Harold Titus,
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» e tv v i c m
SYNOPSIS
Ben Elliott—from "Yonder” —
comes Into the lumbering town of
Tlncup, bringing an old man, Don
Stuart, who had been eager to
reach Tlncup. Nicholas Brandon,
the town's leading citizen, resents
Stuart's presence, trying to force
him to leave, and Elliott, resenting
the act, knocks him down. Judge
Able Armltage hires Ben to run the
one lumber camp, the Hoot Owl,
that Brandon has not been able to
grab. This belongs to Dawn Mc
Manus, whose father has disap
peared with a murder charge hang
ing over his head. Brandon sends
his bully, Duval, to beat up Ben,
and Ben throws him out of camp.
Old Don Stuart dies, leaving a let
ter for Elliott, “to be used when the
going becomes too tough.” Ben re
fuses to read it at this time, be
lieving he can win the fight by his
own efforts. Fire In the mill, sub
dued, is found to have been incen
diary. The Hoot Owl makes a con
tract for timber, that will provide
money to tide It over. But there Is
a definite time limit. Ben discovers
Dawn McManus is not a child, as
he had supposed, but a beautiful
young woman. The railroad bridge
over which Ben's lumber must pass,
Is blown up. By superhuman efforts
Ben builds a new bridge and him
self drives a train over the rickety
structure, making the delivery with
only a few minutes to spare. Bran
don compels a woman (known as
“Lydia") who Is in his power, to
accuse Elliott of misconduct with a
girl. She does so at a dance which
Elliott and Dawn McManus attend.
Dawn, apparently believing Ben
guilty, leaves the dance without
him. While walking in the woods,
Elliott Is fired on, and drops, seem
ingly dead, but his fall Is a ruse to
make his enemy believe his attempt
has been successful.
CHAPTER X—Continued
—12—
After a moment he rose, went
forward again and entered the shad
ows boldly. No one was there, for
certain, but before he had gone
more than a few paces he came on
that which he sought: a snowshoe
track, visible in the gloom because
of the softness of the snow. Who
ever had gone that way had sunk
deeply.
He followed this out of the thick
timber to a little clearing. The trail
wras not visible in the darkness so
he struck a match and holding it
cupped in one hand, bent low.
- The flare showed the track of a
long, narrow shoe plainly and as he
moved the tiny torch along toward
its tip he stopped all movement
The match burned out. He moved
on to the next track and lighted
another. He examined several of
the Imprints made by the shoe.
Then he went as rapidly as pos
sible back down the slope to the
road and started on to camp.
After supper Ben called Bird-Eye
Blaine to one side.
“I’d like to have you harness the
supply team and spend an evening
In town,” he said.
The little barn boss cocked an
Inquisitive eye.
“Just in town, Misther Elliott?
Or ter somethin’ special?”
“Something special. . . . But no
one else is to know. What I want
to find out is this: Who is wearing
a pair of Canadinn snowshoes with
the webbing in the ioe torn so it
makes a hole about this shape."
Quickly he sketched a rough out
line on a leaf of his notebook. Bird
Eye scanned It nnd nodded.
It was after midnight when Ben
Elliott roused from his sleepless
bed to hear Bird-Eye speaking to
his team outside. He crawled out
of his blankets and opened the office
door to let ‘he other in. but before
he asked any questions lighted a
lamp.
“Well, how about it?”—ns he re
placed the chimney.
Bird-Eye looked at him narrowly.
“I found th’ shoes.” he said with
an emphatic nod. “’Nd I found out
who’s they be! They’re the proper
ty av’ wan Red Bart Delaney, a
celebrated killer from somewheres
in Canady!’’
From the second small bedroom
separated from the office by a
board partition, a bed creaked
sharply. Elliott did not hear It.
“So that’s It!” he said softly.
“Yls! That's ut! Th’prisenee av
a rattlesnake lolke Red Bart in th’
community don’t forecast nnwthlng
but th’ hottest kind av trouble!
Ye’ve heard av him, ain’t It?”
“Yes, I have. He was mixed up
in that spruce war on the Zhing
Wauk. A hired killer.”
“Killer is rolght! ’Nd what may
he be a-doing in these parts?"
Elliott did not reply to that ques
tion.
“What else did you find out?” he
^sked.
“Well, he brought his stlnkln’
prisenee into Tincup Wednesday
noight on its own two stlnkln’ feet!
He’s favorin’ Joe I’lette’s hotel. Te’
•nowshoes was in th’ office ’nd It
come up so’s I didn’t have to seem
curious to folnd out whose they
was. He’s here lookin’ fer cedar,
he says. But It gives a body a lot
av bother wonderin' what his rale
reason molght be. Lyin’ 's as nat
ural as breathin’ to th' lolkes."
