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Preserving Foods.
A new method has been discovered,
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Honk! Honk.
The fatalities due to automobile ac
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one encouraging fact In connection
with them, ns stnted In a government
report, Is that during the last live
years the number of fatal accidents
has not Increased nearly ns fast ns
the number of cars. The cars have In
creased 775 per cent, while fatalities
have Increased only 258 per cent. This
seems to Indicate more careful driv
ing at present.
Rare Treat.
Tommy wanted to go to tli^ movies,
hut his mother objected.
“Aw, you never let me go no place,"
fie whimpered.
“Why Tommy,” exclaimed his moth
er; “what shocking bad grammar you
use! Can't you speak more correct*
ay r
“Sure 1 can.” said the hoy, “if you’ll
only give me a chance. You ought to
hear me say: ‘Yes. mother, you let me
go wherever 1 want to.’ ”
Strict Neutrality.
“lifts (lie war caused you to econo
mize to any extent?"
“It certainly has,” replied the cau
tious man. "Whereas l used to ex
press my views rather freely, I have
lately lieeome quite parsimonious in
•that respect."
Good Cause.
“What a leaden color your bus
hand has, Mrs. .Tones."
“Yea'm; lie's don’ got de plumbago
ma’am."
In this Matter
of Health
one is either with the winners
or with the losers.
It’s largely a question of
right eating — right food. For
sound health one must cut out
rich, indigestible foods and
choose those that are known
to contain the elements that
build sturdy bodies and keen
brains.
Grape-Nets
is a wonderfully balanced
food, made from whole wheat
and barley. It contains all the
nutriment of the grain, includ
ing the mineral phosphates,
indispensable in Nature’s plan
for body and brain rebuilding.
Grape-Nuts is a concen
trated food, easy to digest.
It is economical, has delicious
flavor, comes ready to eat,
and has helped thousands in
the winning class.
“There’s a Reason”
1 •
THE LONE
STAR RANGER
A ROMANCE OF TIIE 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
CHAPTER VI (Continued).
‘Til tell you, Duane," she said, earn
estly, “I’m sure glad if you mean to
bide here awhile. I'm a miserable
woman, Duane. I'm an outlaw’s wife,
and I hate him and-the life I have to
lead. 1 eome of a good family in
Brownsville. I never knew Bland was
an outlaw till long after he married me.
We were separated at times, and I
imagined he was away on business. But
the truth came out. Bland shot my
cousin, who told me. My family cast
me off, and I had to flee with Bland. 1
was only 18 then. I’ve lived here since
I never see a decent woman or man.
I never hear anything about my old
home or folks or friends. I’m buried
here—buried alive with a lot of thieves
and murderers. Can you blame me for
being glad to see a young fellow—a
gentleman—like the boys I used to go
with? I tell you it makes me feel full—
I want to cry. I'm sick for somebody
to talk to. I have no children, thank
God! If I had I’d not stay here. I’m
sick of this hole. I'm lonely—"
There appeared to be no doubt about
the truth of all this. Genuine emotion
checked, then halted the hurried speech,
fcihe broke down and cried. It seemed
strange to Duane that an outlaw's wife
—and a woman who fitted her consort
and the wild nature of their surround
ings— should have weakness enough to
weep. Duane believed and pitied her.
"I’m sorry for you," he said.
“Don’t be sorry for me,” she said.
"That only makes me see the—-the dif
ference between vou and me. And
don t pay any attention to what these
outlaws say about me. They’re ignor
ant. They couldn't understand me.
You’ll hear that Bland killed men who
ran after me. But that's a lie. Bland,
like all the other outlaws along this
river, Is always looking for somebody
to kill He swears not, but I don’t be
lieve him. He explains that gunplay
gravitates to men who are the real
thing—that It Is provoked by the four
flushes, the bad men. I don't know.
All 1 know is that somebody Is being
killed every other day. He hated Spence
before Spence ever saw me.”
"Would Bland object if I called on
you occasionally?" inquired Duane.
“No, he wouldn’t. He likes me to have
friends. Ask him yourself when he
comes back. The trouble has been that
two or three of his men fell in love
with me, and when half drunk got to
lighting. You’re not going to do that."
"I’m not going to get half drunk,
that’s certain," replied Duane.
