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About The frontier. (O'Neill City, Holt County, Neb.) 1880-1965 | View Entire Issue (June 22, 1916)
Summer Luncheons III* inajiffy •III I ^Let Libby's splendid chefs relieve you ” I J of hot-weather cooking. Stock the * pantry ^ shelf with Drfedlterf Mand the other good summer meats — including Libby's Ac Vienna Sausage—you II find them fresh and appetizing. Libby, McNeiII & Libby, Chicago I Farmers Attention! Did you know that you could buy Hall In surance buy mall I and save the middle mon'i ftrouts or about ono-fourth the cost of youi nsurance. Write tolling us how much yon farm, what county you are in, and how much Insurance you waut to carry and let us ligurs with you. F. L. McCLURE SIOUX CITY. LA ^MnHN^TOCK^OrTHE^NEvP GOLD FIELD IN ARIZONA A. H. WOOLLACOTT, Member Los Amelei and Sin Francisco .Stock Exchange*. Mining Stocks and Bonds Suite 261 1. W. Heilman Bldg., Los Angeles, Calif. Have block of Oat man Double WbrIo Mining Company's stock of Oatman, Arizona, for sale. Initial price 2.f»o per share. Likewise several other Rood ones. Descriptions and full Infor DAISY FLY KILLER ££ Ill'll; - flies. Neat, clean, or namental, convenient, cheap. Lasts all season. Madeot metal, can'taplllor tip over; will not noil or 1njure anything. Guaranteed effective. All dealers or«sent express paid for 11.00. HAROLD SOMERS. 160 Da Kalb Ave., Brooklyn, N. T Alfalfa $6, Sweet Clover |H. Farms m^r.r. I1% for wain and rent on crop payments. OULiUO J, MIJLllALL, boo City, Iowa DOGS DEVELOP TAILLESS RAT Scientific Terriers Nipped So Many Rodents That New Generation Is Deformed. Thelatest style hereabouts Is tail less rats. Several years ago, on the farm of I). D. Hess, near QuarryvlUe, the barn wns infested with huge rats, •and to get rid of them Hess employed a brace of terrier dogs. The latter chased rhe rodents to their hloes, but about all they could get hold of were Hie tails. The result wus a large num ber of (ailless ruts that year. For some time no rats were seen, but recently the re appeared a number of young ones minus the usual ap pendage.—Lnncnsetr Pa.) Dispatch Pliila. North American. Art Objects Sold. A rare Flemish tapestry entitled "The Haymakers,” dating from Into In the seventeenth century, brought $1,400 at nn art sale nt the Anderson galleries, New York. It went to M. Kernochan. Other Important sales were a large wine Jar of the Sung dynasty In China, about DUO A. D„ sold for $170; a Chi nese painting from the Ming dynasty, sold to M. Kernochan for $160; a land scape painting from the Ming dynasty, to the san > buyer for $100, and an other landscape sceen from the Ming dynasty to \V. Hotchkiss for $130. Had to Hutn for It. Flatbush—Did you ever lose much time house hunting? ltensonhurst—Oh, yes; we lived nut West at one time, and we had a cy clone. I spent six days looking for my house. A Sensible Thing To Do When the drug, caffeine— the active principle in coffee — shows in headache, ner vousness, insomnia, bilious ness, jumpy heart, and so on, the sensible thing to do is to quit the coffee. It’s easy, having at hand the delicious pure food-drink Instant Postum It is made from wheat roasted with a bit of whole some molasses and is free from any harmful substance. Thousands who prefer to protect their health, use Postum with comfort and delight. Made in the cup—instantly — with hot water. Conven ient, nourishing, satisfying. “ There’s a Reason ” for POSTUM THE LONE STAR RANGER A ROMANCE OF TIIE BORDER BY ZANE GREY Author of “The Light of Western Stars," “Riders of the Purple Sago," etc. HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS NEW YORK AND LONDON MCMXV —MWI WJT———W—WS IH——W——BP—WWM——H—MIlMrMSI—Hull CHAPTER V.— (Continued). Duane casually glanced in the direc tion indicated, and he saw a spare, gaunt man with u face strikingly white beside the red and bronze acd dark skins of the men around him. It wa> a cadaverous face. The black mus tache hung down; a heavy lock of black hair drooped down over the brow; deep set, hollow, staring eyes looked out piercingly. The man had a restless, alert, nervous manner. He put his hands on the board that served as a bar and stared at Duane. But when he met Duane's glance he turned hur riedly to go on serving out liquor. "What have you got against him'.”’ inquired Duane, us he sat down beside Euchre. He asked more for some thing to say than from real interest. What did he care about a mean, haunt ed, craven faced criminal? "Wal, mebbe I'm cross grained," re plied Euchre, apologetically. “Shore un outlaw an' rustler such as me can't be touchy. But l never stole nothin’ but cattle from some rancher who never missed ’em anyway. Thet sneak Ben son—ho was the means of puttin’ a little girl in Bland’s way.’’ "Girl?” queried Duane, now with real attention. "Shore. Bland’s great on women. I'd tell you about this girl when we get out of here. Some of the gang are goln’ to be sociable, an' i can't talk about the chief.” During the ensuing half hour a num ber of outlaws passed by Duane and Euchre, halted for a greeting or sat down for a moment. They were all gruff, loud voiced, merry, and good nu tured. Duane n plied civilly and agree ably when he was personally addressed, but he refused all invitations lo duns and gamble. Evidently he had been accepted, in a way, as one of their clan. No one made any Idnt of an allusion to his affair with Bosoiner. Duane saw readily that Euchre was well liked. One outlaw borrowed money from him; an other asked for tobacco. By tile time it was dark the big room was full of outlaws and Mexicans, most of whom were engaged at monte. These gamblers, especially the Mexicans, were Intense and quiet. The noise in the place came from the drinkers, the luuugv:» o« j'utuu; iiiiu m i ii resorts—some of the famous ones In San Antonio and El Paso, a few In border towns where license went un checked. But this place of Juckrubblt Benson's impressed him us one where guns and knives were accessories to the game. To his perhaps rather dis tinguishing eye the most prominent thing about the gamesters appeared to be their weapons. On seva ral op ti e tables were piles of silver-—Mexican pesos—as large and high as the n own of his hat. There were also piles ot gold and silvor In United States coin. Duane needed no experienced eyes to see that betting was heavy and ll.al heavy sums exchanged ban Is. Toe Mexicans showed a sterner obsest ion, an intenser passion. Some ot l,.e Americans staked freely, nonchalant ly, as befitted men to whom money was nothing. These latter were mani festly winning, for there were l>roi..tr outlaws who wagered coin with grudg ing, sullen, greedy eyes. Boisterous talk and laughter among the drinking men drowned, except at Intervals, the low, brief talk of the gamblers. The clink of coin sounded Incessantly, sometimes just low, steady musical rings; and again, when a pile was tum bled quickly, there was a silvery crush. Here an outlaw pounded on a table with the butt of his gun; there another noisily palmed a roll of dollars while he studied his opponent’s face. The noises, however, In Benson’s den did not contribute to any extent to the sin ister aspect of the place. That seemed to come from the grim anti reckless faces, from the bent, intent heads, from the dark lights and shades. There were bright lights, but these served only to make the shadows. Anti in the shad ows lurked unrestrained lust of gain, a spirit ruthless and reckless, a some thing at once suggesting lawlessness, theft, murder, and hell. “Bland’s not here tonight,” Euchre was saying. "lie left today on one of his t ips, tailin' Alloway an' some oth ers. But tils other man, Rugg, he’s here. See him standln’ with them three fellers, all close to Benson. Rugg’s the little bow legged man with the half of his face shot off. He’s one eyed—but he can shore see out of the one he’s got. An’, darn me! there's Hardin. You know him? He's got an outlaw gang as big as Bland's. Hardin Is standin’ next ,o Benson. See how quiet an' un assumin' he looks. Yes, thet's Hardin. He comes here once in a while to see Blund. They’re friends, which's shore Btrange. Do you see thet greaser there— the one with gold an’ lace on his som brero? Thet's Manuel, a Mexican ban dit. He's a great gambler. Comes here often to drop Ills coin. Next to him is Bill Marr—the feller with the bandanna •round his head. Bill rode In the oth er day with some fresh bullet holes. jits a umi soot- mutt- u any letter i tttei heard of. He's full of lend. Funny, because Bill’s no trouble hunter, an’, like me, he’d rather run than shoot. But lie’s the best rustler Bland's got— a grand rider, an' a wonder with cattle. An' see the tow headed youngster. Tliet's Kid Fuller, the kid of Bland's gang. Fuller has hit the pace hard, an' he won't last the year out on the bor der. He killed his sweetheart's father, got run out of Staceytown, took to stenlin’ hosses. An' next lie's herewith Bland. Another boy gone wrong, an' now shore a hard nut." Euchre went on calling Duane's at