Bemidji Daily Pioneer Newspaper, May 25, 1922, Page 2

. “‘THE BEMIDJI DAILY 'PIONEER ' RS Copyright \ " — Lonie B FOREWORD The driver of the big car throttled down. Since he had swung away from the dusty road to follow a wagon track across the desert, the speedom- . eter had registered many miles, His eyes searched the ground in front to see whether the track led up the brow of .the hill or dipped into the sandy wash. On the breeze there floated to him the faint, insistent bawl of thirsty cattle. The car leaped forward again, cljmbed the hill, and closed in upon a remuda of horses watched by two wranglers. The chauffeur stopped the machine and shouted a question at the nearest rider, who swung his mount and can- tered up. He was a lean, tanned youth in overalls, jumper, wide sombrero, high-heeled boots, and shiny leather chaps. A girl in the tonneau appraised with quick, eager eyes this horseman of the plains. Perhaps she found him less picturesque than she had hoped. He was not there for moving-picture purposes. Nothing on horse or man held its place for any reason except utllity. “Where's the round up?’ asked the driver. The coffee-brown youth gave a little lift of his head to the right. He was apparently a man of few words, ‘The car moved forwara to the edge of the mesa and dropped into the val- ley. The girl in the back seat gave a little scream of delight. Here at last was the West she had read about In books and seen on the screen. This was Cattleland's hour of hours. The parada grounds were occupled by two. circles. of cattle, each fenced by elght- or ‘ten horsemen. The uearer one was the beef herd, beyond this— and closer to the mouth of the canyon from :which they had all recently been driven—was a mass of closely packed cows and calves, :Several men were busy branding and m‘Arklng the calves dragged to them from the herd by the horsemen who ‘were roping the frightened little blat- ters. With a movement of her wrist the girl opened the door and stepped down from the car. .A man sitting beside the chauffeur turned In his seat. “You'd better stay ‘where you are, honey.” He had an tdea that this was not exactly the scene a girl of seventeen ought to see at_close range. “l want to get the kinks out of my muscles, Dad,” the girl called back. “I'll not go far.” She walked along a ridge that ran from the mesa Into the valley nke an outstretched tongue. There was a touch of unstudied jauntiness in the way the tips of her golden curls es- caped from beneath the little brown toque she wore. A young man guard- ing the beef herd watched her curi- ously, Something in the poise of the light, boyish figure struck a spark from his Imagination. As she stood on the spit of the ridge, a slim, light figure silhouetted against the skyline, the young man guarding the beef herd called something to her that was lost in the bawling of the cattle. From the motion of his hand she knew that he was telling her to get back to the car. But the girl saw no reason for obeying the orders of a range-rider she had never seen bhefore and never expected to see again. No- body had ever told her that a rider Is fairly safe among the wildest hill eat- tle, but a man on foot is linble to at- tack at any time when u herd Is ex- cited. A shout of warning startled her. Above the bellowing of the herd she heard another yell. “Hj-yl-ya-a!” A red-eyed steer, tall up, wus cgsh- ing through the small brush toward the branders. There was a wild scur- ry for safety. The men dropped iron and ropes and fled to their saddles. De- flected by pursuers, the animal turned. By chance it thundered straight for the girl on the sand spit. She stood paralyzed for a moment. ‘Out of tlie gathering darkness a volce came to her sharp and clear. “Don't move!” It rang so vibrant with crisp command that the girl, poised for fiight, stood still and waited in white terror: while the huge steer lumbered taward her, A cow pony, wheeled as.on a dol- lar, jumped to an instant gallop. The man Hding it was the oné who had warned her back to the car. Horse and 1ading pounded over the ground toward her. Each stride brought them closer to each other as they converged toward the sand spit. It came to her with a gust of panicky despalr that they would collide on the very spot where she stood. Yet she did not run. The rider, lifting his bronco forward at full speed, won by a fraction of a second. He gulded in such a way as to bring his horse hetween her and the steer. Without slackening his pace in the least as he swept past, the man stooped low, caught the girl beneath by William MacLeod Raine the armpits, and swung her in front of him to the back of the horse. The steer pounded past so close behind that one of Its horns grazed the tail of the cow pony. It was a superb plece of horseman- ship, perfectly timed, us perfectly