He was surprised to see her eyes di
late, then glow with fire. Before she
could reply Euchre returned to the
porch, and that put an end to the con
versation.
Duane was content to let the matter
rest there, and had little more to say.
Euchre nnd Mrs. Bland talked and
Joked, while Duane listened. He tried
to form some estimate of her character.
Manifestly she had suffered a wrong,
If not worse, at Bland’s hands. She was
bitter, morbid, over-emotional. If she
was a liar, which seemed likely enough,
she was a frank one, and believed her
self. She had no cunning. The thing
which struck Duane so forcibly was
that she thirsted for respect. In that,
better than in her weakness of vanity,
he thought he had discovered a trait
through which he could manage her.
Once, while he was revolving these
thoughts, he happened to glance into
the house, and deep in the shadow of a
corner he caught a pale gleam of Jen
nie’s face with great, staring eyes on
him. She had been watching him, lis
tening to what he said. He saw from
her expression that she had realized
what had been so hard for her to be
lieve. Watching his chance, he flashed
a look at her; and then it seemed to
him the change in her face wus won
derful.
Later, after ho had left Mrs. Bland
with a meaning “Adios—manana," and
was walking along beside the old out
law, he found himself thinking of the
girl instead of the woman, and of how
he had seen her face blaze with hope
and gratitude.
CHAPTER VII.
That night Duane was not troubled
by ghosts haunting his waking and
sleeping hours. He awoke feeling bright
and eager, and grateful to Euchre for
having put something worth while Into
his mind. During breakfast, however,
he was unusually thoughtful, working
over the idea of how much or how lit
tle lie would confide in the outlaw. He
was aware of Euchre’s scrutiny.
"Wal," began the old man, at last,
"bow’d you make out with the kid?"
"Kid?" inquired Duane, tentatively.
"Jennie, 1 mean. What’d you an’ she
talk about?"
"\\ e had a little chat. You know you
wanted me to cheer her up."
Euchre sat with coffee cup poised
and narrow eyes studying Duane.
"Reckon you cheered her, all right
IVhat I’m afeared of is mebbe you done
the job too well."
"How so?"
"Wal. when I went in to Jen last
night 1 thought she was half crazy
She was burstln’ with excitement an’
the look in her eyes hurt me. ' She
wouldn’t tell me a darn word you said.
Hut she hung onto my hands,
an’ showed every way with
out spenkin’ how she want<xi
to thank me fer bringin’ you over.
Buck. was plain to me thet you’d
either gone the limit or else you’d been
kinder prodigal of cheer an’ hope. I’d
hate to think you’d led Jennie to hope
moro n ever would come true."
Euchre paused, and, as tlicdc seemed
no reply forthcoming, he went on;
"Buck, I’ve seen some outlaws whose
word was good. Mine is. You can trust
me. 1 trusted you. didn’t I. takin’ vou
ever there an’ puttin’ you wise to my
tryin' to Help thet poor kid?”
Tims enjoined by Euchre, Dunne be
gan to tell the conversations with Jen
nie and Mrs. Bland word for word. Dong
before lie had reached an end Euchre
set down the coffee-cup and began to
stare, and at the conclusion of the
story his face lost some of its red color
and heads of sweat stood out thickly on
his brow.
"Wal, if thet doesn’t floor me"’ he
ejaculated, blinking at Duane. “Young
man. I l'iggered you was some swift, an
sure to make your murk on this river;
but I reckon I missed your real cal
ibre. So thet’x what it means to be a
man! 1 guess I’d forgot. Wal, I'm old,
an' even if my heart was In the right
place I never was built fer big stunts.
D" you know what it'll take to do all
you promised Jen?"
s
"I haven’t any Idea," replied Duane,
gravely.
"You'll have to pull the wool over
Kate Bland’s eyee, an’ even if she falls
in love with you, which is shore likely,
thet won't be easy. An’ she’d kill you
in a minnit, Buck, if she ever got wise.
You ain't mistaken her none, are you?"
"Not me, Euchre. She's a woman. I’d
fear her more than any man.”
“Wal. you’ll have to kill Bland an’
Chess Alloway an’ Kugg, an’ mebbe
some others, before you can ride off
into the hills with thet girl.”
