THE LONE I
STAR RANGER
A ROMANCE OF THE BORDER
BY
ZANE GREY
Author of "The Light of Western Star*.’’ ‘‘Riders of the Purple Sage," etc. 1
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
MCMXV
t HAPTER XXIV.—(Continued.)
"That's tough. I’m glad to be able to
tell you that up to just lately your
mother, sister, untie—all your folksk, I
believe—rwere well. I’ve kept posted,
but haven’t heard lately."
Duane averted his face a moment,
hesitated until the swelling left his
throat, and then said: "it s worth what
1 went through today to hear that."
“I can imagine how you feel about
it. When 1 was in the war—but let s
get down to the busines* of this meet
ing”
lie pulled his chair '.Bose to Duane's.
•you've had word Am re than once In
the last two years that I wanted to
Sie you?”
"Three times, I fVmember,” replied
Duane.
"Why didn't you hunt nje up?”
"I supposed you Imagined me one of
those gunflghters who couldn't take a
dare and expected me to fide up to
your camp and be arrested.”
"That was natural, I suppose,” went
on MaeNelly. "You didn't know me,
otherwise you would have come. I've
been a long time getting to you. Hut
the nature of my Job, as far as you're
concerned, made me cautious. Duane,
you're awuro of the hard name you bear
all over the southwest?”
“Once in a while I'm Jarred Into re
alizing.” replied Duane.
“It's the hardest, barring Mur
rell and Cheseldlno, on the Tex
as border. Hut there's this difference:
Murrell In his day was known to
deserve his Infamous name. Chesel
dino in his day also. But I've found
hundreds of men in southwest Texas
who're your friends, who swear you
never committed a crime. The farther
south I get the clearer this becomes.
What I want to know is the truth.
Have you ever done anything crimi
nal? Tell me the truth, Duane. It
won’t make any difference in my plan.
And when I say crime I mean what I
would call crime, or any reasonable
Texan.”
"That way my hands are clean, re
pile i vuane.
"You never held up a man, robbed
ft store for grub, sole a horse when
you needed him bad—never anything
like that?”
“Somehow I always kept out of that.
Just when pressed the hardest.”
"Duane, I’m damn glad!” MacNelly
exclaimed, gripping Duane's hand.
“Glad for your mother's sake! But, all
the sumo, in spite of this, you are u
Texas outlaw accountable to the state.
You're perfectly aware that under ex
isting elrcumstnces, if you fell Into the
hands of the luw, you’d probably hang,
at least go to jail for a long term.”
"That’s what kept me on the dodge
all these years," replied Duane.
"Certainly." MacNelly removed his
cigar. Hte eyes narrowed and glittered.
The muscles along his brown cheeks
set hard and tense. Ho leaned closer
to Duane, luld sinewy, pressing fingers
upon Duune's knee.
"Listen to this,” he whispered,
hoarsely. "If I place a pardon In your
hand—make you a free, honest citizen
once more, dear your name of infamy,
make your mother, your sister proud
of you—will you swear yourself to a.
service, any service 1 demand of you?”
Duane sat stock stiil, stunned,
Slowly, more persuasively, with Hhow
of earnest agitation, Captain MacNelly
reiterated his startling query.
"My God!” burst from Dunne.
■'What's this? MacNelly, you can't be
111 earnest!”
"Never more so in my life. I've a
deep game. I’m playing it square.
What do you say?’’
He rose to his feet. Duane, as if
Impelled, rose with him. Ranger and
outlaw then locked eyes that searched
each other's squls. In MacNelly's
Duane read truth, strong, fiery purpose,
hope, even gladness, and a fugitive
mounting assurance of victory.
Twice Duane endeavored to speak,
failed of all Save a hoarse. Incoherent
sound, until, forcing back a flood of
speech, lie found voice.
“Any service? Every service! Mac
Nelly, 1 give my word,” said Duane.
A light played over MacNelly's face,
warming out all the grim darkness. He
held out his hand. Duane met it with
his in a clasp that men unconsciously
give in moments of stress.
When they unclasped and Duane
stepped back to drop Into a chair Mac
Nelly fumbled for another cigar—he
had bitten the other into shreds—and.
lighting it as before, he turned to his
visitor, now calm and cool. He had
the look of a man who had justly won
something ut considerable cost. His
next move was to take a long leather
oa>e from his pocket and extract from
it several folded papers.
"Here's your pardon from the gov
ernor," he raid, quietly. "You’ll see,
when you look it over, that it's condi
tional. When you sign this paper I
have here the condition will be met."
He smoothed out the paper, handed
Duane e pen. ran his forefinger along
a dotted line.
uuanes Hand was shaky. Years had
passed since he had held a pen. it
was with difficulty that he achieved
his signature. Buckley Duane—how
strange the name looked!