exe- cuted. The girl lay breathless in the arms of the man, her heart beating against his, her face burled In his shoulder. She was dazed, half fainting from the reaction of her fear. The next she remembered clearly was belng lowered into the arms of her father. He held her tight, his face tortured with emotion. She was the very light of his soul, and she had shaved death by a hair's breadth. A miracle had saved her, but he would never forget the terror that had gripped him. The girl snuggled closer to him, her arms round his neck. i A young man descended from the car, handsome, trim, and well got up. He had been tailored by the best man’s outfitter in New Y¥ork. Nobody on Broadway could order a dinner better than he. The latest dances he could do perfectly. He had the reputation of knowing exactly the best thing to say on every occasion. Now he proceeded to say it. “Corking bit of riding—never saw better. I'll give you my hand on that, my man.” The cowpuncher found a bunch of manicured fingers in his rough, brown paw. He found something else, for after the pink nand had gone there He QGuided in Such a Way as to Bring His Horse Between Her and the Steer. ¥ remained a fifty-dollar bill. He looked at it helplessly for a moment; then, beneath the brown outdoor tan, a fiush of anger beat into his face. Without a word he leaned’forward and pressed the note into the mouth of the bronco. The buckskin knew its:master for a very good friend. If he gave it some- thing to cat—well, there was no harm in trying it once. The buckskin chewed placidly for a few seconds, de- cided that this was a practical joke, and ejected from {ts mouth a slimy green pulp that had recently been a treasury note. The father stammered his thanks to the rescuer of the girl. “1 don’t know what I ean ever do to let you know I don’t know how I can ever pay you for saving . . " “Forget it!” snapped the brown man curtly, He was an even-tempered youth, as genlal and friendly as a half- grown pup, but just now the word “pay” irritated him as a red rag does a sulky bull. “If there's anything at all I can do for you—" “Not a thing.” The Nev: Yorker felt that he was not expressing himselt at all happily. What he wanted was to show this young fellow that he had put him un-’| der a lifelong obligation he could nev er hope to wipe out. “If you ever coma to New York—" “I'm not lable to go there, T don't belong there any more than you do here. Better drift back to Tucson, stranger. Take g.fool's advice and. hit the trail for town pronto before you bump into mwerg, trouble.” - “The cider swung ¥ound. his pony and cantered back’to the beef herd. He left belitrid him*a much-annoyed clubman, a perplexed’ and distressed father, and a girl Loth hurt and iu- dignant at his brusque rejection of her father's friendly advances. The episode of the fifty-dollar bill had taken place entitely under cover. The man who had given the note and the one who had refused to accept it were the only ones who knew of It. The girl saw only that this splendid horseman who had svatched her from under the very S feet of the Iadino had shown a boor- ish discourtesy. The savor had gone out of her adventure. Her heart was sick witn a/sappointment and indigua- tion, CHAPTER ) A Street Twelve Miles Long. “I like yore outfit,” Red Hollister grumbled. “You're nice buys, and good to yore mothers—what few of you ain't ‘wore their gray hairs to the grave yore business and you got a good | cook. But I'm darned if I likis this thing of two meals a day, one at a quarter to twelve at night. ang. the ‘otherqarquarter past.twelve, also any llke\v{%“# night” i 'REd’A ghumbling wap a pretense. He would:fiot hive been Anywhéte else for twice the pay. This was what he lived for. 2 ai » 9 R “Johnnie Green, commonly ‘known as “the Runt,” helped himseif to another flank steak. He was not much of a cow-hand, but when it came to eating Johnnie was always conscientiously on the job. “These here New Yorkers must be awful hardy,” he ventured, apropos of nothing. “Seems like they’re night birds for fair. Never do go to bad, far as I can make out. They tramp the streets all day and dance at tnem cab- by-rets all night. My feet would be all wore out.” Stace Wallis grinned. “So would my pocketbook. I've heard tell how a fel- low can pay as high as four or five dollars for an eat at them places.” Clay Lindsay laughed. “You boys know a lot about New York, just about as much as I do. I've read that a guy can drop & hundred dollars a night in a cabaret if he has a friend or tto along, and never make a ripple on Brondway.” “Well, I read there's a street there twelve miles long, If a fellow started at one end of that street with a thirst he'd sure be salivated before he reached the other end of it,” Stace sald with a grin. “Wonder if a fellow could get a job