tention to other men. just as he hap pened to glance over them. Any one of them would have been a marked man In a respectable crowd. Here each took his place with more or less dis tinction, according to the record of his past wild prowess and his present pns sibilities. Duane, realizing that he was tolerated there, received in careless friendly spirit by tills terrible class oi outcasts, oxperie. ed a feeling of re vulsion that amounted almost to hor ror. Was his being there not an ugly dream? What had he In common with such ruffians? Then in a flash of mem ory came tiie painful proof—he was a criminal in sight of Texas law; he, too was an outcast. For the moment Duane was wrapper up in painful reflections; but Euchre’s heavy hand, (lapping with a warning hold on his arm, brought him back ti outside things. The hum of voices, the clink of coin the loud laughter had ceased. Thert was a silence that manifestly had fol lowed some unusual word or uctior sufficient to still the room. It wu; ■ 4 broken by a harsh curse and the scrape of a bench on the floor. Some man had risen. “You stacked the cards, you -■!" “Say that twice,” another voice re plied, so different in Its cool, ominous tone from the other. “I'll say it twice,” returned the first gamester, in hot haste. “I’ll say it three times, i’ll whistle it. Are you deaf? You light-lingered gent! You stacked the cards!” Silence ensued, deeper than before, pregnant with meaning. For all that Duane saw, not an outlaw moved for a full moment. Then suddenly the room was full of disorder as men rose and ran and dived everywhere. "Hun or duck!” yelled Euchre, close to Duane’s ear. With that he dashed for the door. Duane leaped after him. They ran into a jostling mob. Heavy gun shots and hoarse yells hurried the crowd Duane was with pell mell out into the darkness. There they all halted, and several peeped in at the door. "Who was the Kid callin’?” asked one outlaw. "Bud Marsh," replied another. “I reckon them fust shots was Bud's. Adios Kid. It was cornin' to hirg," went on yet another. "How many shots?" “Three or four, I counted." “Three heavy an’ one light. Thet light one was the Kid’s .38. Elston! There's the Kid hollerin' now. He ain’t cashed, anyway.” At this Juncture most of the outlaws began to file buck into the room. Dunne thought he had seen and heard enough in Benson's den for one night and lie started slowly down the walk. Presently Euchre caught up with him. "Nobody hurt much, width's short some strange,” he said. "The Kid—• young Fuller thet I was tellin' you about—he was drinkin' an’ losin'. Eost his nut, too, callin' Bud arsh thet way. j Bud's us straight at cards as any of j ’em. Somebody grabbed Bud, who shot | into the roof. An’ Fuller’s arm was j knocked up. He only hit a greaser." CHAPTER VI. Next morning Duane found that a moody and despondent spell had fast ened on him. Wishing to he alone, he went out anl walked a trail leading round the river bluff. He thought and tuought. After a while he made out that the trouble with him probably was that lie i ould not resign himself to his fate, He abhoired the possibility c ham o seemed to hold in store for him. iio could not believe there was no hope, i ltut wuat to do appeared beyond his power to tell. Duane had intelligence and keenness enough to «■ e Ids peril—the danget threatening his liuiiailer as a man, just as much a- that which threatened us life, lie cared vastly more. Do dis covered, for u ha ( he considered honor a.:d .ni \;rit:, te.an tie did for life. He saw i.,ai ,t \.as bad for him to be j alone. Hut, it appeared, lonely months: and j.e: hap.» ye.us Ini vltably must be his. Anot'-.ei ti iag pusssUrii him. In tne blip t light ot c ay l e could I ot re in.I the Mat i t m ad tnat win hlc at twilight or i.iisk or in the (talk ntprnt. i liy day torse visitat.i ns became to him wuat they ronhy cvei o—phantoms of Ids const pen e. He could dismiss the thought of them then.'lie i ould scarce ly remember or believe that th a strange feat of famy or linnginatic.pl had troubled aim, pained him, made him sleepless and sick. That morning Duane spent an un happy hour wrestling decision out of the unstable condition of his mind. Hut I at length he determined to create In terest in all that he came across and so forget lilmself as much as | ossible. He had an opportunity now to see just what the outlaw's life really was. He meant to force himself to be curious, ; sympathetic, clear sighted. And lie ! would' stay there In the valley until Its possibilities had