••Right here ends the career of Buck
Duane, outlaw and gun fighter," said
MacNelly: and, seating himself, he
took the pen from Duane's fingers and
wrote several linos in several places
upon the paper. Then with a smile lie
• handed it to Duane.
"That makes you a member of Com
pany A. Texas rangers.”
"So that's it!" burst out Duane, a
light breaking in upon his bewilder
ment. "You want me for ranger ser
vice ?”
".-lure. That’s it," replied the cap
tain dryly. “Now to hear what that
service is to be. I've been a busy man
since 1 took this job, and, as you may
have heard,. I’ve done a few thin s. 1
don't mind telling you that political
influence put me in here and that up
Austin way there's a good deni of fric
tion in the department of state in re
gard to whether or riot the ranger ser
vice is any good—whether it should ho
discontinued or not. I’m on the party
side who’s defending the ranger ser
vice. I contend that it's made Texas
habitable. Weli it’s been up to me to
pro luce results. So far I have been
successful. My great ambition is to
break up the outlaw gangs along the
rivjcr. I have never ventured in there
vet because I’ve been waiting to get
th. lieutenant I needed. Y'ou, of course,
are the man I had in mind. It's my
1 ea to start way up the Rio Grande
and begin with Cheseidine. He’s the
strongest, the worst outlaw of the
| 12
| tirneR. He's more than rustler. It's
! Cheseldine and his gang wlio are op
i crating on the banks. They're doing
bank robbing. That's my private opin
| ion, but it's not been backed up by
any evidence. Cheseldine doesn't leave
evidences. He's intelligent, cunning.
No one seems to have seen him—to
know what he looks like. I assume, of
course, that you are a stranger to the
country he dominates. It's BOO miles
west of your ground. There’s a little
town over there called I'alrdalo. it’s
the nest of a rustler gang. They rustle
and murder at will. Nobody knows
who the leader is. I want you to find
out. Well, whatever way you decide
Is best you wilt proceed to act upon.
You arp your own boss. You know such
men and how they ean he approached.
You will take all the time needed, if
it's months. It will be necessary for
you to communicate with me, and that
will be a difficult matter. For Chesel
dine dominates several whole counties.
You must hnd some way to let rne
know when I and my rangers are
needed. The plan is to break up Cites
<1 line's gang. It's the toughest Job on
the border. Arresting him alone isn't
to be heard of. He couldn’t he brought
out. Killing him isn't much better, for
his select men, the ones he operates
with, are as dangerous to the
community as he is. We want to
kill or jail this choice selection
of robbers and break up the rest
of the gang. To find them, to
get among them somehow, to learn
their movements, to lay your trap for
us rangers to spring—that, Duane, is
your service to me, and God knows it’s
a great one!”
i nave accepted it,” replied Duane.
"Your work will be secret. You are
now a ranger in my service. But no
one except the few I choose to tell will
know of it until we pull off the Job.
You will simply be Buck Duane till it
suits our purpose to acquaint Texas
with the fact that you’re a ranger.
You’ll see there's no date on that pa
per. No one will ever know just when
you entered the service. Perhaps we
can make it appear that all or most of
your outlawry has really been good
service to the state. At that, I’ll be
lieve it'll turn out so.”
MacNelly paused a moment in his
rapid talk, chewing his cigar, drew his
brows together in a dark frown, and
went on. "No man on the border knows
so well as you the deadly nattire of
this service. It’s a thousand to one that
you’ll be killed. I'd say there was no
chance at all for any other man be
side you. Your reputation will go fas
among the outlaws. Maybe that amt
your nerve and your gunplay will pull
you through. I’m hoping so. But it’s a
long, long chance against your ever
coming back.”
"That’s not the point," said Duane.
"But In case I get killed out there—
what—”
“Leave that to me,” interrupted Cap
tain MacNelly. “Your folks will know at
once of your pardon and your ranger
duty. If you lose your life out there
I’ll see your name cleared—the service
you render known. You can rest as
sured of that."
"I am satisfied,” replied Duane.
"That's so much more than I’ve dared
to hope.”
“Well, it’s settled, then. I’ll give you
money for expenses. You'll start as
soon as you like—the sooner the bet
ter. i hope to think of other sugges
tions, especially about communicating
with me."
Long after the lights were out and
the low hum of voices had ceased round
the camp tire Duane lay wide uwake,
eyes staring into the blackness, mar
veling over the strange events of the
day. lie was humble, grateful to the
depths of his soul. A huge and crush
ing burden bad been lifted from bis
heart. He welcomed his hazardous
service to the man who had saved him.