there. They wouldn’t be no use for a puncher, I reckon,” Slim drawled. “Betcha Clay could get a job all’ right,” answered Johnnie Green promptly. “He'd be top hand any- where, Clay would.” Johnnie was the lost dog of the B-in-a-Box ranch. It was his nature to follow somebody and lick hiz hand whenever it was permitted. The some- body he followed was Clay Lindsay. Johnnie was his slave, the echo of his opinfons, the booster of -his merits. He asked no greater happiness than to a kind word occasionally. The Runt had chosen as his Admir- able Crichton a most engaging youth. It never had been hard for .any girl to look at Clay Lindsay. His sun- tanned good looks, the warmth of his gay smile, the poise and the easy stride of him, made Lindsay a marked man even in a country where men of splen- did physique were-no exception. His eyes now were . watchicg the leap of the fire glow. The talk of New York had carried him back to a night on the round-up three years before. He was thinking about a slim girl standing on a sand spit with a wild steer rushing toward her, of her warm, slender body Iying in his arms for flve immortal seconds, of her dark, shy eyes shining out of the dusk at him like live coals. He remembered—and it hurt him to recall it—how his wounded pride had lashed out in resentment of the patron- age of these New Yorkers. The young- er man had insulted him, but he knew in his heart now that the girl's father had meant nothing of the kind. Of course the girl had forgotten him long since, “Question 1Is, could you land a job In New York if you wanted one,” ex- plained Stace to the dreamer. “If it's neck meat or nothin' a fel- low can 'most always get somethin’ to do,” sald Lindsay in the gentle voice he used. The vague impulses of many days crystalized suddenly into a reso- lution. “Anyhow I'm goin’ to try. Soon as the rodeo Is over I'm goin’ to hit the trall for the big town.” “Tucson?” interpreted Johnnie dubi- ously. “New York." The bow-legged little puncher looked at his friend and gasped. Clay flashed on him the warm smile that endeared him to all his friends. “P'm goin’ to rlde down Broadway and shoot up the town, Johnnie. Want to come along?” CHAPTER 11 Clay Appoints Himself Chaperon. As he traveled eust Clay began to slough the outward marks of his call- ing. He gave his spurs to Johnnie be- fore he left the ranch. At Tucson he shed his chaps and left them In c of a friend at the Longhorn corral, The six-gun with which he had shot rattlesnakes he packed into his suit- case at El Paso. His wide-rimmed felt hat flew oft while the head beneath it whs stuck out of a window of the coach somewhere south of Denver. Be- fare he passed under the Welcome arch in that city the silk kerehief had been removed from his brown neck and retired to the hip pocket which formerly held his forty-five. “The young cattleman began to flatter himself that nobody could now tell he was a wild man from the hills who had never been curried. He might have spared himself the illusion. The lightness of his stride, the breadth of the well-packed shoulders, the frank- ness of the steady eyes, all adverticed him as a son of Arizona. It was just before noon at one of the small plains towns east of Denver that a girl got on the train and was taken by the porter to a section back of Oiay Lindsay. The man from Arizona ne- ticed that she was refreshingly pret- ty in an unsophisticated way. ‘with yore frolicsome ways. ' You know | trall in the wake of his friend and get” A utue rater me had a chance to confirm this judgment, for the dining- car manager seated her opposite him at a table for two. When Clay handed her the menu card she- murmured “Thank you!” with a rush of color to her cheeks and looked helplessly at the list in her hand. Quite plainly she was taking her first long journey. The cow puncher helped her fill the order card. She put herself entirely in nis hunds and: was willing to eat what- ever he suggested unblased by prefer- ances of -her own, E She was'a round, soft, litile person with constant Intimations of a child- hood uot lung outgrown. During the course of lungh she confided that her oame was!Kitty} Mason, thut she was an orpnan;. and that she was on her way to New ¥ork to study at a school for moving-picture actresses, “I sent my photograph and the man- ager wrote back tnat my face was one hundred per cent . perfect = for' the movies,” the girl explained. It wis clear that she was expecting to -be manufactured into a film star in a week or two. After they had finished eating, the range-rider turned: in at the smoking compartment and enjoyes a cigar. He, fell Into casual talk with an army ofli- cer who had cerved in the Southwest, and It wwas three hours later when he retwned to his own seat in the car. A hav<i-2ced man in a suit of checks wore than a shade too loud