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About The frontier. (O'Neill City, Holt County, Neb.) 1880-1965 | View Entire Issue (July 20, 1916)
Summer Luncheons III" majiffy Mil I ^Lct Lihby's splendid chefs relieve you ” I F of hot-weather cooking. Stock the " pastry ^ shelf with^ Drjjdferf m and the. other good summer Jmeats — including Libby’s w Vienna Sausage—you II find them fresh and appetizing. Libby, MFNeill & Libby, Chicago Farmers Attention! Did you know that you could buy Hall In •ursnoe buy mail I and save the middle men’s Erotits or about one-fourth the cost of your tsurance. Write telling us how much you farm, what county you are in, and how much Insurance you want to carry aud let us llgure with you. F. L. McCLURE SIOUX CITY, IA. DAISY FLY KILLER *£ “rKfi K Hie*. Neat, clean, or namental, convenient, cheap. LBftts all season. Made of metal, can’t spill or tip over; will not soil or injure anything. Guaranteed effective. All dealers orCsent express paid for 91.00. ■AHOLD 8GMEHS,1B0 De Kalb Ave., Brooklyn, W. T. ■ Alfalfa |8, Sweet Clover 9s. Faring for Halt' and ronton crop payments. J. MLI.tlAI.L, 8oo City, Iowa DIFFERENT STRAIN OF BOYS Little Story Shows Why It Is That Some Succeed in Life While Oth ers Don't "Make Good." Two boys left home with just money enough to take them through college. They both (lid well at college, took their diplomas in due time, and got from members of the faculty letters to a large shipbuilding firm,with which they desired employment. When the first boy was given an audience' with the head of the firm, he presented his letters. "What can you do?” asked the presi dent. “I should like some sort of a clerk ship.” “Well, sir, I will take your name and address, and if we hnve anything of the kind I will write to you.” The other boy then presented him self and his papers. “What can you do?" the president asked him. “Anything that a green hand cun do, sir,” was the reply. The president touched a bell that called a foreman, and the college grad uate went to sorting scrap Iron. A week passed, and the president, meet ing the superintendent, asked, “How is the new- man getting on?” “Oh,” said the superintendent, "he did his work so well that I put him over the gang." Iu two years that young man was the head of a department, and on the way to a salary larger probably than his friend will ever earn.—Youth’s companion. Human Nature. “Why that hospital is so popular heats me. It hasn’t the best system, «nd it certainly hasn't the most suc cessful doctors.” “But it has the prettiest nurses.” That “good fellow” mask quite often tildes a hyenalike home disposition. Adds a Healthful Zest to any Meal Most everyone likes a hot table drink, but it must have a snappy taste and at the same time be healthful. Probably no beverage an swers every requirement so completely as does POSTUM This famous pure food drink, made of roasted wheat and a bit of wholesome molasses, affords a rich Java like flavor, yet contains no harmful element. The original Postum Cereal must be boiled; Instant Postum is made in the cup “quick as a wink,” by adding hot water, and stirring. Both forms of Postum have i a delightful aroma and flavor, ! are healthful, and good for • children and grown-ups. 4 “There’s a Reason” j Sold by Grocers everywhere, 'j 1 THE LONE STAR RANGER A ROMANCE OF THE BORDER BY ZANE GREY Author of "Tho Light of Western Start,” "Riders of the Purple Sage,"eto. HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS NEW YORK AND LONDON MCMXV CHAPTER IX (Continued). | Jennie insisted that he find some i shelter where a fire could be built ! to dry his clothes. He was not in a fit condition lo risk catch- j ing cold. In fact, Duane's teeth were chattering. To find a shelter j in that barren waste seemed a futile j task. Quite unexpectedly, however, they happened upon a deserted adobe cabin situated a little off the road. Not only did it prove to have a dry inter ier, but also there was firewood. Water was available in pot.is eveiw where; however, there wits no grass for tile horses. A good fire and hot food and drink changed the aspect of their condition as far as comfort went. And Jennie lay down to sleep. For Duane, how ever, there must be vigilance. This cabin was no hiding place. The rain fell harder all (he time, and the wind changed to the north. "It’s a