Thought ol' his mother and sister and
Uncle Jim, of his home, of old friends
came rushing over him the first time in
years that he had happiness in the
memory. The disgrace he had put up
on them would now be removed; and
in the light of that, his wasted life of
the past, and its probable tragic end
in future service as atonement changed
their aspects. And as he lay there,
with the approach of sleep finally dim
ming the vividness of his thought, so
full of mystery, shadowy faces floated
in the blackness around him, haunting
him as he had always been haunted.
• V t * "«i.v niJcu lie
awakened. MaeNelly was calling him
to breakfast. Outside sounded voices
of men, crackling of (ires, snorting and
tramping of horses, the barking of dogs.
Duane rolled out of his blankets and
made good use of the soap and towel
and razor and brush near by on a
bench- things of rare luxury to an out
law on the ride. The face he saw in !
the mirror was as strange as the past
lie had tried so hard to recall. Then lie
stepped to the door and went out.
The rangers were eating in a circle
round a tarpaulin spread upbn the
ground.
“Follows,” said MaeNelly, "shake
heaths with Buck Duane. He’s on secret1
ranger service for me. Service that’ll
likely make you all hump soon! Mind
yen, keep mum about it.”
The rangers surprised Duane with a !
roaring greeting, the warmth of which j
he soon divined was divided between |
p’ide of his acquisition to their ranks i
and eagerness to meet ttmt violent
service of which their captain hinted. 1
They were jolly wild fellows, with just1
enough gravity ii. their welcome toj
show Duane their respect and appre- j
elation, while not forgetting his lone- I
wolf record. When he had seated him- j
self in that circle, now one of them, a J
fooling subtle and. uplifting pervaded j
him.
After the meal Captain MaeNelly
drew Duane aside.
“Here’s the money. Make it go as far
as you can. Better strike straight for;
El Faso, snook around there and hear!
things. Then go to Valentine. That’s I
near the river and within 50 miles or
j so of the edge of the Rim Rock. Some
! where up there Cheseldine holds fort. !
| Somewhere to the north is the town
i Fall-dale. But he doesn’t hide all the
: time in the rocks. Only after some dar
ing rado or holdup. Cheseldine’s got
: border towns on his staff, or scared of
! him. and these places we want to know
j about, especially Fairdale. Write me
I care of the adjutant at Austin. I don’t
have to warn you to be careful where
| you mail letters. Ride 100, 200 miles,
' if necessary, or go clear to El Paso.”
i MaeNelly stopped with an air of
flna'ity, and then Duane slowly rose.
"I’ll start at once,” he said, extend
ing his hand to the captain. “I wish—
I'd like to thank you!”
"Hell, man! Don't thank me!" re
plied MacNelly, crushing the proffered
hand. "I've sent a lot of good men to
their deaths, and maybe you're an
other. But, as I’ve said, you’ve one
chance in a thousand. And, by Heaven!
I’d hate to be Cheseldine or any other
man you were trailing. No, not good
by—Adlos, Duane! May we meet
again!”
BOOK II.—THE RANGER.
CHAPTER XV.
West of the Pecos river Texas ex
tended a vast wild region, barren in the
north where tho Elano Estacado spread
its shifting sands, fertile in the south
along tho Rio Grande. A railroad
marked an undeviating course across 500
miles of this country, and the only vil
lages and towns lay on or near this line
of steel. Unsettled as was this western
Texas, and despite the acknowledged
dominance of tho outlaw bands, the
pioneers pushed steadily into it. First
had come the lone rancher; then his
neighbors in near and far valleys; then
the hamlets; at last the railroad and
the towns. And still the pioneers came,
spreading deeper Into the valleys, far
ther and wider over the plains. It was
mesquite-dotted, cactus-covered desert,
but rich soil upon which water acted
like magic. There was little grass to
an acre, but there were millions of
acres. The climate was wonderful.
Cattle flourished and ranchers pros
pered.
in') mo i;ranoo riowed almost due
south along the western boundary for
1,000 miles, and then, weary of its
course, turned abruptly north, to make
what was called the liig Bend. The rail
road, running west, cut across this
bend, and ail that country bounded on
the north by the railroad and on the
south by the river was as wild as the
Staked Plains. It contained not one set
tlement. Across the face of this Big
Bend, as if to isolate it, stretched the
Ord mountain range, of which Mount
Ord, Cathedral mount, and Elephant
mount raised bleak peaks above their
fellows. In the valleys of the foothills
and out across the plains were ranches,
and farther north, village®, and the
towns of Alpine and Marfa.
Like other parts of the great Lone
Ptar state, this section of Texas was a
world in itself—a world where the rich
es of the rancher were ever enriching
the outlaw. The village closest to the
gateway of this outlaw-infested region
was a little placo called Ord, named I
after the dark peak that loomed some
miles to the south. It had been settled
jriginally by Mexicans—there were still
the ruin® of adobe missions—but with
Lhe advent of the rustler and outlaw
many Inhabitants were shot or driven
away, so that at the height of Ord's
prosperity md evil sway there were
hut fow Mexicans living there, and
hese had their choice between holding
hand-and-glovo with the outlaws or
furnishing target practice for that wild
“lenient.