been exhausted or un til circumstances sent him out upon his uncertain way. When he returned to the shack Euchre was cooking dinner. "Say, Buck, I’ve news for you," he said; and his tone conveyed either pride in his possession of suc h news or pride in Duane. "Feller named Brad ley rode In this mornin'. He's heard some about you. Told about the ace of spades they put over the bullet hides in thet eowpuneher Bain you plugged. Then there was a rancher shot at a water hole 20 miles south of Wellston. Reckon you didn't do it?" "No. 1 certainly did not," replied Dunne. "Wal, you get the blame. It ain’t nothin' for a feller to be saddled with gun plays he never made. An', Buck, if you ever get famous, as seems likely, you'll be blamed for many a crime. The border‘11 make an outlaw an' murderer out of you. Wal, thet's enough of thet. 1'vo more news. You're gout' to bo I > innn 1n» •• "Popular? What do you mean?” "I met Bland’s wife this mornln'. She seen you the other day when you rode in. She shore wants to meet you. an' so do some of the other women in camp. They always want to meet the new fellers who’ve just come in. It's lonesome for women here, an' they like to hear news from the towns.” "Well, Euchre, 1 don't wat to bo im polite, but I'd rather not meet any women,” rejoined Duane. "I was afraid you wouldn't. Don't blame you much. Women are hell. I was hopin’, though, you might talk a little tp thet poor lonesome kid." "What kid?” inquired Duane, in sur prise. "Didn't I tell you about Jennie—the girl Bland's holdin’ here—the one Jack rabbit Benson had a hand in stealin ?" “You mentioned a girl. That's all. Tell me now,” replied Duane, abruptly. "W al, 1 got it this way. Mebbe it's straight, an’ mebbe it ain't. Some years ago Benson made a trip over the river to buy mescal an' other drinks. He'll sneak over there once in a while. An', as 1 get it. he run across a gang of greasers with some gringo prisoners. 1 don’t know, but I reckon there was some barterin’, perhaps murderin'. Anyway. Benson fetched the girl back. She was more dead than alive. But it turned out she was only starved an' scared half to death. She hadn’t been harmed. 1 reckon she was then about 14 years old. Benson’s idee, he said was to use her in his den sellln's drinks an' the like. But 1 never went much on Jackrabbit's word. Bland seen the kid right off and took her—bought her from Benson. You can gamble Bland didn’t do thet from notions of chivalry. I ain't gainsayin’, however, but thet ! Jennie was better off with Kate Bland. She's been hard on Jennie, but she's kept Bland an' the other men from treatin' the kid shameful. Kate, Jennie has growed into an all fired pretty girl, an’ Kate .is powerful jealous of her. I can see hell brewin' over there in Bland’s cabin. Thet’s why I w’ish you’d come over with me. Bland’s hardly ever home. His wife’s invited you. Shore, if she gets sweet on you, as she has on— Wal, thet’d complicate matters. But you get to see Jennie, an' mebbe you could help her. Mind, I ain’t hint in' nothin'; I’m just wantin’ to put her in your way. You’re a man an' can think fer yourself. I had a baby girl once an’, if she'd lived, she’d be as big as Jennie now an’ by heaven, I wouldn't want her here in Bland's camp." “I’ll go, Euchre. Take me over." re plied Duane. He felt Euchre’s eyes up on him. The old outlaw, however, had no more to say. In the afternoon. Euchre set off with Duane, and soon they reached Bland’s cabin. Duane remembered it as the one where he had seen the pretty wom an watching him ride by. He could not recall what she looked like. The cabin was the same as the other adobe structures in the valley, but it was larger and pleasantly located rather high up in a grove of cottonwoods. In the windows and upon the porch were evidences of a woman’s hand. Through the open door Duane caught a glimpse of bright Mexican blankets and rugs. Euchre knocked upon the side of the door. “Is that you, Euchre?” asked a girl's voice, low, hesitatingly. The tone of it, rather deep and with a note of fear, struck Duane. He wondered what she would be like. "Yes, it’s me, Jennie. Where’s Mrs. Bland?” answered Euchre. “She went over to Deger’s. There's somebody sick," replied the girl. Euchre turned and w'hispered some thing about luck. The snap of the outlaw’s eyes was added significance to Duane. “Jennie, come out, or let us come in. Here’s the young man I was tellin’ you about," Euchre said. "Oh, I can’t! I look so—so—” “Never mind how you look,” inter rupted the outlaw, in a