INSTALLMENT i* Ttlti STOR ¥ SO FAR t Dusty Ring and Lew Gordon had built up a vast string ot ranches. Ring was killed by his powerful and unscrupulous competitor. Ben Thorpe. BUI Roper. King's adopted son. was determined to avenge his death In spite of the oppost ttoB of hla sweetheart. Jody Gordon, and her father Roper conducted a great raid upon Thorpe's vast herd* In Mon tana. He at* captured by Leather* and Kane, two of Thorpe'* men. Leathers’ girl, pretty Marqutta, loved Roper and ft made a desperate but vain attempt to ■av* him. Thorpe'a men were attached by tome of Roper'* cowboy*, ted by Jody Her Joy at finding him w-a* »hort lived, because Marqulta told her that Marqulta. not Jody, wa* Roper'* gtrt. * ■ CHAPTER XXIII—Continued Jody stood up. She felt suddenly tired and numb. *'I still think a world can be made where decency can live," she said. “Some day, decent things will live on this prairie, whatever happens to us. But meantime—I guess he be longs to you." She held Marquita’s stare for a moment, then turned and walked to the door. Opening it, she saw that the first forlorn cold gray of the winter dawn was coming into the sky east of Montana. The black hulk of the horse whose neck she had broken lay at her feet. She pulled from under it the coat with which she had blinded it when she charged the door, and pulled it on; the bitter cold of the dawn was enough to penetrate to the bones. Slowly she uncinched and worked the saddle free, then the bridle. She staggered a little as she shouldered the saddle, and walked out toward the corral where other, living ponies stood, dark humped - up shapes against the snow. CHAPTER XXIV Bill Roper and Bob Stokes—the King-Gordon cowboy whom Roper had not known—had finished their makeshift dressing of Old Joe’s wound, and were working on Jim Leathers. Jim Leathers lay perfect ly still; only his eyes seemed alive. “How’s she feeling?” Bill Roper asked. "The Gordon girl? She’s all right. She went out to look over the horses or something.” "Bob, you better go see nothing’s happened to Jody.” “I’ll go in a minute, soon as we’re through here.” But Jody came in of her own ac cord, before that She went straight to Old Joe. "Are you terribly uncomfortable, Joe?” “I feel great,” Joe said with spir it. “I been hunting for a vacation for fifteen years, and this is my first excuse!” "I’m sorry, Joe. You’ll never know how sorry I am. I tangled things up pretty badly, I guess." "You done wonderful,” Joe told her. "You saved Bill’s neck, all right. They had him hog-tied like a mosshorn, and the girl, too, when we busted in.” Jody shot Marquita a glance in which the only light was a faint con tempt, but she did not comment. “I’m riding back to Miles,” she told Joe. “On the way I’ll send help back, and everything you’ll need. And I’ll see that you’re moved in a spring wagon, soon as you feel like moving. I appreciate what you’ve done, Joe.” “Hey, look, Bob Stokes began. “You can't be riding off like this in the middle of the night!” "It’s coming daylight, fast. I’ll be all right” Outside, in the gray light that seemed colder than the air, Jody Gordon had mounted as Bill Roper came to her stirrup. “You mustn’t go yet,” he told her gently. “These boys are fixed as comfortable as they can be; there’s no hurry to get help. You’ll be wanting some coffee; and I have to talk to you, Jody.” “I’m not interested in talking to you,” Jody said without expression. “Why, Jody—look here—” “I got you into this,” Jody said. “I got you into this because I was a fool. So I had to get you out. That’s all over now. I don’t want to talk to you, now, or any time.” She whirled her horse sharply, so that its hoofs sent up a scurry of dry snow; then she was gone, her retreat covered by the cabin as she swung toward the trail. For a moment Roper stood look ing after her. Then he stepped in side. “You’ll stay here. Bob,” he said. “I’ll saddle and ride after her; I’ll see that she gets to Miles.” “Wait a minute,” Old Joe said. “You got to wait a minute! There’s something else you got to know.” “There’s nothing else I need to know.” "Lew Gordon ain’t in Miles!” “Then where the devil is he? His daughter—” “Somebody — Jim Leathers, I guess—sent a note to Lew Gordon that his daughter was all right, but couldn’t be sent home just yet. No body signed that note. But it was plain to be seen from it that some war party of Ben Thorpe’s was hold ing hev some place. So Lew Gor don—” “You mean that Lew Gordon is going on the warpath himself? Hunt ing for Jody?” “He’s going after it straighter than that. Everybody knows Ben Thorpe is at Sundance. Lew Gor don has gone to Sundance to tie into Ben Thorpe, and his old gun is hammering away at his side.” “He figures to fight Thorpe?” “Bill, it sure looks that way to me. What’s strange about that? Thorpe has punished away at Lew Gordon all his life. He’s stole bis cattle and killed his trail bosses, and fought him In the market lit to break them both, and finally he kills Lew's part ner, and still he keeps on." "Joe,** Bill Roper said, "Joe Walk Lnsham himself is with Ben Thorpe!” "Well—I ain’t surprised." "But God Almighty, Joe, if he walks into a fight with those two, all hell can’t save him! He's as good as dead, the minute he walks in there!" "That,” said Old Joe, “is what I figured you ought to know.” CHAPTER XXV It was very early; the sun was only just breaking over the winter starved prairie, that Sunday morn ing as Bill Roper splashed through the creek that runs by Sundance, and rod® into the little