Toward the close of a day in Septem
ber a strang ;r rode into Ord, and in a
community where all men were re
markable for one reason or another he
Fxclted interest. His horse, perhaps, re
ceived the first and moat engaging at
tention—horses in that region being ap
parently more important than men.
This particular horse did not attract
with beauty. At first glance he seemed
ugly. But he was a giant, black as coal,
rough despite the care manifestly be
stowed upon him, long of body, pond
erous of limb, huge in every way. A
bystander remarked that he had a
grand head. True, if only his head had
been seen he would have been a beauti
ful horse. Like men, horses show what
they are in the shape, the size, the line,
the character of the head. This one de
noted fire, speed, blood, loyalty, and his
eyes were as soft and dark as a wo
man’s. His face was solid black, except
in the middle of his forehead, there was
a round spot of white.
"Say mister, mind tellln’ me his
name?" asked a ragged urchin, with
born love of a horse in his eyes.
"Bullet," replied the rider.
“Thet there’s for the white mark,
lin t it?” whispered the youngster to
another. “Say, ain’t he a whopper?
Biggest hosa 1 ever seen."
Bullet carried a huge black silver-or
namented saddle of Mexican make, a
lariat and canteen, and a small pack
rolled into a tarpaulin.
This rider apparently put all care of
appearances upon his horse. His ap
parel was the ordinary jeans of the
cowboy without vanity, and it was tom
and travel-stained. His boots showed
evidence of an intimate acquaintance
with cactus. Like his horse, this man
was a giant in stature, but rangier, not
so heavily built. Otherwise the only
striking thing about him was his som
ber face with its piercing eyes, the hair
white over the temples. He packed two
guns, both low down—but that wa® too
common a thing to attract notice in the
Big Bend. A close observer, however,
would have noticed a singular fact—
this rider’s right hand was more bron
zed, more weather beaten than his left,
lie never wore a glove on that right
hand!
11 ci luouiuuiucy uciuic a liUU"
shackle structure that bore upon its
wide, high-boarded front the sign,
“Hotel.” There were horsemen coming
and going down the wide street be
tween its rows of old stores, saloons,
and houses. Ord certainly did not look
enterprising. Americans had manifestly
assimilated much of the leisure of the
Mexicans. The hotel had a wide plat
form in front, and this did duty as
a porch and sidewalk. Upon it and lean
ing against a hitching rail, were men of
varying ages, most of them slovenly in
old jeans and slouched sombreros. Some
were booted, belted and spurred. No
man there wore a coat, but all wore
vests. The guns in that group* would
have outnumbered the men.
It was a crowd seemingly too lazy to
be curious. Good nature did not appear
to be wanting, but it was not tho frank
and boisterous kind natural to the cow
boy or rancher in town for a day. These
men were idlers; what else, perhaps,
was easy to conjecture. Certainly to
this arriving stranger, who flashed a
keen cyo over them, they wore an at
mosphere never associated with work.
Presently a tall man. with a drooping,
:»ndy mustache, leisurely detached
himself from the crowd.
“Howdy, stranger,” he said
The stranger had bent over to loosen
the cinches; he straightened up and I
nodded. Then; “I'm thirsty!”
That brought a broad smile to faces.
If was characteristic greeting. One and
all trooped after the stranger into the
hotel. It was a dark, ill-emelling barn
of a place, with a bar as high as a short
man's head. A bartender with a scarred
face was serving drinks.
"Line up, gents,” said the stranger.
They piled over one another to get
to the bar, with coarse jests and oaths
and laughter. None of them noted that
the stranger did not appear so thirsty
as he claimed to be. In fact, though
he went through the motions, he uid
not drink at all.
“My name’s Jim Fletcher,” said the
tall man witli the drooping, sandy
mustache. Ho spoke laconically, nev
ertheless there was a tone that showed
he expected to be known. Something
went with that name. The stranger did
not appear to be Impressed.
"My name might be Blazes, but it
ain't," he replied. "What do you call
this burg ?'*
“Stranger, this heah me-tropoles
bears the handle Ord. Is thet new to
you?"
He leaned back against the bar, and
now his little yellow eyes, clear as
crystal, flawless as a hawk’s, fixed on
the stranger. Other men crowded
close, forming a circle, curious, ready
to be friendly or otherwise, according
to how the tall interrogator marked the
newcomer.
"Sure, Ord’s a little strange to me.
Off the railroad some, ain’t it? Funny
trails hereabouts.”
“How fur was you goln’?”
