Bemidji Daily Pioneer Newspaper, July 11, 1922, Page 2

SYNOPSIS CHAPTER 1—At Thornton Falirchild's @eath his son Robert learns there has been a dark period in his fathers life Whiths for almeat thirty years has caused him suffering. The secret is hinted at in a document left.by the elder Fai child, which also_informs Robert he now owner of a 'mining claim in_Colo- rado, and advising him to see Henry Beamish, a lawyer. CHAPTER II.—Beamish tells Robert his | claim, a silver mine, is at Ohadi, thirty- ! eight ‘miles from Denver. He also warns | him against a certain man, “Squint” Ro- | daine, his tnthnr‘l enemy. Robert decldes | to_go'to Oha G CHAPTER xn —On the road to Ohsdl from Denver Fairchild assists a girl, ap- | parently in a frenzy of haste, to change a tire on her auto. When she has left, sherift and a posse appear, in pur- lllrl of a bandit. Fairchild bewildered, misleads them as to the direction the #irl had taken. (Continued from last issue) “Tt—it wasn't & man. Tt—It was a | boy, just about fifteen years old.” “Sure?” “Oh, yes—" Falrchild was swim- ming in deep water mow. “I got a good look at him. He—he took that road off to the left.” It was the opposite one to which the hurrying fugitive In whipcord had taken. There was doubt in the inter- rogator’s eyes. “Sure of that?” he queried. “I'm the sheriff of Arapahoe county. That's an auto bandit ahead of us, We—" “Well, I wouldn’t swear to it. There was another machine ahend, and I lost 'em both for a second down there by the turn.” “Probably him, all right.” The voice came from the tonneau. “Maybe he Migured to give us the slip and get back to Denver.” “Let's go!” The sheriff was 'press- ing a foot on the accelerator. Down the hill went the car, to skid, then to make a short turn on to the road which led away from the scent, leav- ing behind a man standing in the middle of the road, staring at a ten- dollar .bill—and wondering why he had lied! CHAPTER IV ‘Wonderment which got nowhere. The sheriff's car returned before Fair- child reached the bottom of the grade, and again stopped to survey the scene of defeat. = “Duugerous character?” Fairchild hardly knew why he asked the ques- tion. The sherlff smiled grimly. “If it was the fellow we were after, he was plenty dangerous. We were tralling him on word from Denver— desceribed the car and said he'd pulled & daylight hold-up on a pay-wagon ' for the Smelter company—so when the car went through Golden, we took up ‘the trail a couple of blocks behind. He. kept the same speed for a little while until one of my deputies got a little .anxious and took a shot at a tire. Man, how he turned on the juice! X thought that thing was a jack rabbit, the way it went up the hill! I guess | it’s us back to the office.” The automobile went its way then, and Falrchild his, still wondering, And so thoroughly did the incident en- gross him that it was not until a truck had come to a full stop behind him, and a driver mingled a shout with the tooting of his horn, that he turned to allow its passage. “Dldn't hear you, old man,” he apol- ogized. “Could you give a fellow a ure “Guess 80.” It was friendly, even though a bit disgruntled; “hop on.” And Fairchild hopped, once more to sit on the tailboard, swinging his legs, but this time his eyes saw the ever- changing scenery without notlcing it. In ‘spite of himself, Fairchild found himself constantly staring at a vision of a pretty girl in a riding habit, with dark-brown hair straying about equally dark-brown eyes, almost fren- zled in her efforts to change a tire in time: to elude a pursuing sheriff. Some way, it all didn't blend. If she hadn't committed some sort of depredation against the law, why on earth was she willing to part with ten dollars, mere- 1y to save a few moments in changing a tire and thus elude a sheriff? If there had been nothing wrong, could not a-moment of explanation have sat- isfied anyone of the fact? It ‘was too much for anyone, and Fairchild knew It. Yet he clung grim- 1y to ‘the mystery as the truck clat- tered on, mile after mile. A small town gradually was coming into view. A mile more, then the truck stopped with a: jerk. “Where you bound for, pardner?” “OhadL” “That’s it, straight ahead. I turn Off here. Miner?” Fairchild shrugged his shoulders and nodded noncommittally, “Just thought I'd ask. Plenty of work: around here for single and double jackers. Things are begimning ‘o look up a bit—at least in silver.” _mamu. Do you Imow a good pince | GRS ! white stream, softening the scars of | the mountains with their gréat refuse | dumps; reminders of hopes of twenty | tone; the jutting rocks melted away | fight. A sudden cramping caught the TRATIONS ILLF?