"Why? Can’t we plan to be nice to
Mrs. Bland and then at an opportune
time sneak off without any gun-play?"
"Don’t see how on earth," returned
Euchre, earnestly. "When Bland's away
he leaves all kinds of spies an’ scouts
watchin’ the valley trails. They’ve all
got rifles. You couldn’t get by them.
But when the boss is home there’s a
difference. Only, of course, him an'
Chess keep their eyes peeled. They both
slay at home pretty much, except when
they’re playin’ monte or poker over at
Benson’s. So I say the best bet is to
pick out a good time in the afternoon,
drift over careless-like with a couple of
hosses, choke Mrs. Bland or knock her
on the head, take Jennie with you, an’
make a rush to get out of the valley. If
you had luck you might pull thet stunt
without throwin’ a gun. But I reckon
the best figgerin’ would include dodgin'
some lead an' leavin’ at least Bland or
Alloway dead behind you. I’m figgerin ,
or course, tnat wnen they come home
an’ find out you’re visitin’ Kate fre
quently. they’ll just naturally look fer
results. Chess don't like you, for no
reason except you’re swift on the draw
—mebbe swifter n him. That’s the hell
of this gun-play business. No one can
ever tell who's the swifter of two gun
men till they meet. Thet fact holds a
fascination mebbe you’ll learn some
day. Bland would treat you civil onless
there was reason not to, an’ then I don’t
believe he d invite himself to a meetin’
with you. He'd set Chess or Rugg to
put you out of the way. Still Bland's no
coward, an’ if you came across him at
a bad moment you’d have to be quicker
'n you was with Bosomer."
’’AH right. I’ll meet what comes,” said
Duane, quietly. “The great point is to
have horses ready and pick the right
moment, then rush the trick through.”
“Thet’s the only chance for success.
An' you can’t do it alone.” '
“I’ll have to. I wouldn’t ask you to
help me. Leave you behind!”
"Wal, I'll take my chances,” replied
Euchre, gruffly. “I’m goin’ to help Jen
nie, you can gamble your last peso on
thet. There’s only four men in this camp
who would shoot me—Bland an’ his
right-hand pards, an’ thet rabit-faced
Benson. If you happened to put out
Bland and Chess, I'd stand a good show
with the other two. Anyway, I'm old an’
tired—what's the difference if I do get
plugged? I can risk as much as you,
Buck, even if I am afraid of gun-play.
You ate correct, ’Hesses ready, the
right minnlt, then the trick.’ Thet much
’s settled. Now let's figger all the little
details.
They talked and planned, though in
truth it was Euchre who planned,
Duane who listened and agreed. While
awaiting the return of Bland and his
lieutenants it would be well for Duane
to grow friendly with the other out
laws, to sit in a few games of monte, or
show a willingness to spend a little
money. The two schemers were to call
upon Mrs. Bland every day—Euchre to
carry messages of cheer and warning to
Jennie, Duane to blind the elder woman
at any cost. These preliminaries de
cided upon, they proceeded to put
them Into action.
No hard task was it to win the friend
ship of the most of those good-natured
outlaws. They were used to men of a
better order than theirs coming to the
hidden camps and sooner or later sink
ing to their lower level. Besides, with
them everything Was easy come, easy
go. That was why life itself went on so
carelessly and usually ended so cheaply.
There were men among them, however,
that made Duane feel that terrible in
explicable wrath rise in his breast. He
could not bear to be near them. He
could not trust himself. He felt that any
instant a word, a deed, something
might call too deeply to that instinct he
could no longer control. Jackrabbit
Benson was one of these man. Because
of him and other outlaws of his ilk
Duane could scarcely ever forget the
reality of things. This was a hidden
valley, a robbers' den, a rendezvous for
murderers, a wild place stained red by
deeds of wild men. And because of that
there was always a charged atmos
n lie re. The merriest, idlest most rnre
less moment might in the flash of an
eyo end in ruthless and tragic action.
In an assemblage of desperate charac
ters it could not be otherwise. The ter
rible thing that Duane sensed was this.