“I reckon 1 wits goln’ as far as I
could,” replied the stranger, with a hard
laugh.
His reply had subtle reaction on that
listening circle. Some of the men ex
changed glances. Fletcher stroked his
drooping mustache, seemed thought
ful, but lost something of that piercing
scrutiny.
“Wal, Ord’s the Jumpin’ off place," he
said, presently. "Mure you’ve lieerd of
the Big Bend country?”
“I surfe have, an’ was makin’ tracks
fer It," replied the stranger.
Fletcher turned toward a man in
the outer edge of the group. "Knell,
come In heah.”
This Individual elbowed his way in
and was seen to be scarcely more than
a boy, almost pale beside those bronzed
men. with a long, expressionless face,
thin and sharp.
"Knell, this hcah’s—” Fletcher
wheeled to the stranger. “What’d you
call yourself?”
"I’d hate to mention what I’ve been
callin’ myself lately."
This sally fetched another laugh. The
stranger appeared cool, careless, indif
ferent. Perhaps he knew, as the others '
present knew, that this show of Fletch
er’s, this pretense of Introduction, was
merely talk while he was looked over.^
Knell stepped up, and it was easy to
see, from the way Fletcher relinquished
his part in the situation, that a man
greater than he had appeared upon the
scene.
■any uusiness riere. ne querieu
curtly. When he spoke his expression
less lace was in strange contrast with
the ring, the quality, the cruelty of his
voice. This voice betrayed an absence
of humor, of friendliness, of heart.
“Nope,” replied the stranger.
• "Know anybody hereabouts?"
“Nary one."
“Jest ridin’ through?”
“Yep.”
“Slopin’ fer back country, eh?”
There came a pause. The stranger
appeared to grow a little resentful and
drew himself up. disdainfully.
“Wal, considerin’ yoU-all seem so
damn friendly an’ oncurious down here
in this Big Bend country, I don’t mind
sayin' yes—I am in on the dodge,” he
replied, with deliberate sarcasm.
“From west of Ord—out El Paso way,
mebbe ?’’
“Sure.”
“A-huh! Thet so?” Knell's words,
cutting the air, stilled the room. "You’re
from ’way down the river. Thet's what
they say down there—'on the dodge.’
. . . Stranger, you're a liar!”
With swift clink of spur and thump
of boot the crowd spilt, leaving Knell
and the stranger in the center.
Wild breed of that ilk never made a
mistake in judging a man’s nerve.
Knell had cut out with the trenchant
call, and stood ready. The stranger
suddenly lost his every semblance to
the rough and easy character before
manifest in him. lie became bronze.
That situation seemed familiar to him.
His eyes held a singular piercing light
that danced like a compass needle.
“Sure I lied,” he said; “so I ain'f
takin’ offense at the way you called
me. I’m lookin’ to make friends, not
enemies. You don’t strike me as one
of them four flushes, achin’ to kill
somebody. But, if you are—go ahead
an’ open the ball. . . You see, I
never throw a gun on them fellers till
they go fer theirs.
Knell cooly eyed his antagonist, his
strange face not changing in the least.
Yet somehow it was evident in his look
that here was metal which rang dif
ferently from what he had expected.
Invited to start a fight or withdraw, as
he chose, Knell proved himself big in
the manner characteristic of only the
genuine gunman.
“Stranger, I pass,” he said, and, turn
ing to the bar, he ordered liquor.
The tension relaxed, the silence
broke, the men filled up the gap; the
incident seemed closed. Jim Fletcher
attached himself to the stranger, and
now both respect and friendliness tem
pered his asperity.
“Wal, fer want of a better handle,
I’ll call you Dodge,” he said.
“Dodge’s as good as any.
Gents, line up again—an', if you can’t
be friendly, be careful!"
Such was Buck Duane’s debut in the
little outlaw hamlet of Ord.
Duane had been three months out
of the Nueces country. At El Paso
he bought the finest horse he could
find, and, armed and otherwise outfit
ted to suit him, he had taken to un
known trails. Leisurely he rode from
town to town, village to village, ranch
to ranch, fitting his talk and his occu
pation to the impression he wanted to
make upon different people whom ho
IlH'l. XU; Wiln XXI UU 11 U. IUWUU>, c*
rancher, a cattleman, a stock buyer, a
boomer, a land hunter; and, long be
fore he reached the wild and inhospit
able Ord, ho had acted the part of an
outlaw, drifting into new territory. He
passed on leisurely because he wanted
to learn the lay of the country, the lo
cation of villages and ranches, the
work, habit, gossip, pleasures, and
fears of the people with whom
lie came in contact. The one sub
ject most impelling to him—-out
litws'—he never mentioned: but by talk
ing all around it, sifting the old ranch
and cattle story, he acquired a knowl
edge calculated to aid his plot. In this
game time was of no moment; if nec
essary he would take years to accom
plish his task. The stupendous and
perilous nature of it showed in the
slow, wary preparation. When he heard
Fletcher’s name and faced Knell he
knew he had reached the place ho
sought. Ord was a hamlet on the
fringe of the grazing country, of doubt
ful honesty, from which, surely, wind
ing trails led down into that free and
never disturbed paradise of outlaws—
the Big Bend.