“I can tell you," Ben said. "He's
gunning for me, Bird-Eye."
"Saints! ... 1 thought ut, I did!
Ah, me b’y—”
"Yes, he started today. I was
shot at with a ritle two miles up
the road just at sundown. The man
who shot nt me wore a snowshoe
with the web broken. He wouldn’t
be lending his snowshoes."
Bird-Eye stood motionless and si
lent for a moment before he spoke.
"Thin th’ sooner we give him both
barrels av somethin’, th’ safer ye'll
be, Mlsther Elliott! He’s a harrd
chunk, him. It's Nick Brandon’s
work, who's tried everything else
’nd who’ll not refuse to try murder
to get ye down. Benny b’y!”
“Likely you’re right,’’ Ben said
and rubbed his chin with a
knuckle. "But we’d have to prove
that, first. There’s nothing to wor
ry about, now we know the man’s
here to get me. Likely he thought
he got me. Still there, was he?
Uin. . . . Well, that’s something
to think over, Bird-Eye. You bet
ter hit for camp, and get some
sleep. I may call you in the fore
noon.”
Bird-Eye sniffed and twisted his
head gravely and after adding Im
precations on Nleholns Brandon
and warning Ben to stay close to
the office, departed.
He could be heard unblanketing
his team and climbing into the
sleigh; and when the frosty run
ners screnmed In departure sounds
came from that second bedroom be
hind the partition, the door opened
nnd John Martin stood looking out.
His dark eyes held on Ben Elliott,
anxious and troubled.
"I couldn't help hearing,” he said
simply. "Do you mind?"
“Of course not, John. Looks like
lively times!”—with a grin.
“It’s none of my nffairs Elliott,
but I'm an older mnn than you.
I’ve seen trouble . . . a-plenty.”
Ilis voice dropped significantly, as
though old wounds were being
opened. ‘Tve heard of Delaney. I
can’t help but think Bird-Eye’s ad
vice Is good. Swear out a warrant
for him the first thing. This is a time
for caution. It’ll do you no good
to take risks.”
“I’ll not walk Into any traps, but
If Brandon thinks he can make me
hunt my hole—”
"Oh, Brandon!" The cry was bit
ter and Martin threw his arms wide
in a gesture of helplessness.
"You’ve got to watch him as you’ve
never watched a man In your life.
Why, son, you don’t know, you
don't dream, of the ends he’ll go
to!”
“But I thought you didn’t know
him,” Ben said, puzzled. "I thought
you said you were a stranger to
this country."
"Yes. But stories travel. And
isn’t your experience today enough
to convince anyone of the mans
ruthlessness?”
“Oh, sure,” Ben agreed, but still
wondering at Martin's mood.
“You’re right. He’ll stop at noth
ing, not even murder. And I agree
with you that he’s got to be
watched. But if 1 ran Into my bur
row or didn’t try to get at the bot
tom of this thing, he’d gain part of
what he’s after, you see. No, that
c^n't be done.”
He rose and began to pace the
tloor.
“And it’s not only the Hoot Owl,
now, ^hat’s at stake. He's mixed
up in more Important matters than
just property. He caught me foul
where It hurt . . . hurt!” Martin,
following him with his eyes,
winced. “He’s used a woman to
come between me and the finest
girl that ever walked the earth!”
Martin looked away as Ben con
fronted him, almost as one will
avert his face from a painful
sight. “Lastly he brings a hired
killer to polish me off. Darned if
I know what to expect next. But
one thing he can bank on: I won’t
run. I’ll drive him Into the open
if I can by hook or crook, but I
won’t run!"
“No, I know you won’t. But I
wish . . . Oh, how 1 wish you’d
counsel with some one else, with
Able or anyone. You’re young,
you’re in danger. . , . And this mat
ter you just mention: Can’t you
think of Dawn a little? If you
love her can’t you see that she has
a right to believe that you will pro
tect yourself?”
The man’s voice had fallen to a
broken whisper. He held out both
hands in appeal and tears sprang
into his eyes. This man, this ma
ture, fulet gentleman, this stranger
to the country, begging him with
tears In eyes and voice to consider
Dawn McManus struck Ben dumb
founded.
"Oh, it's only that you’ve shown
yourself to be so decent," Martin
said after a moment, emotions un
der better control. “1 hate to see
you putting yourself In danger."
"1 won't stick my head Into any
noose." Ben replied. “Lord, it’s
late. We’ll need clear heads to
meet this situation. Better get
Into the old blankets."
But he did not sleep at once, lie
lay awake a long time, thinking of
Bed Bart Delaney and Brandon and
wondering how he could prove their
relationship. . . . And speculating
on Martin’s outbursts, the man’s
keen hatred of Brandon, whom tie
probably had never seen, his in
tense interest in Dawn McManus.