norther, ull light,” muttered Duane. “Two or three days." And he felt that his ex traordinary luck had not hold out. Still one point favored him, and it was that travelers were not likely to come along during the storm. Jennie slept while Duane watched. Tlie saving of this girl meant more to him than any task he had ever as sumed, First it had been partly from a human feeling to succor an unfortu nate woman, and partly a motive to establish clearly to himself that he was no outlaw. Lately, however, had come a different sense, a strange one, with something personal and warm und pro tective in it. i ah ne looked down upon ner, a slight, 1 slender girl with bedraggled dress and disheveled hair, her face, pale and i quiet, a little stern in sleep, and her long, dark lashes lying on her cheek, 1 he seemed to sec her fragility, her pret- i tineas, her femininity as never before. But for him she might at that very ] moment have been a broken, ruined girl lying back in that cabin of the ' Blands.’ The Ciict gave him a feeling 1 of his importance in this shifting of 1 her destiny. i$he was unharmed, still young; she would forget and be happy; ( she would live to be a good wife and mother. Somehow tho thought swelled his heart. Hie act, death dealing as it had been, was a noble one, and helped him to hold on to his drifting hopes, i Hardly once since Jennie had entered ' Into his thought had those ghosts re- < turned to torment him. ■ Tomorrow she would he gone among 1 good, kind people with a possibility of : finding her relatives. He thanked God 1 for that; nevertheless, he felt a pang. 1 She slept more than half the day. 1 Duane kept guard, always alert, '• whether he was sitting, standing, or ’ walking. The rain pattered steadily on tho roof and sometimes come in gusty flurries through the door. The ' horses were outside in a shed that af- 1 forded poor shelter, and they stamped ■ restlessly. Duane kept them saddled ' and bridled. About the middle of the afternoon 1 Jennie awoke. They cooked a meal ! and afterward sat beside the little fire. 1 She had never been, in his observation j of her, anything but a tragic figure, an j unhappy girl, the farthest removed from serenity and poise. That char acteristic capacity for agitation struck ' him as stronger in her tiiis day. He attributed it, however, to the long 1 strain, the suspense nearing an end. , Yet sometimes when her eyes were on him she did not yeem to be thinking ! of her freedom, of her future. "This time tomorrow you’ll be in ' Shelbyville,” he said. "Where will you be?" she asked, ! quickly. “Me?" Oh, I'll be making tracks rfor j some lonesome place," he replied. The girl shuddered. ’T’ve been brought up in Texas. I ' remember what a hard lot the men of ' rr.y family had. But poor as they were, they had a roof over their heads, \ a hearth with a fire, a warm bed— somebody to love them. And you, 1 Duane—oh, my God! What must your life be? You must ride and hide and ! watch eternally. No decent food, no pillow, no friendly word, no clean ! clothes, no woman's hand! Horses, guns, trails, rocks, holes—these must , he the important things in your life. You must go on riding, hiding, killing until you meet—” She ended with a sob and dropped her head on her knees. Duane was , amazed, deeply touched. "My girl, thank you for that thought ! of me," he said, with a tremor in his voice. “You don't know how much that means to me." Hit n rnluorl lull' funn nn.1 If * —_ stained, eloquent, beautiful. "I've heard tell—the best of men go to the bad out there. You won't. Promise me you won’t. 1 never—knew any man—-like you. I—I—we may never see each other again—after to day. I'll never forget you. I’ll pray for you, and I'll never give up trying to—to do something. Don't despair. It's never too late. It was my hope that la pt me alive—out there at Bland's— before you came. I was only a poor weak girl. But if 1 cOU a hope—so car you. Stay away from *nen. Be a lone wolf. Fight for your ,jfe. Stick out your exile—and maybe—some day—” T ien she lost her voice Duane claimed her hand and with feeling as dee;, as hers promised to remember her v oids. In her despair for ht.n she had spoken wisdom-- pointed oui. the only course. Duane’s vigilance, momentarily broken by emotion, had no sooner re asserted itself than he discovered the bay horse, the one Jennie