Duane made himself agreeable, yet
not too much so, to Fletcher and sev
eral other men disposed to talk and
drink and eat; and then, after having
a care for his horse, he rode out of
town a couple of miles to a grove he
had marked, and there, well hidden, he
prepared to spend the night. This pro
ceeding served a double purpose—ha
was safer, and the habit would look
well in the eyes of outlaws, who would
be more inclined to see in him the lone
wolf fugitive.
(Continued Next Week.)
Long Branch Has High Hopes.
From the Philadelphia Bulletin.
I.ong Branch is eagerly anticipating the
advent of the president in the luxurious
Inland mansion of “Shadow Lawn.” The
authorities and the promoters of the old
resort have been fondly proclaiming that
It Is once more to be the "summer cap
ital." The presence of Mr. and Mrs. Wil
son in its Immediate vicinity is regarded
there as an altogether likely cause of a
restoration of the ’’palmy days" and the
"old glories," or at least it is so Bpoken
of in the highly earnest and even im
pressive announcements which ambitious
denUons of Long Branch have put forth
concerning the boons and blessings which
will come to it because of the proximity
of tho presidential household.
...
Influence of Postage in So ;~
darity of National Opinion
By Theo. H. Price In Commerce and Finance.
The article quoted below was written
by the editor of this paper in London in
1914 Just a monthly before the unforeseen
outbreak of the present great war. It
was published in Commerce and Finance
July 22, 1914. It is now reprinted be
cause we feel that it has become more
! desirable than ever before that the two
great divisions of the Anglo-Saxon people
should occasionally use each other’s spec
tacles in studying the problems raised by
the war.
If Englishmen could and would read
our newspapers and we could read theirs,
a common viewpoint mignt be reached
from which both of us would probably be ■
able to sen and avoid many tilings which !
may otherwise produce unnecessary frlc- \
tion and misunderstanding.
At present the essential community of i
Interest between Great Britain and the j
United States is perilously near destruc
tion because England, in her entirely j
natural desire to complete the economic
isolation of Germany, has failed to ap
preciate the resentment that her black
list would awaken in this country.
The resulting disaffection, which can
now be removed only by the exercise of
the utmost tact on both sides, might, we
think, have been entirely avoided if we I
had been reading each other's newspapers j
and had thereby come to have a better j
knowledge of each other's temperament '
and temper. We, therefore, hope that |
those who have the continued friendship j
of the two nations seriously at heart may I
find a way to give practical effect to the '
ideas expressed in the following article:
The great newspaper called the London
Times by Americans, but invariably de
scribed as the Times by Englishmen, is
now sold for 1 penny (2 cents) a copy in
T ^nnrlnn
It is published on 313 days of the year. I
This makes its cost, if bought in London,
$6.26 a year. The annual subscription
rate, if mailed to an address in Great
Britain or Ireland, is £1 19s., or, say,
$9.65, and subscribers elsewhere, including
those in the British colonics and the
British colonies and the United States,
must pay £3 183., or, say, $19.10, to re
ceive the Times regularly. This means
that the postoffice charges increase the
cost of the paper about 50 per cent to
subscribers in the United Kingdom out
side of London, and triple its cost to sub
scribers in the British colonies and
foreign countries. An Englishman resid
ing in Paris, Gibraltar, the United States
or India must pay $12.84 postage per an
num on a copy of the Times, which the
publishers sell for $6.26.
The same statement is approximately
applicable to all the English newspapers
and magazines. The newspaper rate
within the Kingdom is %d. (1 cent) per
copy Irrespective of weight up to five
pounds per package containing not more
than one newspaper. Although this seems
low, it is very ltigh when compared with
the American publishers’ rate of 1 cent
per pound In bulk for the transmission of
newspapers and magazines within the
United States. It costs 1 cent to send an
English newspaper anywhere in England
or Ireland, and the maximum distance
that It has to be carried cannot possibly
exceed 800 or 900 miles. In the United
States an American newspaper can be i
sent 3,000 or 4,000 miles, and even to i
Alaska and the Philippines, at the bulk i
rate of 1 cent per pound, which is prob- .
ably an average of not over % of a cent ■
for each newspaper.
7
Centraliz ng Taxation. i
»
------—i
By E. R. Doyle.