% Van Nice to stop?” “Yeh, Mother Howard's boarfllng house. Everybody goes there, sconer or later. You'll see it on the left-hand side of the street before you get to | the main block. Good old girl; knows how to treat anybody in the mining game from operators on down. She was here when mining was mining!” Fairchild lifted his bag from the: rear of the vehicle, waved a farewell to the driver and started into the vil- lage. And then the vision of the girl | departed, momentarily, to give place | to other thoughts, other pictures, of a | | day long gone. The sun was slanting low, throwing deep shadows from the hills into the little valley with its chattering, milk- years before and as bare of vegeta- tion as in the days when the pick and gad and drill of the prospector tore the rock loose from its hiding place under the surface of the ground. The scrub - pines of the almost barren mountains took on a fluffier, softer into their own shadows; it was a pic- ture of peace and of memories. And it had been here that Thornton Fairchild, back In the nineties, had dreamed his dreams and fought his son’s heart, and it pounded with some- thing akin to fear. The old forebod- ing of his father’s letter had come upon him, the mysterious thread of that elusive, intangible Thing great enough to break the will and resist- ance of a strong man and turn him into a weakling—silent, white-haired —sltting by a window, walting for death What had it been? Why had it 'come upon his father? How could it'be fought? 'HE brushed away the beady perspiration with a gesture al- most of anger, then with a look of re. lief, turned in at a small white gate toward a big, rambling building which proclaimed itself, by the sign on the door, to be Mother Howard's boarding bouse, A moment of walting, then he laced a gray-hnired, kindly faced woman,| who. stared at :him with * wide-open eyes as she stood, hands on hips, be- fore him. “Don’t you tell me I don't know you! If you ain't a Fairchild, I'll never feed another miner corned beef and cabbage as long as I live, Ain’t you, now?” she persisted, “ain’t you a Fairchild?” The man laughed in spite of him- self. “You guessed it.” “You're Thornton Fairchild’s boy!” She had reached out for his handbag, and then, bustling about him, drew him into the big “parlor.” “Didn't 1 know you the minute I saw wu? Land, you're the picture of your dnd!| Sakes alive, how is he?” There was a moment of silence. Fairchild found himself suddenly halt- ing and boyish as he stood before her. ; “He's—he's gone, Mrs. Howard.” | “Dead?’ She put up both hands., “It don't seem possible. And me re-| “He's—He's Gone, Mrs. Howard™ membering him looking just like you, full of life and strong and—" “Our pictures of him are a good deal different. I—I guess you knew him when everything was all right for him, Things were different after he got home again " Mother Howard looked quickly about her, then with a swift motlon closed the door. “Son,” she asked in a low voice, “didn’t he ever get over it?" “It?” Fairchild felt that he stood ,on the threshold of discoveries. “What do you mean?” | Mother Howard signaled to him. “Didn’t he ever tell you anything, T No, I—" “Well, there wasn't any need to.” But Mother Howard's sudden embar- rassment, her change of color, told Falrchild it wasn't the truth, “He just had a little. bad luck out here, that was all. His—his mine pinched out Just when he'd thought he'd struck it rleh—or something like that.” “Aré you sure that is the truth?" For a second they faced each other, | Robert Fairchild serious and intent, Mother Howard looking at him with eyes deflant, yet compassionate. Sud-: denly they twinkled, the lips broke from their straight line.into a smile, and a kindly old hand reached out to take him by the arm. “Don’t you stand there and try to tell Mother . Howard she don’t know what she's talking about!” came in tones of mock severity. “Hear me? Now, you get up them steps and wash up for dinner. Take the first room on the right. It's ‘a nice, cheery place.” In his room, Fairchild tried not to think. His brain was becoming too crammed with queries, with strange happenings and with aggravating mys- ticisms of the life into which his fa- ther's death had thrown him to per- mit clearness of vision, Even in Mother Howard he had not been able to escape it; she told all too plainly, both by her actions and her words, that she knew something of the mys- tery of .the.past—and had falsified to keep the knowledge from