rode, had broken his halter and gone off. The sofi wet earth had deadened the sound of his hoofs. His tracks ware plain in the mud. There were clumps of xnisquito in sight, among which the 111 rue might have strayed. It turned out. however, that he had not done so. Duane did not want to leave Jennie slone In the cabin so near the road. So he put her up on Ills horse and bade hi r follow. The rain had ceased for the time being, though evidently the storm wp.ii not yet over. The tracks led up a wash to a wide flat where mes qulte, prickly pear, and thorn bush grew -so thickly that Jennie could not ride Into it. Duane was thoroughly concerned. He must have her horse. Time was flying. It would soon be night. could not expect her to scramble quickly through that brake on foot. Therefore, he decided to risk leaving her at the edge of the thicket and go in alone. As he went in a sound startled him. 8 Was It the breaking of a branch he had stepped on or thrust aside? He heard the impatient pound of his horse’s hoofs. Then all was quiet. Still he listened, not wholly satisfied. He was never satisfied in regard to safety; he knew too well that there never could be safety for him in this coun try. The bay horse had threaded the aisles of the thicket. Duane wondered what had drawn him there. Certainly it had not been grass, for there was none. Presently he hoard he horse tramping along, and then he "an. The mud was deep, and the sharp home made going difficult. He came ip with the horse, and at the same woment crossed a multitude of fresh torse-tracks. He bent lower to examine them, and was alarmed to find that they had been nade very recently, even since it. had leased raining. They were tracks of well-shod horses. Duane straightened tp with a cautious glance all around, ilis Instant decision was to hurry back o Jennie. Put he had come a goodly way through the thicket, and It was mpossible to rush back. Once or twice le imagined ho heard crashings in the irush, but did not halt to make sure. Jertaln he was now that some kind of lunger threatened. Suddenly thor» came an unmistakable hump of horses’ hoofs off somewhere , o the fore. Then a scream rent the air. . t ended abruptly. Duane leaped for j ward, tore his way through the thorny irake. He heard Jennie cry again—an \ ippealing call quickly hushed. It seem- , (1 more to his right, and he plunged hat way. He burst Into a glade whefe a j imoldering fire and ground covered with footprints and tracks showed that , •atnpers had lately been. Rushing icross this, he broke his passage out to , he open. Put he was too late. His horse J tad disappeared, Jennie was gone. , rhere were no riders In sight. There , vas no sound. There was a heavy trail , >f horses going north. Jennie had been . ■arried off—probably by outlaws, j Juane realized that pursuit was out of , he question—that Jennie was lost. I CHAPTER X.' j A hundred miles from the haunts j nost familiar with Duane’s needs, far ip where the Nueces ran a trickling | dear stream between yellow cliffs, , food a small deserted shack of covered [ nequite poles. It had been made long • igo, but was well preserved. A door , aced the overgrown trail, and another . aced down into a gorge of dense thick- l ts. On the border fugitives from law j ind men who hid in fear of some one , hey had wronged never lived in houses , vilh only one door. ( It was a wild spot, lonely, not fit for , tuman habitation except for the out- , last. He, perhaps, might have found it , nird to leave for most of the other vild nooks in that barren country. , down in the gorge there was never* , ailing sweet water, grass all the year ound, cool, shady retreats, deer, rab- j >its, turkeys, fruit, and miles and miles , if narrow-twisting, deep canon full of iroken rocks and impenetrable thickets. . 