. . . Something strange and unnnt
ural was there, Elliott told himself.
Still, he added, you could stake
your last hope on a man like John
Martin.
• ••••••
Early the next forenoon the mer
chants and traders and loafers in
main thoroughfare saw something
to nip their attention.
Ben Elliott came driving into
town at a spanking trot, his team
of alert drivers coated with frost.
This was nothing unusual. But
when he brought them to a crunch
ing halt before the bank building,
over which Nicholas Brandon
worked and lived. Jumped out,
threw blankets over their backs anil
tied them to a post, a few necks
were craned.
Throughout the evening before
Brandon had gorged himself on a
sense of relief. At eight he hnd
passed Bart Delaney on the street.
None had been about to notice that
although Brandon appeared only to
overtake and pass the man that. In
reality, they spoke briefly and eau
tiously.
"Well?”
“In his tracks . . . Two mile
above th' mill."
Inside. Brandon seethed with a
savage exultation. He crossed the
street, drunk with the feeling of
relief, mounted to his ofllce and
drank to his own success. . . . And
drank again. For hours he sat at
his desk, whisky bottle at his el
bow and when he went down the
Railway to his bedroom at the rear
he carried the bottle with him.
His first move for the day, once
In his ofllce next day, W’as to draw
the cork of a fresh flask and drink
deeply. A growing warmth ran
through him. That was better. It
was not comfortable to wake up,
thinking of a man lying lifeless on
the snow ... at your orders.
Soon, now, word would be coming
into town from Hoot Owl. tragic,
final word. He must be In shape to
"Good Morning,” He Said In a
Hoarse Gasp.
meet the news dispassionately. No
one would know his part In the kill
ing! none would guess. Still, It
would not be easy to have people
saying that Ben Elliott was dead.
. . . Elliott is dead; Elliott is dead.
. . . The words spun about in his
mind, a savage chant, nnd Brandon
wanted to be glad but could not.
Elliott was gone, though. The Hoot
Owl was at his mercy and Dawn
. . . Dawn!
And then he turned to the open
ing door. . . . Ben Elliott was
standing there and smiling good
naturedly at tdin.
But dead men do not stand up.
. . . Not men left dead on the
snow. . . . Men whose life you
have had taken do not smile. . . .
Men stiff on the snow cannot smile.
. This combination of truths
coupled in Brandon’s swirling mind
and struck him cold. This could
be no man, then; this was an ap
parition, this was—
And then whatever it was spoke.
“Good morning, Brandon!’’
Elliott spoke naturally and eas
ily, and closed the door behind him.
Dead men do not speak; ghosts do
not open and close doors—they
pass through them.
And Nicholas Brandon, gathering
his faculties, lurched to his feet,
panting and clenching the edge of
the desk.
"Good morning,” he said in a
hoarse gasp. “Good. . . .”
Ben Elliott laughed bitterly.
“What’s the difficulty, Brandon?
Didn’t you expect to see me this
morning?”
"Why . . . I . . . That is, 1
thought—”
Ben stepped close and dropped
his voice nearly to a whisper.
“You thought I wouldn’t bo walk
ing today? Waa tnat It?”
“Not walking? 1 don't know
what you're talking about." The
older man’s self-control was coin
ing back rapidly, now that hla
fright hud passed away.
“I Just catne In to get matters
straight between us, Hrnndon. Sev
eral serious things have happened
to the Hoot Owl hut In spite of]
them the Hoot Owl Is booming;
now, I presume, I can look for :
things to happen to me. Before ,
anything does—because I'm not
rash enough to be cocksure that It
won’t—I want you to get me
straight.”
The last vestige of his smile was
gone hy then. He stood spread
legged, hands locked behind his
back, eyes boring Into Brandon’s
gn/.e.
“I’m not Interested In—’’
“But you’ll listen! You’ll listen
or I’ll choke you until you’ll beg
for the opportunity to listen, Bran
don ! You’ll listen to me this morn
ing and It’ll be the tlrst and last
time.
"I know a great deal. 1 can prove
hut little. I know that you started
iii to run me out by sending Duval
to clean up my camp. Next, you
tried to cripple my operation by
having n llrehug touch off the mill."
“Don’t go too far, young man!"
“1 won't The pits of h—1 are
the Inside limits for you. Brandon 1
“After that, you timed it nicely
and blew up my trestle. You al
most had us two or three times.
But you flopped! The Hoot Owl is
up on Its knees, will be on Its feet
In a tnonth if we keep going and
it’ll be sitting on the world by the
time breakup hits us. All you’ve
done to the Job has only helped It.