The Massachusetts legislature nas
enacted an income tax law which will go
Into effect in 1917. While many states at
various time have levied income taxes,
there has not been any extensive state
tax save in Wisconsin which adopted a
graduated income tax as a remedy for
the wrongs of the general property tax.
The Wisconsin tax is considered extreme
ly successful. The Massachusetts tax
aims to end the same evils by a less com
prehensive system of income f ixation.
Taxes may be levied on what an in
dividual owns, i. e., his land or goods, or
It can be levied on the earning power of ,
his property. It was natural that taxes
should be levied on, first the man, then
on his land, then on his other tangible
goods, and last on his intangible goods— I
such as securities, profits, wages, etc.
It has been found that a tax on land J
and tangible property alone discriminates
too much against the landowner and fa
vors the owner of intangible property. It
also makes territorial division of public
expenses extremely difficult to apportion i
In an equitable manner. Under the per
sonal property tax the cities were de
serted gradually by the wealth at taxing
tames. The people of moderate means
and the poor were left to pay the higher
taxes in rents and increased costs of liv
ing.
The greatest evil of the old land tax has
been the inefficient assessment system.
As the assessments were made by local
boards dependent for support on the local,
community there was a continued con
straint upon their efficiency. The ratio
of assessed valuation to real valuation al
ways has shown a wide discrepancy un
der the system.
With the tax on real estate, there has
been a tax on personal property. The
difficulty with this tax is that it puts a
premium on dishonesty, since it is col
lected In the most hazardous manner by
the locally elected assessors. The tax on
inheritances coming under its provisions
A Century of Little Girls.
One went basked in stiff brocade
And worked queer sums in “tare and
trett,”
And Web.'-ter’s spelling book was made,
Page after page, by heart to get;
And with her schoolmates on parade
Threw a rose at Lafayette.
One in pantalettes and shawl
Sedately walked, a proper lass!
She in the old Lyceum hall
Heard Jenny Lind; and, class by class.
Her school went forth to view the pail,
The catafalque of Lincoln, pass.
One wore huge sleeves, and thought
great cheer
To dance the two-step o’er and o’er.
She worked the Cuban flag and spear
Upon a sofa pillow for \
A youthful cousin volunteer
That summer of the Spanish war.
The last can ride and swim and wend
On camp fire hikes; and yet would she
Tales of her forebears hear no end!
And oft she cries, “What fun ’twould
be
If they could come alive, and spend
The afternoon, and stay to tea!”
—Sarah N. Clegliorn in Harper’s Maga
zine.
How It Happened.
From the Boston Transcript.
First Woman (angrily)—Your Johnny
gave my Willie the measles.
Second Woman—No such thing! Your
Willie came over where my Johnny was
and took ’em.
On© Way to Look at It.
From the Passing Show.
Stoker—Yes, it’s a nice watch, but why 1
do you wear It on the right wrist?
Seaman—Well, you see, I’m sort o' loft
eyed.
In th© Driving Business.
From th© Washington Post.
Th© path of glory leads but to another
Lin© of tranches.
--•
hag borne heavily against those who coma
into small estates.
Tile property taxes which have been,
and still are in effect in most states, have
discriminated against urban populations.
They have been a menace to the develop
ment of the state for they mako real es
tate owning hazardous. The large num
ber of tenant dwellers In most large cities
shows the unwillingness of the small wage
earner to put his savings Into a home
stead. Property taxes have been levied
In an Inefficient manner and have proven
expensive to collect.
Awakening to the deficiencies of the
property tax, Wisconsin and Massachus
etts have adopted the income tax as the
most desirable method of meeting govern
mental costs. While the two systems are
considerably different in their scope, the
purpose is the same; to substitute equit
able and efficient taxes for Hie outworn
property taxes.
The significant feature of both the Wis
consin and 'the Massachusetts taxes Is
that of centralizing the taxing power by
centralizing the assessing methods. In
Wisconsin tho state board supervises tho
collection and settlement of the tax and
the local assessors are under the civil
service regulations. This draws the as
sessor out of the political rut and places
him on a business-like basis. In Massa
chusetts the tax commissioner appoints
tho assessors with approval of tho gover
nor. While this does not take the asses
sor out of politics, it centralizes the col
lection system.
l no two tax systems vary greatly In
one respect: The Wisconsin law taxes all
incomes, while the Massachusetts law
alms to tax only Income from Intangible
property and to allow the local adminis
tration to tax the tangible property.
While the Wisconsin law still maintains a
personal property tax, it Is only supple
mentary to the income tax, whereas, in'
Massachusetts, the income tax is supple
mentary to the property tax.