town. Overhead the sky was such a clear crystalline blue as Bill Roper had not seen since he left Texas, and underfoot his tired pony was sinking fetlock deep in thawed mud. The mud itself was predicting a spring which Roper believed now he would never see. Without sign from the rider, Rop er’s pony drew up before the Palace Hotel and Livery. With some difficulty Bill Roper roused a sleepy and resentful indi vidual "Feed this pony, and feed him welL” Casually Roper strolled along the corral where stood the loose horses Bill Roper splashed through the creek that runs by Sundance. which were being boarded here. He was chewing a straw as he came back to the sleepy man who was now shaking down hay. “I see you have a 9B horse there— a good one.” “Yeah?” “I figure Lew Gordon rode that horse in?” “And supposin’ he did?” “Where is he stopping?” "How should I know? This dump is good enough tor his horse, but it ain’t good enough for him. He went to sleep with some friend or something, out at the edge of town.” “I’ll take a room facing on this street,” he said. A little while later Roper sat at last with his heels caught in the window sill, resting as he regarded the empty street. That Ben Thorpe was here was known to every cattleman in the north country. Ben Thorpe had been here many weeks; it was to Thorpe that Bill Roper was to have been delivered, here, if a kid horse wran gler following Jody Gordon had not shot Jim Leathers down. But, by the fine, hard-ridden 9B horse which Lew Gordon had ridden in. Bill Rop er knew that Gordon had not been here long. He judged that he had got here in time. Bill Roper sat there a long time. Seven o'clock passed, and eight, and nine, while he smoked and waited. Ten o’clock passed, and ten-thirty. Then upon the quiet main street of Sundance appeared a figure—the one he had been waiting for. It seemed to Bill Roper that Lew Gordon walked like a younger man than Roper had remembered. Bill Roper knew Lew Gordon by the flash of silver in his short beard, by the old hat, curiously like Dusty King’s, which Lew Gordon had never changed. But he had to look twice to be sure that this man with the springy stride and erect bearing was the Lew Gordon he had known. When he was sure, Bill Roper stood up and stretched; he filled his lungs with air, and at last let it go again, with a whoof like that of a tiifcN \_ A MARK Of fINE FICTION ] pony which knows that It hss come to the end of the long tratL He drew a last drag from his ciga rette, and strapped on the gunbelt which he had laid aside. Unhurri edly. he three or four times drew the iron from its leather, to be sure that it was running free. Then, with a purely unconscious motion, he cocked his hat over one eye and went down into the street. He knew that Lew Gordon had gone into the Red Dog Saloon, and he walked toward it now. For a moment Bill Roper, raider, night-rider, gunfighter — dreaded name of the Long Trail—experi enced a twist of the heart, terrible, unbelievably acute. Then he shrugged, and walked into the Red Dog Bar. Lew Gordon stood at the bar of the Red Dog Saloon. The hard line of his jaw was blurred by a silver shag of whisker now, and his mus tache was silver, and his hair; but tfye clear blue eyes were unbelieva bly young, younger than Bill Roper had ever seen them before. His hands were folded quietly, one el bow on the bar; and so greatly did this silver-haired man dominate the space in which he stood that it was minutes before Roper realized that there was a bartender there at alL "So you came,” Lew Gordon said. "Of course. Lew. Didn’t you know I would come?” "In one way,” Lew Gordon said, ‘Tm glad you came. I want to say a couple of things to you, Billy, my boy. I done something wrong, Billy.” "You was right and I was wrong. You fought him; I tried to smooth things out I’m glad I’ve lived to tell you this: you was right and I was wrong!” “Lew—” Bill began. "I should have killed him, Billy," Lew Gordon said. ' “Lew! What are you telling me?” “I know I was wrong,” Lew Gor don said. Yet, somehow he did not seem unhappy. "Always I stood for law, for order—the decent thing, the thing that would build this country into something my kid could live in. But—I guess it wasn’t meant to be. I should have swung with you when you tied into him in Texas, and again when you tied into him in the north! But I aim to square it all up today!” “You mean—?" said Bill Roper. "He’s coming to meet me here." "With how many men?” Roper asked again. “What does it matter?” Lew poured himself a drink. Outside, on the board walk of Sun dance, were sounding the heels of approaching men . . . “I can kill him,” Bill Roper said, ‘‘I can kill him even if I die.” Lew Gordon’s face changed swift ly. Suddenly he was the indomita ble old man whom Bill Roper had always known. “Ben Thorpe is for me,” Lew Gor don said, “to make up for the quiet years . . .” And Bill Roper, looking deep into the young eyes of that ageing man, finally said, “Okay.” And then the door darkened, and the approaching heels on the board walk were silent because they had arrived. The man Lew Gordon had sent for had come . It was Ben Thorpe who stepped quickly through the door, and one pace to the left, so that his gun, al ready drawn, swept the bar. It was Walk Lasham who followed him through the door, stepping one pace to the right, so that the door was clear for the three unknown gun fighters who tried to enter all at once. “Draw. Ben,” Lew Gordon said; and then all guns spoke at once. In the blast of gunfire that fol