whisper. “It ain’t no time to care fer thet. Here’s young Duane. Jennie, he’s no rustler, no thief. He’s different. Come out, Jennie, an' mebbe he’ll—” Euchre did not complete his sen tence. He had spoken low, w'ith his glance shifting from side to side. But what he said was sufficient to bring the girl quickly. She appeared in the doorway with downcast eyes and a stain of red in her white cheek. She had a nretty, sad face and bright hair. "Don’t be bashful, Jennie,” said Eu chre. "You an’ Duane have a chance to talk a little. Now, I’ll go fetch Mrs. Bland, but I won t be hurryin'.” With that Euchre went away through the cottonwoods. “I’m glad to meet you. Miss—Miss Jennie, saiu uuane. Jiucnre man r mention your last name. He asked me to come over to—” Duane's attempt at pleasantry halted short when Jennie lifted her lashes to look at him. Some kind of a shock went through Duane. Her gray eyes were beautiful, hut it had not been beauty that cut short his speech. He seemed to see a tragic struggle between hope and doubt that shone in her pierc ing gaze. She kept looking, and Duane could not break the silence. It was no ordinary moment. "What did you come here for?” she asked, at last. "To see you," replied Duane, glad to speak. "Why?" "Well—Euchre thought—he wanted me to talk to you, cheer you up u bit." replied Duane, somewhat lamely. The earnest eyes embarrassed him. “Euchre's good. He's the only per son in this awkward place who's been rood to me. But he's afraid of Bland. He said you were different. Who arc you ?"r Deane told her. “You’re not a robber or rustler or mur’erer or some bad man come here to 1 i ’e “No. I'm not," said Duane, trying to smile. "Then why are you here?" “I’m on the dodge. You know what that means I got in a shooting scrape nt home an l had to run off. When it blnv-3 over I hope to go back." "But you can't be honest hero?" "Vi's, T can. "Oh, I know what these outlaws are. Yes. you're different." She kept the strained gaze upon him. hut hope was kindling, and the hard lines of her j youthful face were softening. Something sweet and warm stirred deep in Duane as he realized the un fortunate girl was experiencing a birth of trust in him. "O, God! Maybe you're the man to save me—to take me away before it's too late!” Duane’s spirit leaped. “Maybe l am," he replied, instantly. She seemed to check a blind impulse to run into his arms. Her cheek flamed, her lips quivered, her bosom swelled under her ragged dress. Then the glow began to fade; doubt once more assailed her. “It can’t be. You're only—after me, too, like Bland-—like all of them.” Duane's long arms went out and his hands clasped lier shoulders. He shook her. “Look at me—straight in the eye. There are decent men. Haven’t you a father—a brother?” "They’re dead—killed by raiders. We lived in Dimmit county. I was carried away,” Jennie replied, hurriedly. She put up an appealing hand to him. “For give me. 1 believe—I know you’re good. It was only—1 live so much in fear—I’m half crazy—I’ve almost for gotten what good men are like. Mister Duane, you'll help me?” “Yes, Jennie, 1 will. Tell me how. What must I do? Have you any plan?" “Oh no. But take me away. “I'll try.” said Duane simply. “That won’t be easy, though. I must have time to think. You must help me. There are many things to consider. Horses, food, trails, and then the best time to make the attempt. Are you watched—kept prisoner?" "No. I could have run off lots of times. But I was afraid. I’d only have fallen into worse hands. Euchre has told me that. Mrs. Bland beats me, half starves me, but she has kept me from her husband and these other dogs. She’s been as good as that, and I'm grateful. She hasn’t done it for love of me, though. She always hated 1 me. And lately she’s growing jealous. There was a man came here by' the name of Spence—so he called himself, lie tried to be kind to me. But she wouldn’t let him. She was in love with him. She’s a bad woman. Bland finally shot Spence, and that ended that. She’s been jealous ever since. 1 hear her lighting with Bland about mo. She swears she'll kill me before he gets me. And Bland laughs in her face. Then I've heard Chess Alloway try to persuade Bland to give "me to him. But Bland doesn’t laugh then. Just lately ' before Bland went away things came to a head. I couldn't sleep. 