a small fire, prepared
and ate his supper. This done, ending
the work of that day, he sat down and
filled his pipe. Twilight had waned
into dusk. A few wan stars had just
begun to show and brighten. Above
the low continuous hum of insects'
sounded the evening carol of robins.
Presently the birds ceased their sing
ing, and then the quiet was more no
ticeable. When night set in and the
place seemed all the more isolated and
lonely for that Duane had a sense of
relief. '
It dawned upon him all at once that
he was nervous, watchful, sleepless.
The fact caused him surprise, and he
began to think back, to take note of
his late actions and their motives. The
change one day had wrought amazed
him. He who had always been free,
easy, happy, especially when out alone
in the open, had become in a few short
hours bound, serious, preoccupied. The
silence that had once been sweet now
meant nothing to him except a medium
whereby he might the better hear the
sounds of pursuit. The loneliness, the
night, the wild, that had always been
beautiful to him, now only conveyed a
sense of safety for the present. He
watched, he listened, he thought. He
felt tired, yet had no inclination to
rest. He intended to be off by dawn,
heading toward the southwest. Had
he a destination? It was vague as his
knowledge of that great waste of mes
quite and rock bordering the Rio
Grande. Somewhere out there was a.
refuge. For he was a fugitive from
Justice, an outlaw.
This being an outlaw then meant
eternal vigilance. No home, no rest,
no sleep, no content, no life worth the
living! He must be a lone wolf or he
must herd among men obnoxious to
him. If he worked for an honest living
he still must hide his identity and take
risks of detection. If he did not work
on some distant outlying ranch, how
was he to live? The idea of stealing
was repugnant to him. The future
seemed gray and somber enough. And
he was 23 years old.
Why had this hard life been imposed
upon him?
rPVicx -A :__,
- - uovtlltU l,U .-HU1 t
a strange iciness that stole along his
veins. What was wrong with him? He
stirred the few sticks of mesquite into
a last flickering blaze. He was cold,
and for some reason he wanted
some light. The black circle of
darkness weighed down upon him,
closed in around him. Suddenly he
sat bolt upright and then frozq
in that position. He had heard a step,
It was behind him—no—on the other
side. Some one was there. He forced
his hand down to his gun and the touch
of cold steel was another icy shock,
Then he waited. But all was silent
silent as only a wilderness arroyo canl
be, with its low murmuring of wind in
the mesquite. Had he heard a step'!
He began to breathe again.
But what was the matter with the
light of his camp fire? It had taken on
a strange green luster and seemed to
be waving off into the other shadows.
Duane heard no step, saw no move
ment; nevertheless, there was another
present at that camp fire vigil. Duane
saw him. He lay there in the middle of
the green brightness, prostrate, mo
tionless, dying. Cal Bain! His features
were wonderfully distirt-t, clearer than
any cameo, more sharply outlined than
those of any picture. It was a hard
face softening at the threshold of eter
nity. The red tan of sun, the coarse
signs of drunkenness the ferocity and
hate so characteristic of Bain were no
longer there. This fitce represented a
different Bain, shower all that was hu
man in him fading, Vading as swiftljt
as it blanched white. The lips wanted
to speak, but had not the power. The
eyes held an agony of thought. They
revealed what might have been possible
for this man if he lived—that he saw
his mistake too late. Then they rolled,
set blankly, and closed in death.
That haunting visitation left Duane
sitting there in a cold sweat, a remorse
gnawing at his vitals, realizing the
curse that was on him. He divined
that never would he be able to keep off
that phantom. He remembered how his
father had been eternally pursued by
the furies of accusing guilt, how he had
never been able to forget in work or In
sleep those men he had killed.
The hour was late when Duane’s mind
let him sleep, and then dreams troubled
him. In the morning he bestirred him
self so early that in the gray gloom he
had difficulty in finding his horse. Day
had Just broken when he struck the old
trail again.
uo,iu «n xiiui mg ana jiaiiea
in a shady spot to rest and graze his
horse. In the afternoon he took to the
trail at an easy trot. The country grew
wilder. Bald, rugged mountains broke
the level of the monotonous horizon.
About 3 o’clock in the afternoon he
came to a little river which marked the
boundary line of his hunting territory.
The decision he made to travel up
stream for a while was owing to two
facts—the river was high with quick
sand bars on each side, and he felt re
luctant to cross into that region where
his presence alone meant that he was a
marked man. The bottom lands through,
which the river wound to the southwest
were more inviting than the barrens he
had traversed. The rest of that day he
rode leisurely up stream. At sunset
he penetrated the brakes of willow and
cottonwood to spend the night. It
seemed to him that in this lonely cover
he would feel easy and content. But
he did not. Every feeling, every imag
ining lie had experienced the previous
night returned somewhat more vividly
and accentuated by new ones of the
same intensity and color.
