Cattle ae.am j|
JNL I II ^ it d 111 ir*,r
CHAPTER XIV
The early sun was upon the broad
main street of Inspiration as Billy
Wheeler drove Horse Dunn’s tour
ing car into the little cow town. Old
Man Coffee, was in the back seat,
this time without any of his dogs.
Marian, who had been <J«zing
against Billy’s shoulder, sat up and
looked at the vacant street with a
detached curiosity. It seemed
strange to see the street so empty
and silent, where last they had seen
it full of knotted groups of men. No
stealthy movement in doorways this
time, no eyes covertly watching
them from under ten-gallon hats—
nothing but clean horizontal sunlight
on quiet dust, as if nothing lived in
this place at all.
Marian said, “You still don’t
want to tell me what you’re going
to do?”
“It isn’t that I don’t want to tell
you. It’s just that it’s—it’s got to
come to you in another way.”
“This is a dramatic thing—rather
a terrible thing," Marian said, “this
coming to the end of a killer’s
trail."
“Don’t look at it that way. I
want you to think of this thing with
all the impartiality you can. You
know now that our western code is
a different code. Not the six-gun
code of the old days, nor the wild
kind of thing some people have tried
, to make out it is, such as never ex
isted here or any place else. But
just a kind of a way of going about
* things that is bred into dry country
men*-the way of each man making
his own right and wrong, each man
looking only to himself for approval
in the end. Maybe—you’re only go
ing to learn the story of a kind of—
a kind of private execution; maybe
by a man who believed with all his
heart that he was in the right.”
She looked at him wonderingly for
a minute; she had never heard him
talk in that way before. “Billy,
Billy, don’t you trust me to face out
anything, even yet? Don’t you think
I have any courage at all?”
“I trust your courage more than
I've ever trusted anything in my
, life. Or you wouldn't be here now.”
Wheeler drove through the town
and turned up a side street to the
house where Sheriff Walt Amos
lived. Leaving Marian and Old Man
Coffee in the car he walked around
the little house to the back door;
there was a smell of breakfast cook
ing here, and Walt Amos himself
was souzling water over his face
and hair at a wash bench beside a
pump. The young sheriff straight
ened up and stared at Wheeler for
a long moment through dripping wa
ter. “Hardly expected to see you
here.”
“I’ve come to make a deal with
you,” Wheeler said.
“Don’t hardly seem there’s any
deal to be made between you and
me. Horse Dunn isn’t going out on
bail. Get it out of your head.”
Amos began to dry his face and
hair.
“This is something else,” Wheel
er said. “You’ve wanted me out of
this picture. You’ve wanted me out
of it from the start. You know why,
and there’s no need for us to go into
why.”
“I got enough troubles on this
range,” Amos said, “without outside
capital pitching in to make things
worse for the common run of cow
men.”
“In short, you and your gang has
been afraid I’d help Dunn save the
94. You tried to railroad me, here
in Judge Shafer’s court—but you
didn’t get away with it. Maybe
you’ve got other things in mind to
try, to get me out of the way of
your plans. I don't know anything
about that.”
“People from outside, that figure
to throw in against the best inter
ests of this range—” Amos began.
“All right. Now you’ve got a
chance to get rid of me. You give
me what I want and I’ll promise
you I'll be out of this killing case
within 24 hours.”
“You haven’t got any official
standing in this case to begin with,”
Amos pointed opt.
“You’d like to see me drag my
freight, just the same! And here’s
how you can get it done.”
“Well?”
“Old Man Coffee and Horse
Dunn’s niece are here with me. Give
us an hour to talk to Horse Dunn
alone. That’s the proposition and
all of the proposition.”
“And if I do that you’ll pull out
of here?”
“Within 24 hours. I’ll stay out
until the killing case against Herse
Dunn is cleared up, one way or
another. After that maybe I’ll come
back to the 94 and maybe I’ll help
it with its finance; I don’t say one
way or the other. But if you want
me out of it for the time being,
here’s your chance.”
“There’s a hook in this some
place,” Amos said. “But I’ll take a
chance. Horse Dunn’s in the jail,
where he belongs. I’ll take you there
and I’ll give you an hour.”
The Inspiration jail was tiny, but
it was perhaps the most modern
thing in the town. It sat by itself
on a rise of ground 200 yards be
hind Walt Amos’ house, which was
the nearest dwelling.