1 wished Mrs. Bland would kill me. I'll certain ly kill myself if they ruin me. Duane, you must be quick if you'd save me.” "I realize that," replied he, thought fully. "1 think my difficulty will be | to fool Mrs. Bland. If she suspected me she’d have the whole gang of out ] laws on me at cnee.” "She would that. You've got to be careful—and quick." "What kind of woman is she?” in t quired Duane. “She's—she's brazen. I've heard her with her lovers. They get drunk some times when Bland’s away. She's got a terrible temper. She's vain. She likes flattery. Oh, you could fool her easy enough if you’d lower yourself to—to—’’ “To make love to her?" interrupted Duane. Jennie bravely turned shamed eyes to meet his. “My girl, I’d do worse than that to get you away from here," he said bluntly. "But—Duane,’’ she faltered, and again she put out the appealing hand. “Bland will kill you.” Duane made no reply to this. He was trying to still a rising strange tu mult in his breast. The old emotion — the rush of an instinct to kill! Ho turned cold all over. “Chess Alloway will kill you if Bland doesn’t,” went on Jennie, with her tragic eyes on Duane’s. “Maybe he will,” replied Duane. It was difficult for him to force a smile. But he achieved one. "Oh, better take me off at once,” she said. “Save me without risking so much—without making love to Mrs. Bland!” "Surely, if I can. There’ I see Eu- , chre coming with a woman.” “That’s her. Oh, she mustn’t see me with you.” "Wait—a moment,” whispered Du ane, as Jennie slipped indoors. “We’ve settled it. Don’t forget. I'll find some way to get word to you, perhaps through Euchre. Meanwhile keep up your courage. Remember I’ll save you j somehow. We’ll try strategy first. Whatever you see or hear me do, don’t I think less of me—” Jennie checked him with a gesture ! and a wonderful gray flash of eyes. j "I’ll bless you with every drop of blood in my heart," she whispered pas- j sionatoly. It was only as she turned away into the room that Duane saw she was | lame and that she wore Mexican san- j dais over bare feet. He sat down upon a bench on the porch and directed his attention to the approaching couple. The trees of the grove were thick enough for him to make reasonably sure that Mrs. Bland had not seen him talking to Jennie. When the outlaw’s wife drew near Duane saw that she was a tall, strong, full bodied woman, rather good looking with a full blown, bold attractiveness. Duane was more concerned with her expression than with her good looks; and as she appeared unsuspicious he fdt relieved. The situation then took on a singular zest. Euchre came up on the porch and awkwardly introduced Duane to Mrs. Bland._ She was young, probably not over 25, and not quite so prepossessing at close range. He eyes were large, rather prominent, and brown in color. Her mouth, too, was large, with the lips full, and she had white teeth. Duane took her proffered hand and remarked frankly that he was glad to meet her. Mrs. island appeared pleased; and her laugh, which followed, was loud and rather musical. "Mr. Duane—Buck Duane, Euchre said, didn't he?" she asked. “Buckley,” corrected Duane, "The nickname's not of my choosing." "I’m certainly glad to meet you, Buckley Duane," she said, as she took the seat Duane offered her. "Sorry to have been out. Kid Euller’s lying over at Deger's. You know he was shot last night. He’s got fever today. When Bland’s away I have to nurse all these shot up boys, and it sure takes my time. Have you been waiting here alone? Didn’t see that slattern girl of mine?” She gave him a sharp glance. She had an extraordinary play of feature, Duane thought, and unless she was smiling was not pretty at all. "I've been alone," replied Duane. "Haven’t seen anybody but a sick look ing girl with a bucket. And she ran when she saw me.” "That was Jen," said Mrs. Bland. "She's the kid we keep here, and she sure hardly pays her keep. Did Euchre tell you about her?" "Now that I think of it, he did say something or other.” "What did he tell you about me?” bluntly asked Mrs. Bland. "Wal, Kate,” replied Euchre, speak ing for himself, "you needn't worry none, for I told Buck nothin' but com pliments." Evidently the outlaw's wife liked Euchre, for her keen glance rested with amusement upon him. "As for Jen, I’ll tell you her story some day," went on the woman. "It's a common enough story along this riv er. Euchre here is a tender-hearted old fool, and Jen has taken him in." "Wal. seein' as you’ve got me fig gered correct," replied Euchre, dryly, "i'll go in an’ talk to Jennie, if I may.” "Certainly. Go ahead. Jen calls you her best friend," said Mrs. Bland, ami ably. "You're always fetching some Mexican stuff, and that’s why, I guess." When Euchre had