1’he scream of the panther was heard ‘ here, the squall of the wildcat, the . :ough of the jaguar. Innumerable bees j >uzzed in the spring blossoms, and, it , ieemed, scattered honey to the winds. ( VU day there was continuous song of ilrds that of the mocking-bird loud and , aveet and mocking above the rest. On clear days—and rare indeed were . ■loudy days—with the subsiding of the vind at sunset a hush seemed to fall . irouiid the little hut. Ear-distant dim- , due mountains stood gold-rimmed rraduully to fade with the shading of . ight. ’ At this quiet hour a man climbed up >ut of the gorge and sat in the west yard door of the, hut. This lonely vatcher of the west and listener to the illence was Dunne. And this hut was he one where, three years befqre, Jen lie had nursed him back to life. The killing of a man named Sellers, . ind the combination of circumstances hat had made the tragedy a memorable •egret, had marked, if not a change, at east a cessation in Duane’s activities, ile had trailed Sobers to kill him for ■ he supposed abduction of Jennie. He lad trailed him long after he had ' earned Sellers traveled alone. Duane vanted absolute assurance of Jennie’s ieath. Vague rumors, a few words here ind there, unauthenticated stories, were ill Duane had gathered in years to sub stantiate his belief—that Jennie died shortly after the beginning of her sec >nd captivity. But Duane did not know surely. Sellers might have told him. ov.w,n«A,I 4 P nrvt it Him at the end. to read it in his eyes. Hut the bullet went too unerringly; it ocked his lips and fixed his eyes. After that meeting Duane lay long at he ranch house of,a friend, and when He recovered from the wound Sellers Had given him he started with two lorses and a pack for the lonely gorge in the Nueces. There lie had been hid den for months, a prey to remorse, a dreamer, a victim of phantoms. It took work for him to fipd subsis tence in that rocky fastness. And work, tetion. helped to pass the hours. But he ’ould not work all the time, even if he Had found it to do. Then in his idle moments and at night his task was to live with the hell in his mind. The sunset and the'twilight hour: made all the rest bearable. The little Hut on t„he rim of the gorge seemed to ! Hold Jennie's presence. It was not us if He felt her spirit, if it had been he would have been sure of her death. He hoped Jennie had not survived her second misfortune; and that intense hope had burned into belief, if not surety. Upon his return to that locality, an the occasion of his first visit to the hut. lie had found things Just as they had left them, and a poor, faded piece af ribbon Jennie had used to tic around her bright hair. No wandering outlaw ar traveler haj happened upon the lone ly spot, which further endeared it to Duane. A strange feature of this memory of Jennie was the freshness of it--t*he fail ure of years, toil, strife, death-dealing to dim it—to deaden .the thought of i what might have been. He had a mar- ! velous gift of visualization. He could shut his eyes and see Jennie before him I just as clearly as if she had stood there j in the flesh. For hours he did that, dreaming, dreaming of life he had never tasted and now never would i taste. He saw Jennie's slender, grace- ; ful figure, the old brown ragged dross in which he had seen her first at : Bland's, her little feet in Mexican san- j dais, her fine hands coarsened by work, I her round arms and swelling throat, and her pale, sad; beautiful face with its staring dark eyes. He remembered every look she had given Zsim, every word she had spoken to him, every time she had toonhed him. H< thougn of her beauty and sweet ness, of the few things which l;ad come to mean to him that she nusv. have loved him; and he trained hip. v, * to think of these in preference to i,v- die at Biand’s, the escape with tiiiv, yirl then the recapture, because such is>-*;n ■ cries led to bitter, fruitless pain. He had to fight suffering because it was eating out his heart. Sitting there, eyes wide open, he dreamed ot the old homestead and his white haired mother. He saw the old home life, sweetened and filled by dear new faces anil added joys, go on before his eyes with him a part of it. Then in the inevitable reaction. In the reflux of bitter reality, he would send out a voiceless cry no less poig nant because it was silent: “Poor fool! No, I shall never see mother again— never go home—never have a home. I am Duane, the Lone Wolf! „Oh, God! I wish it were over! These dreams tor ture me! What have I to do with a mother, a home, a wife? No bright haired boy, no dark eyed girl will ever love me. I am an outlaw, an outcast, (lead to the good and decent world. I am alone—alone. Better he a callous brute or better dead! I shall go mad thinking! Man, what is left to you? A aiding place like a wolf’s—lonely silent days, lonely night with phantoms! Or the trail