In this kind of travel and camping
he spent three more days, during which
he crossed a number of trails, and one
road where cattle—stolen cattle, prob
ably—had recently passed. This time
exhausted his supply of food, except
salt, pepper, coffee and sugar, of which
he had a quantity. There were deer in
the brakes; hut. as he could not get
dose enough to kill them with a re
volver, he had to satisfy himself with
a rabbit. He knew be migiit as well
content himself with the hard fare that
assuredly would be his lot.
Somewiiere up this river there was a
village called Huntsville. It was dis
tant about 100 miles from Wellston. and
had a renutation throughout south
western Texas. He had never been
there. The fact was this reputation
was such that honest travelers gave the
town a wide berth. Duane had consid
erable money, for him, in his posses
sion, and he concluded to visit Hunts
ville. if he could find it. and buy a
stock of provisions.
(Continued Next Week.)
Army Pistol Shoots Colors.
From the Popular Science Monthly.
A decided novelty in the way of
pistols has been perfected for use by
the United States signal corps for the
purpose of communicating at night
Cartridges firing spurts of flame of
various hues arc used for ammunition,
the color of the flame carrying a deli;)
ite message to the distant lookout.
THE OLD FLAG.
{Copyright, 1916, by the McClure News
paper Syndicate.)
It was June. But the day was cool,
the sun shone brightly on the crowds
that thronged the village streets. For
It was Flag day and the people were
celebrating the event.
In the yard of a tiny cottage in the
midst of a bare field sat old Sergeant
Landon. His faded blue uniform
looked rusty and his gray hair un
combed. In fact, the whole place had
a look of dilapidation as if everything
were tumbled to pieces, for there was
no one to see to things about the house
since Jim, who was but 15, had to go
to work in the factory.
Jim wanted to go in the army, but
he knew he had to care for his grand
father whose small pension would hot
afford him support alone for the Ser
geant did not wish to go to a soldiers’
Home as long as he could be with his
only grandchild. So Jim and the Ser
geant got along the best they could,
but there was not much of any ’ best’’
about it.
But today the old sergeant was hap
py. He could see all about him the 1
fluttering of flags, even though he was '
too poor to buy one. If he only had
a new, big one to hang from his
humble porch!
Down the street he could see a
crowd assembling and a boy ran by at
full speed.
"General Edwards is coming up the
street in a few minutes leading a pro
cession,” said the boy as he paused for
a moment. "Haven’t you got a flag?”
The Sergeant shook his head. He
was too poor to buy one, but he did not
let his neighbors know that. Then
eoddenly he remembered—he did have
a flag. Stumbling as fast as his aged
legs would carry him he went into the
house. Back under his bed was an
bid chest, and this he opened reverent
ly. From its depth he took a bundle
wrapped carefully in brown paper.
Slowly he cut the string and un
wrapped the covering. Out on the bed
tumbled a flag. But it was not new
and bright. Grim with the smoke of
battle; blackened by powder stains,
torn by bullets, it hung limp and dusty.
It is the old flag of my regiment,”
whispered the Sergeant, in an awed
voice. "The one the boys carried
through shot and shell for months. It
is not bright, but far more beautiful
for its stains. I will hang it out—it
will be the greatest flag of all.”
Up the street came the sounds of
bands, and the tramp of marching
feet, the sidewalks filled with the usual
crowd of small boys preceding a pro
cession. Under the arching trees the
parade came, dozens of bright banners
borne aloft till their fluttering tops
stirred the leaves.
The old Sergeant stood at his broken
gate with his flag waving. Brightly the
sun shone on his whitening hair and
on the tattered banner which he waved
so prouly, Proudly the men swept
past to the sound of drums and fifes,
and then in an open carriage came
General Edwards. His eye caught
sight of the old flag.
“Halt!” he ordered, and the parade
stood still. Without pausing a mo
ment he dropped from the carriage
rv*»
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and walked over to the old Sergeant.
“Where did you get that flag?"
asked the General. It is the one my
old regiment bore for many months in
the Civil War."
“It is the flag of the regiment in
which I served also,” exclaimed the
Sergeant, “I have treasured it for years
—who are you?”
"When I followed that banner I was
called ‘Little Bill’ Edwards,” laughed
the general. “I was but a boy of 16."
“What! exclaimed the Sergeant.
‘You ‘Litttle Bill’ Edwards—why I re
member you will—I was Private Lan
don, Company C.”