The valley was beautiful, sunny, frag
rant, a place to dream in; the moun
tain-tops were always blue or gold
rimmed, ihe yellow river slid slowly and
majestically by, the birds sung in the
cottonwoods, the horses grazed and
pranced, children played and women
longed for love, freedom, happiness; the
out lows rode in and out, free with
money and speech; they lived comfort
ably in their adobe homos, smoked,
talked, laughed, whiled away the idle
hours and all the time life there was
wrung, and the simplest moment might
be precipitated by that evil into the
most awful of contrasts. Duane felt
rather than saw a dark, brooding
shadow over the valley.
Then, without any solicitation or en
couragement from Duane, the Bland
woman fell passionately in love with
him. llis conscience was never troubled i
about tin' beginning of that affair. She
launched herself. It took no great pers
picuity on his part to see that And the
tiling which evidently held her in check
was the newness, the strangeness, and
for the moment the all-satisfying fact
of his respect for her. Duane exerted
himself to please, to amuse, to interest,
to fascinate her, and always with de
ference. Thai was his strong point, and
it bail made his part easy so far. He
believed he would carry the whole
scheme through without involving him
self any deeper.
He was playing at a game of love—
playing with life and death! Sometimes
lie trembled, not that lie feared Bland
or Allowny or any other man, hut at
the deeps of life he had come to see
into. He was carried out of his old
mood. Not once since thia daring mo
tile had stirred him had he been haunt
ed by the phantom of Bain beside his
bad. Rather had he been haunted by
Jennie's sad face, her wistful smile, her
eyes. He never was, able to speak a
word to her. What little communication
he had with her was through Euchre,
who curried short messages. But he
caught glimpses of her every time he
went, to the Bland house. She contrived
somehow to pass door or window, tc
give him a look when chance afforded.
And Duane discovered with surprise
that these moments were more thrilling
to him than any with ,\lrs. Bland. Often
Duane knew Jennie was sittiYig just
inside the window, and then he felt in
spired in his talk, and it was all made
for her. So at least she came to know
him while as yet she was almost a
stranger. Jennie had been instructed by
Euchre to listen, to understand that
tins was Duane's only chance to help
keeii her mind from constant worry, to
gather the import of every word which
had a double meaning.
Euchre said that the girl had begun
to wither under the strain, to burn up
with intense hope which had flamed
within her. But all the difference Duane
could see was a paler face and darker,
more wonderful eyes. The eyots seemed
to be entreating him to hurry, that time
was flying, that soon it might be too
late. Then there was another meaning
in them, a light, a strange fire wholly
inexplicible to Duane. It was only a
flash gone in an instant. But he re
membersd it because he had never seen
it in any other woman’s eyes. And all
through those waiting days he knew
that Jennie’s face, and especially the
ivarm, fleeting glance she gave him,
ivas responsible for a subtle and gra
Jual change in him. This change, he
fancied, was only that through remem
brance of her he got rid of his pale,
sickening ghosts.
One day a careless Mexican threw a
ighted cigarette up into the brush
matting that served as a ceiling for
Benson's den. and there was a fire
which left little more than the adobe
walls standing. The result was that
while repairs were being made there
was no gambling and drinking. Time
Jung very heavily on the hands of some
fwn score outlaws. Days passed by
without a brawl, and Bland's valley
saw more successive hours of peace
than ever before. Duane, however,
found the hours anything but empty.
He spent more time at Mrs. Bland’s;
Je walked miles on all the trails lead
ing out of the valley: he had a care
for the condition of his two horses.
Upon his return from the latest of
these tramps, Euchre suggested that
they go down to the river to the boat
anding.
* ci * y luuiuu i i uii usiiui tr iiiici iiitM ii —
n’," said Euchre. “River gettin' low
in’ sand bars makin' it hard fer hosses.
rhere's a greaser freight wagon stuck
n the mud. I reckon we might hear
tews from the freighters. Eland's sup
posed to be in Mexico.”
Nearly all the outlaws in camp were
issembled on the river bank, lolling in
:hc shade of the cottonwoods. The heat
was oppressive. Not an outlaw offered
:o help the freighters, who were trying
:o dig a heavily freighted wagon out of
;he quicksand. Few outlaws would
work for themselves, let alone for the
lespised Mexicans.