shuffled into the house Mrs. Bland turned to Duane with curiosity and interest in her gaze. "Bland told me about you." “What did he say?" queried Duane, in pretended alarm. "Oh, you needn’t think he's done you dirt. Bland's not that kind of a man. He said: 'Kate, there's a young fel low in camp—rode in here on the dodge. He's no criminal, and he refused to join my band. Wish he would. Slickest day! I'd like to see him and Chess meet out there in the road.' Then Bland went on to tell how you and Bosomer came together.” "What did you say?” inquired Duane, as she paused. “Me? Why, I asked him what you looked like.” she replied, gayly. “Well?” went on Duane. “Magnificent chap, Bland said. Big ger than any man in the valley. Just a great blue-eyed, sun-burned boy!" “Humph!” exclaimed Duane. "I'm. sorry lie led you to expect somebody worth seeing." "But I'm not disappointed,” she re turned, archly. "Duane, are you going to stay long here In camp?" "Yes, till I run out of money and have to move. Why?” Mrs. Bland’s face underwent one of the singular changes. The smiles and flushes and glances, all that had been coquettish about her, had lent her a certain attractiveness, almost beauty and youth. But with some powerful emotion she changed and instantly be came' a woman of discontent, Dunne imagined, of deep, violent nature. (Continued Next Week.) This season the American woman is considering the adoption of an evening frock in the bodice of which fine silk net is carried to the collar bone. Some times, in deference to accepted custom, there is a Y-shaped opening at the back, hut in the majority of gowns she net comes high back and front and is caught together at the base of the neck and at the beginning of the arm. and there are sleeves of some kind, either in the form of floating draperies that are caught up again at the wrist, or in the form of flaring elbow sleeves that are edged with maribou or col ored beads. These gowns are offered for every kind of evening affair, and ; it is rumored that they will be worn i to some of the smartest balls given in | the country places as a contrast to the ' winter evening gowns. ♦ A SURVIVAL OF ♦ ■¥ MATRIARCHY ♦ ♦ ♦ In Harper's Magazine, Mrs. Carrie Chapman Catt tells of a tribe in Su matra where there is still a survival of matriarchy, and women play an im portant part in affairs. "Now that a closer acquaintance with the Menangkabau is made possible, it is known that their fundamental insti tutions belong to the Matriarchate, or Age of the Mother's Rights, which many sociologists believo to have been a stage through which all races have passed. They number 1,320,000, and occupy a territory eight times the size of the Netherlands. The women own the land and houses; family names de scend in the female line, and mothers are the sole guardians of their chil dren. Some of the customs of the peo ple have been deflected from their nor mal course of development by two powerful patriarchal influences. At a ' remote period of unknown date the Hindus overran the chief islands of the archipelago. How long tiiey remained, or why they withdrew, or if they merely intermarried with the native peoples they visited and thus lost their identity, are questions that are asked many times, though never answered; but they left a permanent impress of their arts, religion, and ideas of caste. The other external influence came through Arab traders and priests, probably about the Thirteenth century, who con verted the people to Mohammedanism and formed a connection which has betn intermittently continued until the present day. Since Hindus and Mo hammedans alike assign women to seclusion and a position of utter sub ordination to men, it is evident that there was something tremendously virile in the 'Mother's Rights’ institu tions of the Menangkabau, or some thing unusual in their environment, to have withstood such all dominating forces. This conclusion becomes the more apparent when taken in connec tion with tlie fact that distinct traces of the Mariarchnte are to be found throughout the Malay race, to which these people belong, though nearlv ail tribes have substituted patriarchate in stitutions. "Mnrriil^o ict r>vno-o hofnrflt the days of Mohammedanism all hus bands doubtless went to live in the homes of their motherinlaw, as is the usual custom under the Matriarchate. The polygamy allowed by Mohammed interfered with this practice, and a curious compromise was effected be tween these opposing institutions which I has permitted both to exist. The poly