and the road with their bloody tracks, and then the hard ride, the sleepless, hungry ride to some role in rocks or brakes. What hellish thing drives me? Why can’t I end it all? wliat is left? Onlv that damned un tuenchable spirit of the gun fighter to ive—to hang on to miserable life—to lave no fear of death, yet to cling like i leach—to die as gun fighters seldom lie, with boots off! Bain, you were irst, and you’re long avenged. I’d hange with you. And Sellers, you core last, and you’re avenged. And ■ou other—you're avenged. Lie quiet n your graves and give me peace!” Lut they did riot lie quiet in their Jraves and give him peace. A group of specters trooped out of ho shadows of dusk and, gathering ound him, escorted him to his bed. When Duane had been riding the rails passion bent to escape pursuers, ir passion bent in his search, the con itant action and toil and exhaustion nade him sleep. But when in hiding, is time passed, gradually he required ess rest and sleep, and his mind be anie more active. Little by little his diantoms gained hold on him, and at ength, hut lor the sarving power of his [reams, they would have claimed him itlerly. How many times he had said to him self: “I am an intelligent man. I’m lot crazy. I'm in full possession of my acuities. All this is fancy—imagina k>n—conscience. I’ve no work, no duty, 10 ideal, no hope—and my mind is ob essed, thronged with images. And hese images naturally are of the men v'ith whom I have dealt. I can’t forget hem. They come back to me, hour ifter hour; and when my tortured nind grows weak, then maybe I'm not ust right till the mood wears out and ets me sleep." So he reasoned as he lay down In ils cornlortable camp. The night was 1 tar bright above the canon walls, arkly shadowing down between them. ?he insects hummed and chirped and hrummed a continuous thick song, low nd monotonous. Slow running water plashed softly over stones1 In the tream bed. From far down the canon ame the mournful hoot of an owl. The noment he lay down, thereby giving ut action for the day, all these things neighed upon him like a great heavy* nantle of loneliness. In truth, they did lot constitute loneliness. And he could no more have dispelled hought than he could have reached ut to touch a cold, bright star. He wondered how many outcasts like dm lay under this star stubbed, elvety sky across the fifteen hundred idles of wild country between El Paso ind the mouth of the river. A vast rild territory—a refuge for outlaws! somewhere he had heard or read that he Texas Rangers kept a book with lames and records of outlaws—three housand known outlaws! Yet these ould scarcely be half of that unfor unate horde which had been recruited rom all over the states, ftiuane had raveled from camp to camp, den to len, hiding place to hiding place, and le knew these men. Most of them were lopeless criminals; some were aveng rs; a few were wronged wanderers'; md among them occasionally was a nan, human In his way, honest as he ould be, not yet lost to good. But all of tjiem were akin In one ense—their outlawry; and that starry light they lay with their dark faces ip, some in packs like wolves, others done like the gray wolf who knew no nate. It did not make much difference n Duane’s thought of them that the najority were steeped in crime and irutalijy, more often than not stupied rom rum, incapable of a fine feeling, ust lost wild dogs. Duane doubted that there was a man imong them who did not realize his noral wreck and guln. He had met loor, half witted wretches who knew t. He believed he could enter into heir minds and feel the truth of all heir lives—the hardened outlaw, •oarse, ignorant, bestial, who murdered is Bill Black hud murdered, who stole ’or the sake of stealing, who craved •eady for death, and, like that terrible jutlaw, Helm, who cried out on the scaffold, '^et her rip!” The wild youngsters seeking notor- ! ety and reckless adventure; the cow joys with a notch on their guns, with joantful pride in the knowledge that ! .ney were marked by rangers; the j •rooked men from the north, defaulters, .’orgers, murderers, all pale faced, flat Jhestci men not fit for that wilderness md r-ot surviving; the dishonust cattle men, hand and glove with outlaws, lrlven from their homes; the old griz- , ued, bow legged genuine rustlers—all ;hese Duane had come in contiu t