Where the Wisconsin law lias a gradu
ated scale in taxing incomes, the Massa
chusetts law merely divides Incomes "b to
three classes for taxing purposes. Thus
the Wisconsin law divides p.-c vi.lual In
comes into groups, from Jtl.Ot.o to 312,000
paying from 1 per cert to 0 per cunt. The
Massachusetts law divides indiums into
intangible incomes taxed at 6 per cent, an
nuities and Incomes from trades ar-1 pro
fessions taxed 1% per cent, and specula
tive Incomes taxed 3 per cent. With re
aped to classifications, the Wisconsin lew
resembles the federal income tax. wli’la
the Massachusetts tax dis riminates in the
sourco of the income rather than In the
amount.
Both laws are similar in respect to many
of the exemptions. Under r -tain Pmita- 4
tions, public offi lals, saving “rank depos
itors, holders of government, state and
municipal bonds, public utility stock . nd
bohd owners, Insurance berellclarics, and
certain charitable incomes are exempt
from taxation.
In both states the taxes are Imposed
upon all resident Inhabitants. Wisconsin >
taxes all Incomes from property within
the state. Thus, corporations are com
pelled to pay a pro rata tax on all pro)>
erty located in the state even though the
stock or bond holders are non-resident
Massachusetts taxes foreign corporation
incomes but resident corporations ex
empt. They already pay franchise ta*..‘ '
In distributing the tax receipts. Urn Wis
consin law provides that, of the lp
collected In the county, 23 per cent goes
to county administration and 70 r
goes to city or town administration ru
der the Massachusetts law, the state will
divide the tax on a basis proportional to >
the present local assessment rates, until ’
1937, at which time the legislature Is to
determine the methods of distribution.
Beyond this point a comparison would be
futile. The Massachusetts law differs
from the Wisconsin law In that it is mote
complicated, narrower and less efficient
la many respects.
In the United States, as in England,
the rate on newspapers for foreign coun
tries is 1 cent for two ounces, except that
the American government carries news
papers to its colonies at 1 cent per pound,
while the English government treats the
English colonies and dependencies aa
foreign countries insofar as newspaper
postage is concerned. The result is that
the circulation of English newspapers out
side of Great Britain is greatly restricted,
and even within the Kingdom the great
metropolitan journals are not much read
away from London. In the United States
the New York papers are in Boston or
Washington by B:30 in the morning of
the day of issue.
in Paris or Brussels, which are hardly
farther away from London than Wash
ingr >n is from New York, the English
mo. .ling papers are not to be bad until
the evening, and in Liverpool or Man
chester tlic person who reads a London
paper regularly is the great exception,
insofar as the British colonies are con
cerned, the English papers have a com
paratively small circulation, and in the
United States they are but little known,
jscept that a stray copy of the Times or
the Spectator may occasionally be found
it an expensive club or is quoted by an
editor, who thereupon is charged with a
:aste for what is regarded as exotic jour
nalism. On the other hand, American
papers have practically no circulation in
Europe. The few Americans who live on
ibis side the Atlantic take the Paris
Herald, but our great dailies are obtained
vith difficulty and are rarely seen. Our
magazine publishers have made an effort /
to extend their circulation among the
English speaking people outside America,
jut have not been signally successful be
cause the cost of postage is prohibitive.
I have gone into the details of the mat
ter because I am impressed with the
thought that the solidarity of the Eng
ish speaking people pvould be immensely
ncreased if the circulation of all news
papers printed in English were tintram
neled by postal charges that are prac
tically prohibitive. We are living in an
ige in which the radius of human in
’luence has become immensely extended
through the instrumentality of the inex
pensive newspapers. it may be said that
pur attitude in regard to nearlv everv
juestion of life is the result of what we
■end.
vve are too nusy to do much talking
except as vve ejaculate on the telephone.
Whatever thought vve give to matters
:!mt affect us individually or nationally is
nspired by what we read. It is true that
die influence of the old fashioned news
paper “leader” or “editorial” has dimin- ,
shed, hut the influence of the interview V
ir the reportorial coloring with which an •
ncident is described has immensely in- '
ireased.
To see ourselves as others see us in
iheir newspapers, to get a view of world
iffairs other than the one we can obtain
ihrough the atmosphere of our own en
vironment, would broaden our intelli
rence, Increase our tolerance, and greatly
promote international sympathy and un
lerstanding.
A very thoughtful English journalist
(aid to me the other day that the world
was rapidly becoming "Anglo-American"
■ather than Angle-Saxon, and that hu
nanity was, in his opinion, corrcspond
ngly benefited.
Is It riot possible to greatly accelerate
;hla tendency by removing the embargo
which the postage rates put upon the in
:ernatlonal circulation of newspapers? It
leems to be a question to which the
itatesmen who have to do with the post
(ffices on both sides of the Atlantic could
iddress themselves with great benefit to
he world at large, and the English speak- 4
ng world In particular. I