Duane and Euchre joined the lazy
jroup and sat down with them. Euchre
Ighted a black pipe, and, drawing his
Pat over his eyes, lay back in comfort
ifter the manner of the majority of the
putlaws. But Duane was alert, observ
ng, thoughtful. He never missed any
thing. It was his belief that any mo
ment an idle word might be of benefit
:o him. Moreover, these rough men
were always interesting.
“Bland's been chased acrost the riv
;r,” said one.
“Naw, he’s deliverin’ cattle to thet
Unban ship,” replied another.
“Big deal on. hey?"
“Some big. Ruggs says the boss hed
in order fer 15,000.”
"Say, that order'll take a year to
111.”
“Naw; Hardin is in cahoots with
Bland. Between 'em they’ll fill or
iers bigger’n thet.”
“Wondered what Hardin was rustlin'
n here fer."
Duane could not possibly attend to
ill the conversation among the out
laws. He endeavored to get the drift
if talk nearest to him.
"Kid Fuller’s goin' to cash.” said a
?andy whiskered little outlaw.
“So Jim was fellin' me. Blood poi
son, ain’t it? Thet hole wasn’t bad.
But he took the fever,” rejoined a com
rade.
"Deger says the Kid might pull
through if he hed nursin'.”
“Wal. Kate Bland ain’t nursin’ any
phot up boys these days. She hasn’t
jo time.”
A laugh followed this sally; then
rame a penetrating silence. Some of
the outlaws glanced good naluredly at
Duane. They bore him no ill will.
Manifestly they were aware of Mrs.
Bland's infatuation.
“Pete, 'pears to me. you’ve said thet
before.”
“Shore. Wal, it's happened before."
This remark drew louder laughter
ind more significant glances at Duane.
Ho did not choose to ignore them any
longer.
"Boys, poke all the fun you like at
me. but don’t mention any lady's name
again. My hand is nervous and itchy
these days."
He smiled as he spoke, and his speech
was drawled, but the good humor in no
wise weakened it. Then his latter re
mark was significant to a class of men
who from inclination and necessity
practiced at gun drawing until they
wore callous and sore places on their
l-hiimhci anrl inmilnntpd in tViA vorv
deeps of their nervous organization a
habit that made even the simplest and
most innocent motion of the hand end
at or near the hip. There was some
thing remarkable about a gun fighter’s
hand, it never seemed to be gloved,
never to be injured, never out of sight
or in an awkward position.
There were grizzled outlaws in that
group, some of whom had many
notches on their gnn handles, and they,
with their comrades, accorded Duane
silence that carried conviction of the
regard in which he was held.
Duane could not recall any other in
stance where he had let fall a familiar
speech to these men, and certainly he
had never before hinted of his possi
bilities. lie saw Instantly that he could
not have done better.
"Orful hot, ain't it?” remarked Bill
Black, presently. Bill could not keep
quiet for long. He was a typical Texas
desperado, had never been anything
else. He was stoop shouldered and bow
legged from much riding: a wiry little
man. all muscle, with a square head, a
hard face partly black from scrubby
bear and red from sun, and a bright,
roving, cruel eye. His shirt was open
at the neck, showing a grizzled breast.
"Is there any guy in this heali out
fit sport enough to go swimmin'?” lie
asked.
"My Gawd. Bill, you ain't agoin’ to
wash!” exclaimed a comrade.
This raised a laugh, in which Bill
joined. But no one seemed eager to
join him in a bath.
"Laziest outfit I ever rustled with,”
went on Kill, discontentedly. “Noth
in' to do! Say, if nobody wants to
swim, maybe some of you'll gamble?”
He produced a dirty pack of cards
and waved them at the motionless
crowd.
"Bill, vou're too good at cards," re
plied a lanky outlaw.
"Now, Jasper, you say thet pnwer
erful sweet, an’ you look sweet, er
I might take it to heart," replied Black,
with a sudden change of tone.
Here it was again—that upflashing
passion. W'liat Jasper saw fit to reply
would mollify the outlaw or it would
| not. There was an even balance.
' "No offense. Bill," said Jasper placid
ly, without moving.
Bill grunted and forgot Jasper. But
he seemed restless and dissatisfied.
Duane knew him to be an inveterate
gambler. And, as Benson s place was
out of running order. Black was like
a fish on dry land.
"Wal, if youall are afraid of the
cairds, what will you bet on '.'" he asked,
in disgust.