So there in front of the whole crowd
the two men embraced with tears in
their eyes. And the General made the
Sergeant get into the carriage with
him and hang the flag above the
coachmen’s seat.
Timo to Save Water Powers.
From the Milwaukee Journal.
The way "pork” "gets by” Is the way
that any other bad legislation gets by
pressure of public business and other
things more exciting occupy the public
mind. For at least a year the public has
been able to think of very little beside the
Issues growing out of the great war in
Europe. That is the reason why the
Shields water power bill has gone as far
as It has In congress. The publtc, which
was awakened four or five years ago by
the Ballinger scandal, to the danger that
this country would be robbed of those
great natural resources which still be
long to the people, has all but forgotten
the Intense Importance of the conservation
question. Yet every day It becomes more
evident that water power is going to be
an increasingly vital factor In the life of
the nation. The development of moans
of long distance transmission of the elec
tric current and the adoption of electric
power bv the railroads, which has already
begun, are only two of many evidences
that sooner or later, every bit of water
power in tile country will become market
able. Giving up this water power, and it
is giving it up to lease it under conditions
which mean that the public practically
loses Its Interest, Is losing not merely a
great sum of money, but losing a great
sum of money year after year through
all future time. It is simply robbing pos
terity.
Conservation, it Is true, means using
natural resources. And there is no neces
sity of locking away the water powers
and letting no one use them because we
are afraid someone will steal them. The
kind of brains that frame the Shields’ bill
are capable of framing a measure which
will allow the utilization of water power
as fast as there becomes a market for it.
on terms fair to the capital and enter
prise necessary to develop it. and not un
fair to the public interest.
Electrical Business Increases.
In sharp contrast with th- c-'oa’*V” ■
obtaining a year ago the business in
electrical manufactures, it is
in tlm Electrical World, during the first
quarter of 1916 reached unprecedented
levels. From the beginning of Hie year
to the end of March the three largest
distributors of electrical goods in the
United States (the General Electric
company, Weatinghouse Electric &
Manufacturing company and the West
ern Electric company), booked orders
totaling well over $90,000,000. or at the
rate of about $925,1)00,000 a year. While
it is recognized that the figures for a
quarter's business are no strict crit-*
erlon of what the business will be for
the year, still it offers an interesting
means of comparison with the aggre
gate business of these companies for
previous years.
In a machine invented in England to
test the durability of textiles, dull
edged blades are rubbed by an electric
motor against the fabrics until they
are worn through
♦ MEN AND CONDITIONS -t*
♦ ARE ABNORMAL. WE MUST ■¥,
♦ BE READY. SAYS EDISON ♦
♦ ♦
From Interview With Thomas Edison in
New York Herald.
Asked if he was kept busy as ever
these days, Thomas Edison waved his
hand lo an adjoining room. "Keep my
bed in there,” he said. Mr. Edison is
back at his old practice of grim labor,
and when he has to stick to u job all
night tumbles on the cot for snatches
of sleep.
“The war,” explained the inventor,
“will go along for another year in /
Europe. When you have 130.P00.000 or \
140,000,000 Germans going, they won't
give up easily so long as their grub
holds out.”
“All Depends on the Germans.”
“Any possibility of this country
getting in the row?”
“That all depends on the Germans,"
said Mr. Edison. “We ought to pro
test, of course, to a certain extent,” lie
continued. “But we ought not to carry
too far our protests, so as to make it
impossible for Germany to comply with
our demands. When a people are fight
ing for their lives you can’t make dis
tinctions too fine.”
Stay In Mexico.
“How about our duty in Mexico?”
was the next query.
"The army ought to stay there until
they get the man we went after," was
his instant answer.
Mr. Edison said tiie Americans were
now apparently alert to the need for
prepardness.
“That is, everybody except Ford,” he
said with a laugh.” He does not want
any one to fight and wants to keep
every one rich. I don't believe he
thinks how bad a mass of people can
get when they become dead mad. THE
AMERICAN PEOPLE ARE AWAKE.
THEY CAN SEE CONDITIONS WE
HAVE TO FACE. THE WORLD IS
NOT IN NORMAL CONDITION. IF
MEN WERE NORMAL WE WOULD
NEED NO PREPAREDNESS, BUT
WE MUST BE PREPARED TO MEET
CONDITIONS THAT NOW EXIST.