In structure ii was a 20-foot
square cube of concrete, with tiny
air holes near the roof, and an iron
door. Within was an inner cage of
steel bars, separated from the
outer shell, all the way around, by a
corridor four feet wide. The place
had no great capacity, but it would
have been a double job for a good
cracksman to make his way out.
Old Man Coffee was reluctant to
visit Horse Dunn here. “Don’t hard
ly seem fitting.”
“There’s a special reason I want
you to come, for a minute or two."
"Have it your own way.”
Sheriff Walt Amos swung wide the
outer door. “I’m putting you on
your honor not to try any funny
business,” he said. “But in case of
doubt—just renumber how easy it
would be to cut loose on you from
the house!’"
“You talk like a child," said Cof
fee.
It seemed strange, Billy Wheeler
thought, that the old king of cattle,
the man who could not only dream a
cow kingdom but make it live, was
to be found standing here in a two
by-four jail. Yet, within the black
Then “Speak Out, Man!” He Said,
shadows of concrete and steel Horse"
Dunn towered bigger than ever,
straighter than ever; he seemed,
not an old man at the end of his
rope, but a young giant, easy in his
strength. The great sense of latent
power that radiated from Horse
Dunn made it seem that he only
waited here within these cramped
walls because he wilfully used his
own great body as a pawn, laid in
hazard while he awaited his ad
vantage.
But there were tears in Marian’s
eyes.
Horse Dunn grinned upward and
about him at the steel and concrete.
The walls could not shame him—it
was he who shamed the walls. "A
thousand miles of range have to be
held hy money and cows and men—
not by a little tin contrivance
palmed off on the county by some
hardware salesman. You think they
can hold me here an hour, once I
decide to move out?”
No one answered him. There
where the daylight could hardly en
ter, the silence had a way of de
scending sharply, like the closing of
iron doors. After a little of that
quiet no one could forget that a man
had been found dead in the Red
Sleep, and another at Ace Springs,
and still another at the head of a
gorge without a name.
Wheeler knew that Old Man Cof
fee's eyes were watching him, wait
ing for him to speak. He drew a
deep breath and broke the silence.
“Horse,” he said, “the whole
works has been—kind of stood on its
head, since I saw you last.”
Horse Dunn’s voice rumbled.
“Well, that's good!”
Wheeler's voice was very low; he
found that he could hardly speak.
“No, Horse; it isn’t good. This is
maybe the worst thing that any of
us have come to, ever, in all our
long trails.”
Held in that sharp, hard silence
that could clamp down so suddenly
here they could feel the chill of the
walls. Wheeler was seeking a way
to go on.
Marian was holding her uncle’s
hand against her cheek, and now
Horse drew his hand away. “Billy,”
he said; and hesitated. Then,
“Speak out, man!” he said at last.
“Two-three different things have
happened,” Wheeler said. “Mariai*
and I found Lon Magoon dead, a lit
tle way back in the hills. Coffee,
here, he went to Pahranagat—”
"How’d Magoon die?” Horse
Dunn asked.
Wheeler would not be turned
aside. “I guess that don't so much
matter, Horse, in view of a couple
of other things. For one thing. Mar
ian had her horse shot out from
under her, in plain light, back in the
hills. I’ve been thinking a whole
lot, Horse,” he went on, "about how
anybody would ever come to take a
shot at her. Now—I think I know.”
"What are you coming to, boy?”
Horse Dunn said.
"Horse,” said Billy Wheeler—
"Horse—T know who killed Marian’s
pony last night; and know why.”
He saw Horse Dunn’s big shaggy
head sway and tip a little to one
side as the old man sought to peer
more closely into Wheeler’s eyes.
"If you know that—” he began.
Wheeler’s voice was flat and re
laxed with utter certainty. "You
know I do. Horse.”
Billy Wheeler could hear his own
blood beating in his ears, like a far
off Indian drum; and this time the
silence was a terrible silence, un
endurable to those gathered there.
"Coffee.” Horse Dunn said in an
unnatural voice, "I’ll talk to this
boy alone.”
Perhaps some faint persistent
hope that he was wrong had lasted
somewhere in Billy Wheeler's mind.