"That’s that! Next you try to
get me, thinking, probably, that. If
you knock the skipper off the
bridge the craft will founder for
certain. You're wrong, there. You
can't lick my men, because they’re
too many for you; you can’t stop
the Hoot Owl by getting me out of
the picture. But If you want to
keep on trying. It’s your own funer
al. I've only one thing to ask of
you: try to play the white man,
Brandon, and fight your own
fights!”
His face was dark with rage,
now, and he emphasized his last
words by downward thrusts of
clenched hands along his thighs.
Brandon smiled lightly.
“You’re a queer young man," he
remarked. “You dream In broad
daylight and with your eyes open.”
“A peculiarly detailed dreum,
Brandon! I’ve said all 1 have to
say about the Job and about myself
but there Is another matter left to
be mentioned while I’m here. I
won’t even utter her name In your
hearing, but any man who would
pull a trick like you did and in
volve a girl . . . Brandon, a snake’s
belly Is sky-high compared to you I”
And that touched the well
springs of rage that had been
dammed back until the moment.
“You fool!” the mau said heavily.
The words came like the first break
in a levee; slow, sluggish words.
. . . And then, like the following
toss of fonm was the frothing rage
In his scream. “You fool! I’ll
drive you out of this country! I’ll
hang your operation up for the
crowi to pick! I'll string the bones
of this timber nnd your own bones
across this country!”
He stopped, sobbing for breath,
and his teeth clicked In an agony
of passion.
"Dawn? Not mention her name?
Well, I will. . . . She’s mine, you
fool, body and soul! She’s been
mine for years. . . . Because she
smiled at you, because she played
with you don’t think she’s Interest
ed, fool! She’s—’’
He swayed backward ns Elliott
lurched toward him, but their
bodies did not lock.
White and trembling, Ben stayed
his own rush.
“No! . . . Don't want to brawl
over her,’’ he choked. “But If you
mention her name to me again I’m
likely to lose my hend and tear
your hide olT your carcass!"
His rage was so high, so holy,
that the fear It inspired carried
through Brandon’s frenzy and the
man stood silent, perhaps In awe.
Ben relnxed.
“Now,” he said quietly, ’Tve Just
one thing to ask, Brandon. It’a
this: tight your own battles!"
He turned on his heel and
slammed the door behind him.
CHAPTER XI
BEN began unblanketlng bis team
with the haste of high temper
but before he bud finished Able
Armltage balled him from across
the street und enme hurrying
through the rutted snow.
The old Justine’s face was
marked by an expression of con
cern and be came close before be
spoke.
"1 hear Bed Bart Delnney's In
town."
Ben nodded grimly.
“Came to see me yesterday.”
“No I”
“Yeah. Took a long look at me
. . . over the sights of a rifle."
“Ben! Why, son!"
Elliott laughed mirthlessly and
told what had happened In the Iloot
Owl chopping the day before.
"So he’s gotten down to the hir
ing of a killer I" Able looked anx
iously Into Ben’s face. “Son . . .
It can’t go on. 'limber or no tim
ber ; success or failure for the Hoot
Owl, you've got to think of your
self I
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
BOTH HUMOR AND
POETRY EVINCED
IN PLACE NAMES
The southern mountaineer's whim
sical humor is seen not only in some
of his songs and hoe-downs but in
place names commemorating some
jest, some episode more or less
grimly comical or tragic—Broke-Jug
creek. Tear Breeches ridge, Chunky
Gal mountain. Seldom-Seen hollow.
Hip Shin ridge—ouch i llow vividly
that recalls certain scrambles through
stony thickets—Burnt-Shirt moun
tain, Jerk ’Km Tight, Hanging Dog
creek. Headforemost mountain, Bore
Auger creek. Fiery-Gizzard creek,
the Devil's Courthouse, and so on.
In Cumberland county, Tennessee,
two beautiful brawling streams unite
whose names are No Business creek
and How Come You creek. Un
doubtedly, there Is a story back of
each name.
But the mountaineer Is often
poetic, too, and gracefully descrip
tive In Ills place names. The touch
of melancholy In his nature Is evi
denced by the frequent recurrence
of such names as Lonesome and
Troublesome. Desolation. Defeated.
Poor Fork, Kingdom Come, Falling
Water and Lost creek are significant
names of streams. Craggy Dome.
Bnisoin Cone, the Black Brothers,
Lone Bald Thunderhead, Little
Snowbird, Grandfather; llawksbill;
Graybeard and Wine Spring Bald
I are nil mountains lyrically and de- I
script!vely named.
I asked a mountain man in North
Carolina whether a certain bold pro
montory had a name, and I have a
I pleasant memory of the slow lift of
his eyes to where It towered 1,000
feet above us, arid the soft drawl of
his mellow, low-pitched voice as he
answered: “Yas, hit’s called the
Winter Star.’’—Alvin F. Harlow In
the Saturday Evening I’ost
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