WITH MEN ABNORMAL, AND CON
SEQUENTLY UNABLE TO THINK
STRAIGHT. NO ONE IS SAFE TO
DAY. Why, we see it every day, dur
ing a strike, for instance. Old em
ployes, the finest kind of men; kind
fellows and loyal, are suddenly ob
sessed by the mob spirit. Then they
act as if they were crazy and do things A
that are simply awful. AND THAT /
SEEMS TO BE THE WAY MEN ARE f
BECOME; THEIR NORMAL MEN- >
TAL APPARATUS IS ENTIRELY ^
DISTURBED. In business affairs you
cannot talk to a man who is a dead
man; wait until tomorrow. You can
do no business with a man who has not
a normal mentality. CONSEQUENT
LY WE NEED TO BE PREPARED,
AS YOU CANNOT TELL WHAT MEN
OR WHAT NATION MAY BECOME
ABNORMAL.”
' ic <* a ncai inctrii
Switching the conversation to things
political, Mr. Edison was asked if he
still remained a warm admirer of
Colonel Roosevelt. He paused a sec
ond, then swung ’round and said quick
ly: “He’s a real man. His report Is
good and clean. There is a man with
a wonderful intelligence of our en
vironment, and, as far as I can see, the
only man who comes right out and
speaks the truth, though in doing so
huJplreds of thousands of voters go
against him. Is there any other public
man in the United States who has done
this? If so I'd like to hear his name.
And he is a man of great executive
ability."
“How about Justice Hughes?” was
the next query.
Shoemaker to His Last.
“Hughes better not bother with pol
itics. He ought to stay on the bench.
Let the shoemaker stick to his last.”
“And President Wilson?”
"President Wilson isn’t bad," said
Mr. Edison. "But he’s a changeable.
However, as presidents go, he’s pretty
good.”
Prosperity in this country will con
tinue until the war ends and for a
year in addition, in Mr. Edison’s judg
ment. Not for a time after the war
closes does the inventor expect there
will be any emigration to this country,
but later more than ever will come
over to our shores from Europe. In
the long run Mr. Edison could not see
where we will gain anything by Ger
many, France and England becoming
exhausted by the fighting.
“The world is lopsided now,” said the
inventor, “and we will have to pay for
some of this war before we are through
It will be the same as if disaster visited
Illinois or Pennsylvania. We would
feel it, too."
Asked his views of industrial lessens
taught America by the isolation of
European countries which previously
League club, of New York city, and is
supplied us with necessaries. Mr. Edi
son said the United States ought to
manufacture everything her natural
resources permit, and only buy from
other nations articles they beat us in.
considering quality or price.
“But take dyes. America should
make her own, not buy from Germany.
There ure many other things Germany
can make that are cheaper and better
than we manufacture, and we can take
these products from her in exchange
for articles we make."
Oorn ror Ammunition.
From the Wall Street Journal.
It’s an ill wind that doesn’t blow the
farmers some good. The armies of Eurooe
j look to them for a great deal of their
supplies. The soldiers are fed and clothM
with the products of the farm, and now
! they are looking to the farmers for a
I part of their ammunition.
Cotton seed oil is used to manufacture
glycerin, which goes into the manufac
ture of nitro-glycerin, and this helped to
put the price of seed up to an unusual
figure. About 3.000,000 bales of cotton have
been used in a year in the manufacture
of explosives. Not content with that,
starch and alcohol are being used in the
composition of high power explosives.
The different industries in this country
have more than doubled their consumption
of corn on this account. A barrel of pork,
a cask of alcohol, a side of beef or a con
signment of explosives may not look much
alike, yet in a measure they are concen
trations of cotton meal and corn. A sol
dier is clothed with cotton. His occasion
al bath is with cotton oil soap. His beef,
pork, butter, eggs and condensed milk rep
resent corn and cotton; when he helps to
lire a shell he is still using corn and cot
ton. His life is sustained, and that of his
enemy taken, by the use of the earn*
products of the farm.
Heating By Electricity.
From the Electric World.
For the purpose of determining the de
sirability of heating office buildings by
means of surplus electricity, the Washing
ton Water Power company of Spokane has
been experimenting for the past three
years, and has just announced that the
plan is practicable. The company, for the
last three years, has been succesfully
heating by electricity Its own four-story
office building, using a special steam boil
er connected to the ordinary steam radi
ators originally installed for us*1 on tho
standard coal fired boilers. In the ‘'elec
tric steam” boiler the electricity is intro
duced into the boiler in t»ocalled ‘‘cart
ridge units " The chimney or due is closed
and a fan used to circulate the hot air
through the tubes of the boiler. The ad
vantage of this system Is that all the pres
ent steam apparatus 91m be used, and. if
desired, the plant can be changed in less
than an hour from an electric to a coal
tired boiler. This feature is attractive
where * waste * electricity is used,