with, lad watched and known, and as he felt with them he seemed to see that as i heir lives were bad, sooner or later to 1 ■ml dismally or tragically, so they must pay some kind of earthly penalty—if | not of conscience, then of teas; if not jf fear, then of that most terrible ot ill things to restless, active men—pain, .he pang of flesh and bone Duane knew, for he had seen them [jay. Best' of all, moreover, he knew ;he internal life of the gun tighter of ;hat select but by no means small class jf which he was representative. The world that judged him and his kind judged him as a machine, a killing ma chine, with only mind enough to hunt, to meet, to slay another man. It htirl :uken three endless years for Duane to jnderstand his own father. Duane knew peyond all doubt that the gun fighters like Bland, like Alloway, like Sellers, , im r. who were evil and had no remorse.* no spiritual accusing Nemesis, hail j ionu thing l'ar more torturing to mind, j more haunting, move murderous of rest j md sleep and peace; and that some tliing was abnormal fear of death. Duane knew this, for he had shot these men; he had seen the quick, dark shadow in eyes, the presentiment that the will could not control, and then the horrible certainty. These men must have been in agony at every meeting with a possible or certain foe—-more ; agony than the hot rend of a bullet. They “ ere haunted, too, haunted by ! ! this fear, by ervry victim calling frond the grave that nothing was so in-' | evitable as death, which lurked behind' every corner, h,'U In every shadow, lull deep in the dark tube of every guiij These men could not have a friend) they could not love or trust a woman? They knew their one c hance of holdiDg on to life lay in their own distrust, watchfulness, dexterity, and that hope, by the very nature of their lives, could not be lasting. They had doomed them selves. What, then, could possibly have dwelt in the depths of their minds as they went to their beds on a starry night like this, with mystery in silence and shadow, with time passing surely, and the dark future and its secret ap proaching every hour—what, then, but hel! ? The hell in Duane’s mind was not' fear of man or fear of death. He would have been glad to lay down the burden of life, providing death came naturally. Many times he had prayed for it. Bud that over developed, superhuman spirit of defense in him precluded suicide or! the inviting of fmy enemy's bullet. Sometimes he had a vague, scarcely analyzed idea that this spirit was what? hud made the southwest habitable for the white man. Every one of his victims, singly and collectively, returned to him for ever, it seemed, in cold, passionless, accus ing domination of these haunted hours. They did not accuse him of dishono f or cowardice or brutality or murder; they only accused him of Death. It was as if they knew more than when they were alive, had learned that life was a divine mysterious gift riot to be taken. They thronged about him with their voiceless clamoring, drifted around him with their fading eyes. CHAPTER XI. After nearly six months in the Nueces gorge the loneliness and inac tion of his life drove Duane out upon the trails seeking anything rather than, to hide longer alone, a prey to the scourage of his thoughts. The moment he rode into sight of men a remarkable transformation occurred in him. A strange warmth stirred in him—a long ing to see the faces of people, to hear their voices—a pleasurable emotion sad and strange. But it was only a precursor of his old bitter, sleepless,> .mil eternal vigilance. When he hid alone in the brakes he was safe from all except his deeper, better seif; when he escaped from this into the haunts if men liis force and will went to the nrPSfirvatinn Mercer was the first village he rode into. He had many friends there. Mer ger claimed to owe Duane a debt. On, the outskirts of the' village there was a jrave overgrown by brush so that the ude lettered post which marked it Ivas scarcely visible to Duane as he rode ry. He had never read the inscription. But he theught now of Hardin, no Jthgr than the ertswhile ally of Bland, ’’or many years Hardin had harassed the stockmen and ranchers in and iround Mercer. On an evil day for him te or nis outlaws; had beaten and rob ted a man who once succored Duane when sore in need. Duane met Hardin’ ti the