gamous husband now remains in the family of his own mother, and merely visits his wife in the home of his motherinlaw. If he takes the four wives authorized by the Koran, he usually spends a week with each, or at least he times his visits of equal lengths— watchful mothersinlaw, with an eye to the family exchequer, see to it that he does not overstay the prescribed period. Here he eats and sleeps in the apart ment of his wife. In former times, since the women controlled the land and carried the family pocketbook, the husbands made no contribution toward the family expenses. Instead, the men were supported by their wives and re ceived their pocket money as a gift from them. Now, many men have at tained 'economic independence’ through the opening of new occupations and business opportunities brought about by the Dutch occupacy, and such men are expected to bring a gift of food, clothing, or money to their wives upon the occasion of each visit. No law com pels this attention, but popular opinion has thus far done its perfect work, and few men avoid the obligation. "As social intercourse is as free as in America, young people full in love in a natural way and make their own choice of matrimonial partners, but when the choice is made negotiations between the parents of the young couple begin and the price which the bride shall pay for the husband is determined, as weil as details for the proper celebration of the wedding. For an ordinary man the sum paid rarely exceeds $S0, but $21)0 is gladly paid for a head man. whoso position is regarded as one of great dignity." Love of Country. In these Clays o£ rapid national growth, when the citizen of today is supplanted by the youth and franchised emigrant tomorrow; when 1,000,000 vo ters cast their ballots with no higher motive than compliance with a custom or the dictates of party henchmen when one-fourth of our henchmen’ have no stronger ties of residence than avarice, whose strength varies with the financial fluctuations of the business world; when year by year our shores receive the restless spirits of other lands who acknowledge no higher au thority than their own caprice; when so many of our youth are growing into manhood Ignorant of everything save the means of licensed indulgences ami frivolity our liberty affords; when, as partakers of the grandest political in heritance ever transmitted from one generation to another, we are all about to forget the fearful responsibilities thrust upon us in our acceptance of the blessings of liberty we enjoy, it is time to bait. “Let us gather the fragments that nothing be lost, To tell the next ages what liberty cost." Let us teach the t ming citizen that next to the love of Cod—implanted at the mother’s knee and cultivated by daily acts of piety : nd benevolence_ is tlie love of country, its flag, the mar tyrs who fell in its defense, and hist but greatest of all, an abiding faith in its institutions and an undying de votion to its peace, happiness and per petuity. Let the examples of patriots in deeds of heroism and self sue: if ice be our theme G' meditation and ctscus sion. Let our literature gleam with the noble efforts, the grand achiev-meats of those who gave their all that we their dependents, might taste the sweets of freedom undisturbed. Let us realize that this grande.itt ner itage of earth's martyrs came to us not alone through the businesr tact and pruden foresight of our sir.-s, but by years of toil and suffering, if'cold and hunger, of want and prlvatii n and by the generous sacrifice of precious blood; and that, though it be vouch safed to us through blessings of a no ble ancestry, its possession implies no permanence to an unworthy ra< e. it is ours, not alone to enjoy, but to foster and protect; ours to guar] from sohi m. vice and crime; ours to purity, exalt, ennoble; ours to prepa re a dwell - ing place for the purest, fairest, best of earth's humanity. I. H. Brown. Flowered cotton voile is one of the prettiest summer fabrics, and there are lovely colored organdies and delicately hued batistes. These are generously trimmed with narrow quillings, touches of hand embroideries and showers of ribbon bows. The sleeves are always wide Home of these dresses are worn over a princess slip of taffeta or wash able satin, which has a crinoline or haircloth lining arranged in the form of strips on the under side. Other ideas simply employ a cable cord inserted at intervals from item to hip. Gray is a fashionable color and it is often brightened with a tut of coral lewelry.