But when Horse Dunn told Old Man
Coffee to go out, Wheeler knew that
he had not been wrong, but that
they were at the end.
Old Man Coffee moved quickly,
with the smooth, sliding stride of
one of his own lion hounds. He
was glad to be out of there. For a
moment the young sun splashed
through the open door with the bril
liance of a powder flare-up; then
the half-dark closed again as Coffee
let the door swing shut behind him.
They heard the crunch of his heels
in the dirt as he walked off down
the side of the hill.
"You go too, Marian,” Horse
Dunn said softly. "Billy and I want
to—”
you warn ner 10 stay nere,
Horse, I think.”
"Stay here?” The old man’s voice
was blurred by a strange and unac
customed uncertainty. “You want
her to stay here?”
“It’s you that needs her here,”
Wheeler told him. Then after a mo
ment he said, almost inaudibly—
“Tell her, Horse."
An odd back light from one of the
high ventilators outlined Dunn’s big
shaggy head and the sweep of a
great shoulder, but his eyes they
could not see. As he spoke it seemed
that it was not the big old fighter
who stood there, but an old man as
vaguely bewildered as a child. “Tell
her?” he said dimly. "You want
me to tell her—”
Once more the silence descended,
brutal, complete; it held on end
lessly, as if no one of them was ever
going to be able to break it again.
And still Horse Dunn did not speak
nor move, but stood like a frozen
man, a great shadowy figure just
beyond the bars. Billy Wheeler tried
to say something, anything, to break
that terrible taut stillness; but he
could not.
Suddenly Marian Dunn stumbled
forward, against the bars. She
reached through, drew Horse
Dunn’s wrists through the barrier,
and hid her face in his two great
hands. Her voice came to them
choked and smothered.
“I didn’t know—I didn’t know—”
Horse Dunn’s words shuddered as
he cried out—“What—what didn’t
you know?”
“That you—could love me—so
much . .
Wheeler saw the old fighter sway;
but in a moment he was steady
again. He spoke across Marian’s
bent head, and his voice had a hard
edge. “You don’t know what you’re
talking about. Old Man Coffee has
been loading you with— Look here:
is he in on this?”
“I’m virtually certain he knows,
though he figured it out different
than I did."
“Figured out what? Spit it out,
man!”
“Horse,” said Wheeler with more
sadness in his voice than he had
ever known in the world before, "I
can name you every step of—”
Horse Dunn’s voice blazed up,
breaking restraint “In God’s name,
how did you find out?”
“From something Marian said.
After the first shot at her, she said,
‘I’m glad it happened. I can’t tell
you why.’ I know now what she
meant by that. Those shots proved
to her that no one who loved her
was mixed up in the Short Crick
works. And today it suddenly came
to me that just to fix that idea in
her mind might have been reason
enough for dropping those shots
near her. Then I remembered the
night when you taped up your ankle
where it was skinned, and spoke of
straightening your spur. Of course,
a spur doesn’t skin a man's ankle
bone. Some boot weapon would have
to do that; and a derringer would
have fitted in—a derringer carrying
a shotgun shell. The shot in thi
saddle fooled Coffee, for awhile;
it looked to him like it came from
farther away than the horses had
stood apart, and made him think
there was a third man. But I just
happened to think that the shot could
have come from a short, weak gun
with the same effect. Well—”
Wheeler finished—"Coffee has been
to Pahranagat; he found out that
Flagg came through there like a
bum.”
“Dear God,” Horse Dunn whis
pered. “It's—the end of the rope."
He pulled his hands away, and be
gan to pace the two strides that the
cell permitted—back and forth,
back and forth.
“Marian,” Wheeler begged, "tell
him you see—”
Marian raised her face, surpris
ingly in command of herself again.
Her voice was steady. “I do see
it! I see it all!”
Dunn’s pacing stopped; he raised
big shaking hands, pleading hands.
"And yet you—you ain’t—you don’t
think—”
Marian cried out to him—and
there was pain in her voice, but
there was glory in it, too—"I think
nobody ever loved anybody so much
as you have proved you love me!”
“I — I can’t hardly believe”—
Horse Dunn sagged down onto the
bare steel cot within his cell. “Mar
ian, if you’re telling me that you—
you know—and yet you’re backing
me, still—"
The girl was pressed against the
bars that kept her from him. “I’m
telling you that I believe in you with
all my heart!”