little plaza of the village, called tini every name known to border men, taunted him to draw, and killed him n the act. Duane went to the house of one' [ones, a Texan who had known his ather, and there he was warmly re ■eived. The feel of an nonest nano, me ,'olce of a friend, the prattle of children who were not afraid of him or his gun. , rood wholesome food, and change of dothes—these things for the time be- f ng made a changed man of Duane. To tie sure, lie did not often speak. The jriee of his head and the weignt of his: rurden made him silent. But eagerly te drank in all the news that was told lijn. In the years of his absence from, tome he had never heard a word about' tis mother or uncle. Those wTho were tis real friends on the border wouldi rave been the last to make Inquiries, 0 write or receive letters that might five a clue to Duane’s whereabouts. Duane remained all day with this lospitable Jones, and as twilight fell was loath to go and yielded to a press ng Invitation to remain overnight. It was seldom indeed that Duane slept rnder a roof. Early in the evening, while Duane sat on the porch with two iwed and hero-worshiping sons of the rouse, Jones returned from a quick visit down to the postoffice. Sununar ly he sent the boys off. He labored jnder intense excitement. "Duane, there’s rangers in town," he whispered. "It's all over town, too, thai vou're here. You rode in long after sunup. Lots of people sa,w you. I don't relieve there’s a man or boy that 'd: squeal on you. But the women might, t'hey gossip, and these rangers are handsome fellows—devils with ' the women.” "What company of rangers?” askedi Duane, quietly. “Company A, under Captain Mac-: Nelly, that new ranger. He made a big name in the war. And since he’s beetij In the ranger service he’s done won-' iers. He’s cleaned up some bad places south, and he’s working north.” "MacNelly. I’ve heard of him. De scrirre him to me.” “Slight built chap, but wirv and tough. Clean face, black moustache iiid hair. Sharp biack eyes. He’s got 1 look of authority. MacNelly’s a fine man, Duane. Belongs to a good south ern family. I’d hate to have him look you up.” Duane did not speak. rangers are all experienced men. If they find out you’re here they’ll come lifter you. MacNelly’s no gun-lighter, but he wouldn’t hesitate to do his duty, even if he faced sure death. Which he would in this case. Duane, you musn’t meet Captain MacNelly. Your record is clean, if it is terrible. You never met a ranger or any officer except a rotten sheriff now and theft, like itod Brown.” Stilt Duant kept silence, lie was not thinking of winger, but of the fact of how ileeting must be his stay among friendd. “I’\# already fixed up a pack of grub," went on Jones. "I’ll slip out to saddle your horse. You watch here." He had scarcely uttered the last words when soft, swift footsteps sounded on the hard path. A man turned in at the gate. The light was dim, vet clean enough to disclose an unusually tall figure. When it appeared nearer he was seen to be walking with both arms raised, hands' high. He Slowed his stride. “Dues Burt Jones live here?” he asked, in a low, hurried voice. "1 reckon. I’m Burt. What can I do for you?” replied Jones. The stranger peered around, stealth ily came closer, still with his hands up. "It is known that Bucke Duane is here. Captain MacNelly’s camping on the river lust out of town. He sends word to Duane to come out there after dark." The stranger wheeled and departed as swiftly Mid strangely as he had come. "Bust me! Duane, whatever do you make of that?" exclaimed Jones. “A new one on me,” replied Duane, thoughtfully. "First fupl thing 1 ever heard of Mac Nelling doing. Can't make head nor tails of it. I’d have said offhand that MacNelly wouldn’t double cross any body. He struck me as a square man, nand all through. But, hell! he must mean treachery. I can’t see anything else in that deal.” Wonunueii next week.) EXCELLENT Returning Tourists Speak WeJ of Their Treatment in Canada. The Canadian Government, having made extensive preparations during tlie last few years to impart to the National Park system a degree of com fort and pleasure to tlie visitor, com bining the best efforts of man with the very best gifts of creation, has now the satisfaction of seeing an apprecia tion of the efforts they have made. Tourists returning