lowed, no man could tell what hap pened—but Roper knew that all guns seemed to converge upon Lew Gor don, and frantically he threw the lash of his fire at Thorpe, at Lash am. at the unknown men at the door. For a moment the guns spoke in a smashing roar, and the powder smoke stung Bill Roper’s nostrils; and then suddenly there was silence again. Thorpe and Lasham both were down as that gunsmoke cleared, and those other strangers in the doorway had disappeared, except for a boot heel that dragged almost out of sight, and then was still. Beside the bar of the Red Dog Saloon Lew Gordon still stood. Per haps it was his bullet in the heart of Ben Thorpe—no man would ever know. He turned now, slowly, elbow upon the bar, and looked at Bill Roper. ‘Thanks, son," he said. The hand that held the heavy forty-five sagged deliberately, then dropped the gun; it made a strange clatter upon the unswept boards of the floor. Then Lew Gordon’s knees broke and he went down, and Bill Roper caught him as he fell. Thin and tinny across the squalid town, across the thawing prairie, the church bell was ringing—a make shift church bell ringing, on Sunday morning, as Lew Gordon died. (TO BE CONTINUED) THIN OUT HERDS TO CUSHION DROP Suggest Meat Producers Insure Future. By PAUL L. MALONEY (Extension Service. University at Nereis Agriculture Service.) Culling herds of all undesirable cattle and sheep Is excellent Insur ance against the time when there may be less demand for meat prod ucts. By selling off the undesirable ani mals now', the livestock producer can realize good prices, and, when more cattle are needed, they should be bred through the introduction of high quality sires. The U. S. bureau of agricultural economics reports that there is an increase of more than 2,000,000 head of cattle and that the index price of ; beef is 125 per cent The question naturally arises, How can the livestock man protect himself from these extremes in the cycle of low and high prices and large and small numbers of stock? How can he prevent the calamity which has followed the rise In price and subsequent increase in num bers? By vigorously culling the herds at this time producers will be enabled to put their financial houses in order, to get rid of their mortgages and find themselves with surplus funds. All thinking stockmen who have gone through extremes in numbers of livestock and price cycles will advocate a straightening out of the cycle by knocking a little off the peaks and boosting up the bottom of the curve. This will prevent, to a great extent, the confusion which exists after every break in prices when there is a surplus of stock on hand. While it is natural for stockmen to desire to keep every heifer and every cow which will produce him a calf to sell at the high prices, yet in the operation of any success ful business enterprise it often re quires the careful analysis of the past experience in order to make the best use of the present and future of the business. During the first World war live stock prices skyrocketed to a very high figure; these prices encouraged the producer to expand his opera tions and at the same time encour aged the consumers to substitute many other cheaper, yet less de sirable, foods for meat. I AGRICULTURE jj IN INDUSTRY By Florence C. Weed (This is one of s series of articles show ing how farm products are Boding an im portant market in industry.) Cellulose for Plastics Hairbrush bristles from wood, but tons from milk, fountain pens from soybeans. These are commonplace articles in everyday use, chosen from the 1,000 or more articles be ing made from plastics. The word ‘•plastic” describes a new chemical process whereby cer tain farm products are ground to a powder, mixed with chemicals and color, then hardened in molds into the shape of articles in everyday use. In this material, the color pen etrates each molecule and does not have to be surface finished. You have seen these objects many times—pencils, ash trays, toy ani mals, buckles and inexpensive jew elry. Soybean plastics make stand ard parts of Ford automobiles such as door and window frames, horn buttons, light switch levers. From wood and cotton plastics come color ful handles for tools, radio cases, lamp bases and telephone receiver Sets. Wood, cotton, soybean and casein plastics are being commercially pro duced, and a pilot plant in Louisiana is making cheap plastics from sugar cane on a small scale. Still in the experimental stage are plastics made from corn, known as zein. In Maine, experiments are under way to develop potato plastics which re semble clear glass. Other good pos sibilities which have not been de veloped are corn stalks and grain straws, pig and cow hair and poul try feathers. While plastics are still in the gadget stage, research has started to adapt them to automobile and air plane bodies and housing materials Sheets of proper strength and color have been perfected and are waiting for someone to find a practical scheme for fastening the sections together. Agricultural Notes Gathering eggs frequently will re duce the number of dirty eggs. • • • Cooling eggs as soon as they are gathered, to as near 50 degrees as possible, will prevent spoilage. • • • Top-dressing haylands with ma nure or fertilizer after the first cut ting will help produce a good crop of second cutting hay. ft- ft. ft- ft ft- ft- ft-ft- ft- ft- ft- ft- ft. . ft. ft. ft. ft. ft ASK MS 7 ANOTHER ! (v. (v 1^*^Nft*A*A* A qt.Hr with amwpr* offering Information on various subjects ? fSt* (s.p- (v. jv.(C |i