Horse Dunn stood up slowly, like
a man in a dream.
He said, “How much have you
told her, boy?”
"She knows only what she's
guessed, I think. The rest of the
story has to come from you.”
The boss of the 94 appeared to
consider for what seemed a long
time. "I—I don't know as I can
make out to do that. Life hasn’t
gone easy, or smooth, with me.
Other times, long ago, I’ve faced
down other men, more men than
these. But I swear I never raised
gun to any man, without he got his
break! I stood with empty hands,
always, until their guns showed.”
“She has to know it all,” Billy
insisted; “from the very begin
ing.
“I can’t hardly expect her to un
derstand how it come up. Those
shots I threw so close to her—that’s
the crazy part, that a man can't
hardly explain. I couldn’t ever have
done it, if I didn’t know for certain
that I could put a slug into a two
bit piece at a hundred yards—ten
out of ten, easy as you’d put your
finger on a nail. It seems a wild
and crazy thing, even to me. But—
I tell you, never a man lived that
could throw the fear into me that
this kid has always been able to—
just on the scare that she’d quit
me. And I thought if there was one
thing she’d be sure of on earth, it
was that I’d give my life to save
the least hair of her head from
harm. And I took that way; so that
she’d always be dead certain, what
ever might happen or be proved
later, that it couldn’t be true that it
was me killed Flagg.”
(TO BE CONTINUED)
Stones Run Back to Roman Occupation;
to Be Used in London Transport Memorial
London Transport has decided
to erect a memorial to a Roman
Procurator, who will be commemo
rated by two stones built into the
wall of the sub-station at Tower hill.
When the Metropolitan half of the
Inner Circle railway was extended
to the Tower of London station in
1882. 73 feet of Roman wall were
destroyed. The only consolation for
the loss, says the London Times, is
that the wall was photographed
carefully. It is shown by the Com
missioners for Historical Monu
ments in their third volume on Ro
man London. The link with the Dis
trict railway at Mansion House was
completed in 1884, whereupon the
Tower station was closed and Mark
Lane station took its place. The site
remained undisturbed until recent
ly, when a sub-station was built on
the cutting to the east of the old
Tower station.
A rich store of Roman remains
was unearthed by the excavators,
most remarkable being a stone bear
ing beautiful and perfectly pre
served lettering. Archeologists re
ported that a similar stone had been
found on the site in 1852. It was in
the British museum, but had not
been identified. When the two relics
were placed together it was seen
that they were part of an altar
tomb erected by Julia Pacata,
daughter of Indus, in memory of
her husband, Fabius Alpinus Clas
sicianus, who was sent to Britain as
Procurator in A. D. 62, after the
outbreak of Boadicea’s rebellion.
The London Passenger Transport
board agreed to present the second
stone to the British museum, but
they felt that there should be some
record of the memorial near the
discovery, and instructions, were
given that a replica of the two
stones shall be built into the wall of
the substation.
Push Gobbler as National Bird
Los Angeles, Calif.—The American eagle will have to give up his Job
to the turkey gobbler, if the Northwestern Turkey Growers association
gets its way. Senators and congressmen of 14 states were asked to make
the turkey the national bird at the next session of congress. It was
argued that the turkey, besides being the symbol of Thanksgiving, is
native to America. Misses Kdith Lawrence (left) and Pat Gcrgen are
pictured above showing how the turkey would look in the eagle's place
against the American shield.
Ye Council Eats
Right Well After
Ye Slick Barter
Deer Is Thanksgiving Meal
and Indian Is Goat.
IF AMERICANS this
Thanksgiving are well able
to appease both their con
sciences and their appetites,
their moral dexterity is no
better than that of their fore
bears on the town council at
Danvers, Mass., in the year
1714. Venison, rather than
turkey, made up the piece de
resistance on a Thanksgiving
feast there, but religious
complications arose, as re
corded by Rev. Lawrence Co
nant, of that city:
“After ye blessing was craved by
Mr. Garrich of Wrentham, word
came that ye buck was shot on ye
PEOUOT VE
WILL GET FORTV
STRIPES AND--EH,
VE COUNCIL WILL
fc EAT VE DEEP /
Mr. Shepard’s conscience was ten
der, and so was poor Pcquot’s back.