"Bill, I’ll play ycu a game of mumbly
peg fer two bits,” replied one.
Black eagerly accepted. Betting to
him was a serious matter. The
game obsessed him, not the stakes. He
i entered into the mumbly peg contest
| with a thoughtful mien and a corded
i brow. He won. Other comrades tried
their luck with him and lost. Finally,
| when Bill had exhausted their supply
of two-hit pieces or their desire for tnat
particular game, he offered to get on
anything.
"She the turtle-dove there?” lie said,
pointing. "111 bet he'll scare at one
stone or he won’t. Five pesos he'll fly
or he won't fly when some one chucks
a stone. Who'll take me up?”
That appeared to be more than the
gambling spirit of several outlaws could
withstand.
"That thet. Easy money,” said one.
"Who's goin’ to chuck the stone?”
asked another.
“Anybody,” replied Bill.
"Wal, I'll bet you 1 can scare him
with one stone," said the first outlaw.
"Were in on thet, Jim to fire the
darnlck,” chimed in the others.
The money was put up, tne stone
thrown. The turtle-dove took flight, to
the great joy of all the outlaws except
Bill.
"I’ll bet you-all ne'll come back to
thet tree inside of five minnits,” he of
fered, imperturbably.
Hereupon the outlaws did not show
any laziness in their alacrity to cover
Bill’s money as it lay on the grass.
Somebody had a watch, and they all sat
clown, dividing attention between the
timepiece and the tree. The minutes
dragged by to the accompaniment of
various jocular remarks anent a fool
and his money. When four and three
quarter minutes had passed a turtle
dove alighted in the cottonwood. Then
ensued an impressive silence while Blil
| calmly pocketed the 50 dollars.
“But it hain’t the same dove!” ex
flaimfirl nilP outlaw <uvr»ito/11ir ••rThi«
' ’n’ Is smaller, dustier, not so purple.”
Bill eyed the speaker loftily.
"Wal, you'll have to ketch the other
one to prove thet. Sabe, paid? Now
1 11 bet any gent heah the 50 I won thet
I can scare thet dove with one stone.”
No one offered to take his wager.
“Wall, then, I’ll bet any of you even
money thet you can't scare him with
one stone.”
Not proof against this chance, the
outlaws made up a purse, in no wise
disconcerted bv Bill’s contemptuous al
lusions to their banding together. The
stone was thrown. The dove did not
fly. Thereafter, in regard to that bird.
Bill was unable to coax or scorn his
comrades into any kind of wager.
He tried them with a multiplicity of
offers, and in vain. Then he appeared i
at a loss for some unusual and seduc- I
tive wager. Presently a little ragged
Mexican boy came along the river trail,
a particularly starved and poor-look- ■
ing little fellow. Bill called to him and I
gave him a handful of silver coins, i
Speechless, dazed, he went his way i
hugging the money.
"I’ll bet he drops some before he gits
to the road," declared Bill. "I’ll bet he
runs. Hurry, you four-flush gamblers.”
Bill failed to interest any of his com
panions, and forthwith became sullen
and silent. Strangely his good humor
departed in spite of the fact that he
had won considerable.
Duane, watching the disgruntled out
law, marveled at him and wondered
what was in his mind. These men were
more variable than children, as un
stable as water, as dangerous as dyna
mite.
“Bill, I’ll bet you ten you can’t spill
whatever’s in the bucket thet peon's
packin’,” said the outlaw called Jim.
Black’s head came up with the action
of a hawk about to swoop.
Duane glanced from Black to the
road, where he saw a crippled peon
carrying a tin bucket toward the river.
This peon was a half-wdtted Indian who
lived in a shack and did odd jobs for
the Mexicans. Duane had met him
often.
"Jim, I’ll take you up,” replied Black.
Something, perhaps a harshness in
liis voice, caused Duane to whirl. He
caught a leaping gleam in the outlaw’s
eye.
“Aw, Bill, thet's too fur a shot.” said
Jasper, as Black rested an elbow on
his knee and sighted over the long,
heavy Colt. The distance to the peon
was about 50 paces, too far for even
the most expert shot to hit a moving
object so small as a bucket.