from a trip over tlie Canadian Pacific, tlie Grand Trunk Pacific and the Canadian Northern railways speak enthusiastically of the beauties that are revealed as these roads enter and pass through the mountains. The government lias spent enormous sums of money laying out roads, and developing easy means of access to glacier, hill, valley, lake and stream. For what purpose? That the wonders that Canada possesses in its natural parks may become more easily accessible and afterward talked about that a tourist travel through Canada would result. Tourist travel means business, and it is business that Can ada seeks. To make it even more easy for this travel, the Government has taken pains lo make every step of the tourist’s entry into Canada one tliaf will give the very least degree of trou ble. On crossing t'ne border, there is only tlie ordinary examination of bag gage, and tlie only precaution is that in tlie case of foreign aliens, and even in their case there is no difficulty when the officials are satisfied that they are not attempting entry as ene- } iiiies. miuwu^u inmiaio «ji. nit; uwciihiimu tinve taken every means to bring to fbe attention of the tourists anil others that no difficulty could be placed in the way of their admission, there still remained1 doubt in the minds of some. Only the other day the Government took action again, and authorized the statement that no measures taken for recruiting the forces eitiier have been ir will be applied to any persons who ire not ordinarily resident in the Do ninion. Nor is it the intention to ask cor volunteers except from among Brit-, sh subjects, resident in Canada. More tver, the Military Service Act, under vhich conscriutlon is applied in Great | Britain, affects only persons “ordinar ly resident in Great Britain.” Americans and British subjects resi lent in tile United States who de sire to visit Canada will find no more :rouble at the border than they have experienced in the past, anl upon ar riving they will be made as welcome is ever. War conditions of any Kind rvill not inconvenience or interfere ,vith them. The immigration authorities sug gest that, as a precaution against in ronvonience, naturalized Americans ■vhose country of origin was one of hose at war with the British empire, should provide themselves with their certificates of naturalization. Now that it is impossible to visit Europe, the planning of your vacation rip through Canada is one to give consideration to. The Government has aken an active interest in its Na. tonal Parks in the heart of the Rocky liouatains. These can be reached by iny of the lines of railways, and the ifficials at these parks have been ad. rised to render every attention to the risiting tourists who in addition to see ng the most wonderful scenery in the vorlil—nothing grander—nothing bet el-—have excellent wagon and motoi •oads, taking them into the utter re cesses of what wus at one time con. iidered practically inaccessible. In addition to tills the tourist will lot be inactive to the practical pos abilities that will be before him as lie msses over the great plains of the iVestern Provinces. The immense' vheat fields, bounded by the horizon, to matter how far you travel. The vide pasture lands, giving home and 'ood to thousand.^/jf heads of horses aid cattle. The future of a country hat he before only heard of but knew so little about, will be revealed to him n the most wonderful panorama, and mpirfuted in the lens of his brain in sue ha way that he will bring back vith him the story of the richness o’ Vgricultural Western Canada. And le will also have had an enjoyabli) niting.—Advertisement. “Thirty-Nine; Going on Fifty.” “How old are you?” Charles Pettijolin, a lawyer, was piestioning a woman client, seemingly Ifty or more. <i| “Thirty-nine.” “Speak right up,” urged Pettijolin is the woman answered in a low tone. ‘You need not be ashamed of the luestious.” "Thirty-nine,” reiterated the woman, \ n the same tone. “Wliat did you say?” “Thirty-nine, going oa fifty.”—In lianapolis Star. Fitting and Proper. “Now, what do you think of a man vho would kiss and tell?” ‘Oh. there's no harm in telling,” mid the fair debutante, “if lie limits limself to telling the lcisser how much , ileasure it gave him.”—Birmingham «s Vge-Herald. Old age is the evening of life. Seo ul childhood is the next morning.