Lord’s day by Pequot, an Indian,
who came to Mr. Epes with a lye in
his mouth like Ananias of old.
"Ye council therefore refused to
eat ye venison, but it was afterward
decided that Pequot should receive
forty stripes save one, for lying and
profaning ye Lord's day, restore Mr.
Epes ye cost of ye deer, and con
sidering this a just and rightful sen
tence on ye heathen, and that a
blessing had been craved on ye
meat, ye council all partook of it
but Mr. Shepard, whose conscience
was tender on ye point of ye veni
son.”
In nearby Boston a fe\V years lat
er the arrival of autumn with its
storing of the winter supply of salt
i
■ ■
Bear meat Is no longer generally
available for the Thanksgiving din
ner.
pork brought mingled thanksgiving
and chagrin to a boy named Benja
min Franklin, who often became
restless during the long graces
which accompanied Massachusetts
meals. So one day after the pork
had been dutifully stored away, he
suggested that if his father would
only "say grace over the whole
cask, once for all, it would be a
vast saving of time.”
In the latter half of the same
century, whenever a feast was in
order in the back country of Vir
ginia and the Carolinas, young Dan
iel Boone or some other hunter
would go out to find venison or bear
meat to mix with pork in the habitu
al "great stew” of tsuch a celebra
tion. With it were served roast pork
or bear or broiled venison.
Bear and venison are no longer
generally available for the Thanks
giving dinner, but turkey is still one
of its mainstays.
A pkaixksowino prayer
r—i \
Jfjorwfiat wo have, though small it be,
"U 1> iftcuA if lac, /or 3.
9or\ e simple joys ofserenity,
'XOe thank tflee, ford.
‘dor the gentle touch of the friendly hand
Of those who love and understand,
"(jJc thank thee. £>rd. ^
Of all thy gifts the greatest three
iff re friendship, Jove and fidelity.
Jet others pray for the harvest’s yields,
CJor t fie golden grains ofthe fruitful fields,
Jdumbfy our prayer to thee we send
jhat when we've reached our journey's end,
Someone may say, dhrewelfgood friend.
_ *****
from Ktnw Cirv Timet
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Pattern 5927.
your rooms exactly. Crochet the
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In pattern 5927 you will find com
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Please write your name, ad
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Men Who Do
When I look at history I see it
as man’s attempt to solve the
practical problem of living. The
men who did most to solve it were
not those who thought about it or
talked about it or impressed their
contemporaries, but those who si
lently and efficiently got on with
their work.—J. B. S. Haldane.
■
. I'LL NEVER GOTO
} DINNER WITH A
( BOY AGAIN UNLESS
I HAVE
SOME
PHILLIPS'
TABLETS
IN MY
PURSE
1 J
Often “acid indigestion” is dis
tressing to you — and offensive to
others. But now there is no excuse
for being guilty.
You simply carry your alkalizer
with you — and use it at the first
sign of “upset” stomach. Simply
take two tiny tablets of Phillips*
Milk of Magnesia when out with
others. Or — if at home — you
can take two teaspoons of liquid
Phillips’. Both act the same way.
Relief is usually a matter of
seconds. “Gas,” nausea, “heart
burn,” acid brealh — all respond
quickly. Just make sure you ask
for “Phillips.”
BYERS BROS & CO.
A Real Live Stock Com. Firm
At the Omaha Market
WNU—U 46—37
Don’t Neglect Them I
Nature designed the kidney* to do ft
marvelous job. Their task it to keep the
(lowing blood stream free of an excess of
toxic impurities. The act of living—ff/a
Ustlf—ia constantly producing waste
matter the kidneys mutt remove from
the blood if good health ia to endure.
When the kidneys fail to function as
Nature intended, there is retention ol
waste that may cause body-wide dis
tress. One may suffer nagging backache,
persistent headache, attacks of dizziness,
getting up nights, swelling, puffineaa
under the eyes—feel tired, nervous, all
worn out.
Frequent, scanty or burning passages
may be further evidence of kidney or
bladder disturbance.
The recognized and proper treatment
la a diuretic medicine to help the kidney*
tet rid of excess poisonous body waste.
lae Doan's Pills. They have had more
than forty year* of public approval. Are
endorsed tne country over. Insist *a
Doan's. Sold at all drug store*._