Duane, marvelously keen in the align
ment of sights was positive that Black
held too high. Another look a; the hard
face, now tense and dark wdth blood,
confirmed Duane’s suspicion that the
outlaw was not aiming at the bucket
at all. Duane leaped and struck the
leveled gun out of his hand. Another
outlaw- picked it up.
Black fell back astounded. Deprived
of his weapon, he did not seem the
same man, or else he was cowed by
Duane’s significant and formidable
I front. Sullenly he turned away with
1 out even asking for his gun.
CHAPTER VIII.
j What a contrast, Duane thought, the
I evening of that day presented to the
| state of his soul! The sunset lingered
in golden glory over the distant Mexi
1 can mountains; twilight came slowly;
| a faint breeze blew from the river cool
J and sweet; the late cooing of a dove
1 and the tinkle of a cowbell were the
; only sounds; a serene and tranquil
peace lay over the valley.
Inside Duane’s body there was strife.
This third facing of a despeiate man
had thrown him off his balance. It had
not been fatal, but It threatened so
much. The better side of his nature
j seemed to urge him to die rather than
; to go on fighting or opposing ignorant,
unfortunate, savage men. But the per
i versify of him was so great that it
| dwarfed reason, conscience. He could
not resist it. He felt something dying
| in him. He suffered. Hope semed far
away. Despair had seized upon him and
was driving him into a reckless mood
when he thought of Jennie.
He had forgotten her. He h;\d for
gotten that he had promised to save
her. He had forgotten that he meant to
! snuff out as many lives as might stand
between her and freedom. The very re
, membrance sheered off his morbid lh
! trospeetion. She made a difference
How strange for him to realize that'
: He felt grateful to her. He had been
forced in-’o outlawry; she had been
: stolen from her people and carried into
i captivity. They had met in the river
! fastness, ho to instil hope into her des
pairing life, she to be ttie means, per
! haps, of keeping him from sinking to
! the level of her captors. He became
1 conscious of a strung and beating desire
| to see her, talk with her.
| These thoughts had run through his
I mind while on his way to Mrs. Bland's
; house. He had left Euchre go on ahead
I because he wanted more time to com
i pose himself. Darkness had about set in
I when he reached his destination. There
was no light in the house. Mrs. Bland
was waiting {or him on the porch.
(.Continued Next Week.'
I WHAT THE FRENCH ♦ *
X MAID TOLD MARJORY }
The Need of Slip Covers.
"I know I should have some slip
covers for the furniture this summer,
but I really don’t know what to get.'
remarked Marjorie to Marie one day as
she spied the dainty pink coverings in
her aunt’s boudoir.
"There are many reasons why the
summer covering of furniture is advised
today, "returned Marie. "First, it does
away with the hot and heavy appear
ance of the winter year-round house—•
a condition unpleasantly noticeable al
the first breath of summer.
"One shouiu realize that the stuff!
ness is largely accountable for th»
popular prejudice against spending un.
bearable summer in the city and tha|
with the proper summer comfort, on*
could really settle down to comparative
ease. It is true that after one learns
to take the proper care of possessions
the seemingly perishable things assums
more the light of possibilities.
"If you can meet these requirements,
light slip covers should have no terrors
for you—and you will have a mighty
cool looking house. The second great
advantage to be gained by summer fur
niture covers is that of furlture protec
tion. Who has not suffered the incon
venience of having those blue-white
spots appear on their mahogany fur
niture-caused by perspiring backs and
hands?
“A slip cover will eliminate this, as
it also will the fading of upholstered
stuff and the sifting In of dust from
open windows. And the third slip-cover
seat, whicii will strongly appeal to
many, is the good chance afforded them
to indulge that urtsatisfed longing for
cretonne furnishings which has hereto
fore been denied them, on account of
their being possessed of too much ex
cellent furniture of another date to
have been able to refurnish with the
more modern upholstery of cretonne.
"It will be plainly recognized that
with slip cover of cretonne they will
'oe very ‘modernly’ furnished for fully
half a year! First of all. they virtually
are made on the furniture. A piece of
the material is pinned on the part of
the chair one has decided to start with,
and after it is carefully fitted, It is cut
the shape, leaving plenty of allowance
for seams.”
Just Jam.
“What are you making?” asked Mar
porie womleringly. as she found Cano
putting up some deliicous strawberries
one day.