was sit- ting In the section beside the girl from Brush. He was making talk in an as- sured, familiar way, and the girl was listening to him shyly and yet eagerly. The man was a variation of a type known to Lindsay. That type was the Arizona bad-man. If this expensively dressed fellow was not the eastern equivalent of the western gunman, Clay's experience was badly at fault. Clay had already made friends with the Pullman conductor. He drifted to him now on the search for informa- tion. “The hard-faced guy with the little girl?” he asked casually after the profter of a.cigar. “The one with the muscles bulging out all over him— who is he?" “He comes by that tough mug hon- estly. That's Jerry Durand.” “The prize-fighter?” y “Yep. Used to be. He's a gang leader in ‘New York now. Runs a gambling house of his own, I've heard. You can't prove it by me.” When Lindsay returned to his place he settled, himself with a magazine In a seat where he could see Kitty and her. new friend.. The very vitality of the girl's young life was no .doubt a temptation ‘to' this man. The soft, rounded throat lme, the oval cheek's rich colorlpg so easily moved to ebb and “flow, ‘the carminé of ‘the full red lips; every detall helped to confirm.the impression of a sensuous young crea- ture,. Innoceiit as a wild thing of the forests and as yet almost as un- spiritual. - . Durand ‘$ook-the girl In to dinner with him ‘apd they ‘sat not far from Lindsay.. Kitty whs lost to'any mem- Kitty Was Lost to Any Memory of Those About Her. ory of those about her. She was flirt- ing joyously ‘with a sense of newly awakened powers. The man from Gra- ham county, Arizona, felt uneasy in his mind. The girl was flushed with life. In a way she was celebrating her es- cape from the narrow horizon in which she had lived. In lier unsophistication danger lay. For she was plainly easlly Influenced, and in the beat of her healthy young blood probably there was latent passion. They left the diner before Clay. He passed them later In the vestibule of the sleeper. They were looking out to- gether on the moonlit plain through which the train was rushing. The.arm of the man was stretched behind her to the railing and with the motion of the car the girl swayed pack slightly agaihst him. Again Clay sought the smoking com- partment and was led into talk by the ofticer. It was well past eleven when le rose, yawned, and anuounced, “I'm goin’ to hit the hay.” Most of the berths were made up and It was with a little shock of sur- prise that his eyes fell on Kitty Mason and her new friend, the sleck.black head of the man close to her fair cur1s, his steady eyes holding her like a charmed bird while his caressing voice wove the fairy tale of New York to which she yielded herself in strange delight. “Don’t you-all want yo' berth made up, lady?” It was the Impatient porter who In- terrupted them. The girl sprang up tremulously to accept. “Oh, please. Is it late?” Her glance swept down the car and took in the fact that her section alone was not made up. “I didn’t know—why, what time {g it?" “Most ™ twelve, ma'am, aggrieved porter severely. She flashed a look of reproach at her companion amd blushed agaln as she fled with her bag to the ladles’ dressing room. s The train was rolling through the cornflelds of the Middle West when the Arizonan awoke. He was up early, but not long before Kitty Mason, who was joined at once by Durand. “Shucks! Nothin' to it a-tall,” the range-rider - assured himself. “That I girl must have the number of this guy. She's flirtin® with him to beat three of a kind, but I'll bet a dogie she knows right where she's at.” Clay did not In the least believe his own argument. If he had come from a city he\vould have dismissed the mat- replled the the clean Southwest where came fEo! al every straight girl“{s under~the pro- tection of every decent mmn. If she was In danger-because of her inno- cence It was-up to him to look after her. There was no more competent man in Graham county than Clay Lindsay, but he recognized that this | was a dellcate affair in which he must move warily. On his way to the diner at noon the range-rider passed her again. She was alone for the moment and as she leaned back her soft round throat showed a beating pulse. Her cheeks were burning and her starry eyes were looking into the future with a happy smile, . “You pore little maverick,” the man commented silently. The two had the table opposite him. As the wheels raced over a culvert to the comparative quiet of the ballasted track beyond, the words of the man reached Clay. “ . . and we'll have all day to see the city, Kid."” Kitty shook her ‘head. There was hesitation in her manner, and the man was quick to make the most of it “And it won't cost you a cent, girlie,” he added. But the long lashes of the girl lifted and her baby-blue’ eyes met his with shy reproach. -“I don't think I ought,” she breathed, color sweeping her face in a vivid flame. “You should worry,” he scoffed. Lipdsay knew the girl was weaken- ing. She was no match for this big, dominant, two-fisted man. The jaw of the cow puncher set. This child was not fair game for a man like Durand. When Clay rose to leave the diner he knew that he meant to sit in and take a hand. The train was creeping through the thickly settled quarter where the poor- er people are herded when Clay touched Durand on the shoulder. “Like to see you a moment in the vestibule,” he said in his gentle voice. The eyes of the two men met and the gambler knew at once that this man and he were destined to be en- emies, No man had ever said that Jerry Durand was not game. He rose prompt- 1y and followed the westerner from the car, swinging along with the light, cat- ‘like tread acquired by many . pugilists. The floor of the vestibule had.been raised and the outer door of the caf opened. Durand found time to won- der why. The cowpuncher turned on him with an abrupt question. “Can you swim?" The eyes of the ward boss narrowed. “What's that to you?’ he demanded truculently. “Nothin’ to me, but a good deal to you, I'm aimin’ to drop you in the river when we cross.” “Is that s0?” snarled Durand. “You're quite a joker, ain't you? Well, suit me. But let's get this clear so we'll know where were at. What's ailin’ you, rube?” “I don’t like the color of yore hair or the cut of yore clothes,” drawled Lindsay. “You've got a sure-enough bad eye, and I'm tired of travelin’ in yore company. Let's get off, me or you one.” In the slitted eyes of the Bowery graduate there was no heat at all. They were bleak as a heavy winter morn, “Suits me fine. You'll not travel with me much farther. Here's where you beat the place.” The professional lashed out sudden- 1y with his left. But Clay was not at the receiving end of the blow. Always quick as lightning, he had ducked and clinched. His steel-muscled arms tight- ened about the walst of the other. A short-arm jolt to the cheek he disre- garded. Before Dursnd had set himsaif to meet the plunge he found himself fly- ng through space. The gambler caught at the rail, missed it, landed on the cinders beside the roadbed, was flung instantly from his feet, and rolled over and over down an Incline to a muddy gully. Clay, hanging to the brass ralling, leaned out and looked back. Durand had staggered to his feet, plastered with mud from head to knees, and was shaking furiously a fist at him. The face of the man was venomous with rage. The cowpuncher waved a debonalr hand and mounted the steps again. The porter was standing in the vestl- bule looking at him with amazement. “You throwed a man off'n this train, mistah,” he charged. > “So, I did,” admitted Clay. and to save his life he could not keep frim siling. The porter sputtered. This beat ary- thing in his previous expcrience. —but—it din’t allowed to.open 1 cah. Was you-nll havin® trontte? “No trouble a-tall. Ho bet me & cigar I couldn’t put him off.” Clay palmed a dollar and handed it to the porter as he passed into the car. The eyes of that outraged ofticial rolled after. him. The book of rules did not say 'anything about wrestling matches In the vestibule. Besides, it happened that Durand had called him down sharply not an hour before. He decided to brush off his pussengers and torget what he had seei. Clay stopped in front of Kitty and #ald he hoped she would have no trouble making her tpausfer in the city. The girl was no!fool. She had sensed the antagonism that had flared up between them In that moment when they had faced each other five minutes before. “Where's Mr. Durand?” she asked. “He got off.” ut the train hasn’t stopped.” “It's just crawlin’ along, and he was fn a hurry.” + Her gaze rested upon an angry bruise on his cheek. It had not been there when last she saw him. “I don’t understand it,” she mur- mured, half to herself. “Why would i he get off before we reached the de- pot?” She was full of suspiclons, and the bruise on the westerner's cheek did not tend to allay them. They were still unsatisfied when the porter took her to the end of the car to brush her clothes, had its limits. While he brushed the girl he told her rapidly what he had seen in the vestibule. “Was he hurt?” she asked breath- lessly. “No'm. I looked out and seen him standin’ beside the track jes’ a-cussin’ a blue streak. He's a sho-'nough bad actor, that Jerry Durand.” Kitty marched straight to' her sec- tion. The eyes of the girl flashed anger. Clay. ! The Arizonan rose at once. He knew that she knew. “I was fntendin’ to help you off with yore grips,” he sald. She flamed into passionate resent- ment of his interference. “T'll attend to them. 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