“Just some strawberry jam,” return
ed tiie versatile French maid. In this
country we do not appreciate or make
the use of jam we should. In Franco
our jam becomes ‘compote’ and figures
in many ways in the household menu.
We ear and enjoy these dainty prepara
tions without realizing that they aro
not only an addition to a meal, but aro
in themselves an economy. For as r.
rule these compotes or jams are made
of left-over fruits.
"For example, after breakfast half a
saucerful of strawberries remain* in tho
dish. Instead of putting these aside and
eating them when they are getting,
messy, the French housewife puts them
into a small preserving kettle with a
little sugar and lets them cook ctowly
on the back of the stove. It may be that
at luncheon some half dozen or so of
cherries are left from a dish of fruit.
These, carefully stoned, are added to
the strawberries and again cooked.
“This process goes on until there is
enough jam to fill a glass or two, when
it begins over again. We have a way of
saying that the Italians and French
thrive because they can live'on so little.
That is true, but we do not add, as we
should, that they also have will. This
jam from odds and ends is only a case
to point.
"Let the American housewife get one
of these nice little enameled ware pre
eerving kettels with its wooden handle
and then, by the exercise of a little
forethought and ingenuity see how
many glasses of rich, delicious jam she
can put up for the next winter with
very little expenditure of either time,
money or effort.
“One more hint on jams. They keep
so well that they can be put in chipped
cups or earthenware bowls, covered
witli paraffin paper. It is a good idea to
make up a quantity of apple jolly when
apples are cheap. Never stir a jelly witli
a metal spoon, as its color is easily
darkened. The enameled ware skimmer,
ladle and spoon will obviate the danger.
A glass of jelly should be eaten as soon
as it is opened.”
Paper Linens For Summer.
“Oh, dear," moaned Marjorie, "I am
so sick of the everlasting washing of
tablescloths and napkins and other
things in summer.” ,
“Why do you use such things in the
summer at all?” asked Marie. “You
can make the wonderful little paper
contrivances on sale in all shops save
much work in summer, if you wish to
call them in as members of your para
phernalia. They are inexpensive, con
venient to use, and—there most valued
characteristic—they cannot he laund-*
ered, either in the dishpan or the wash
tub. They can be cheerfully consigned
to the fire, in the knowledge that their
fate ordained them for such an end.
“To begin with, there are paper
towels, which can be put to all sorts
of uses in the kitchen. A length of
the toweling can be used to keep the
linnrle from hnrnirifr whpn hnf tints :inrl
pans must bo lifted. Bits of the towel
ing can be used to grease pans with.
Beituce may be wrapped, damp and
cl^an, in the toweling and laid on the
ice to become crisp.
“Then there are paper napkins. These
can be brought, if one wishes to pay
the price, in heavy quality that is as
pleasant to use as damask or linen.
Then there are various cheaper sorts
and for picnics, for impromptu summer
refreshments, the large plain white ones
are the best choice.
“For the occasional piece of fresh
fruit, the smaller napkins, printed with
colored flowers borders, can be chosen,
although the pure white ones in tho
smaller sizes are perhaps even daintier!
than the ones with colored borders.
Some women v.hv try to make sum
mer work easy for servants have a
white paper napkin placed on the fruit
plate at breakfast, and this is used
with the fruit. In this way fruit stains,
so difficult to got out are kept from
the regular napkins.”
Cleveland's bonded debt is $56,317,
C1S.60.
Her Neighbor’s Child.
“He's a terrible youngster!” said Mrs.
McBride,
While gazing at Mickey O’Flynn;
“He's spoiling my boy. for he can't keep
a toy,
And the way that he swears is a sin.
1 think that my Hinny will be a great
man
Do ve mind the grand shape of his
do me?
He'd study and plan, the dear little man.
If Mickey O’Flynn would stay home.”
“I'm proud of my Mickey," said Mrs.
O’ Flynn,
"He'll be a great statesman some day;
That’s him alongside of young Hinny Mc
Bride—
They’re always together at play.
My Mickey ain't wan of thim wanderin’
lads
That's always n-plannin’ to roam;
Sure he’d be a tine lad, as smart as his
dad,
If Hinny McBride wud stay home!"
—William F. Kirk,