him. It was too galling for thought. Rob- ert Fairchild. hastily made his toilet, then answered' the:ringing of the din- ner bell, to be introduced to -strong- shouldered men who -gathered about the long tables; Cornishmen, who talked an “h-less” language, ruddy- faced Americans, and a ‘sprinkling of English, all of whom conversed about | things which were to FairchiM as so much Greek—of “levels” and “stopes” and “winzes,” of “skips” and “man- ways” and “rises,” which meant noth- ing to the man who yet must master them all, if he were to follow his am- bition. Robert Fa!rchlld spoke but seldom, except to acknowledge the Introduc- tions as Mother Howard made him known to each-of his table mates. But it was not aloofnéss; from the first, the newcomer -had “Mked the men about him, liked the ruggedness, the mingling of culture with the lack of it, liked the enthusiasm, the muscle and brawn, liked them all—all but two. Instinctively, from the first men- tion of his name, he felt they were watching him, two men who sat far in the rear of the big dining room, older than the other occupants, far less inviting in appearance. One was small, though chunky in build, with sandy halr and eyebrows; with weak, filmy blue eyes over which the lids blinked constantly. The other, black- hiféed with' streaks of gray, powerful in' bis build, and with a walrus-like | mustache drooping over hard lips, was | the sort of antithesis naturally to be ! found in the company of the smaller, sandy complexion®d man. Who "they were, what they were, Falrchfid dld not know, except from the 'general attributes which told that they too fol- lowed the great gamble of mining. But one thing was certain; they watched hiin throughout the meal; they talked about him in low tones and ceased when Mother Howard came near; they seemed to recognize in him someone who brought both curiosity and innate enmity to the surface. And more; long before the rest had finished their meal, they rose and left the room, in- tent, apparently, upon some important mission. After that, 'Fairchild ate with less of a relish. In his mind was the cer- tainty that these two men knew him— or at least knew about him—and that ' they did not relish his presence. Nor were his suspicions long in being ful- filled. Hardly had he reached the hall, when the beckoning eyes of In- stinctively he walted for the other diners to pass: him, then looked eager- ly toward Mother Howard as she once more approached, “I don't know what you're doing here,” came shortly, “but I want to.” Fairchild straightened. “There isn't much to tell you,” he answered quiet- ly. “My father left me the Blue Poppy mine in his will. I'm here to work it.” “Know anything about mining?” “Not a thing.” “Or the people you're liable to have to buck up against?” “Very little.” “Then, Son,” and Mother Howard Iaid a kindly hand on his arm, “what- ever you do, keep your plans to your- | self and don’t talk too much. And what's more, If you happen to get into communication with Blindeye Bozeman and Taylor Bill, lle your head off. Maybe you saw 'em, a sandy- haired fellow and a big man with a black mustache, sitting at the back of the room?” Fairchild nodded. “Well, stay away from them. They belong to ‘Squint’ Rodaine. Know him?” She shot the 'question sharply. Again Fairchild nodded. “I've heard the name. Who is he?” A volce called to Mother Howard from the dining room. She turned away, then leaned close to Robert Fairchild. “He's a miner, and he's al- ways been a miner. Right now, he's mixed up with some of the biggest people in town. He's always been a man to be afraid of—and he was your father's worst enemy !" Then, leaving Fairchild staring after her, she moved on to her dutles in the kitchen. CHAPTER V Impatiently Fairchild awaited Moth- er Howard's return. and when at last she came forth from the kitchen, he drew her into the old parlor, shadowy now in the gathering dusk, and closed the doors. “Mrs, Howard,” he began, “I- “Mother Howard,” she corrected. “I ain’t used to being called much else. “Mother, then—although I'm not very accustomed to using the title. My own mother dled—shortly after my father came, back from out here. She walked to his side then and put a hand on his shoulders., For a mo- ment it seemed that her lips were struggling to repress something which || strove to pass them, something locked behind them'for' years. Then the old /face, dim in the half light, calmed. “What do'you want to know, Son?” “Everything!” (| “But thete isn’t much I can tell.” He caught her hand. “There i8! I know there is. I—" “Son—all I can do is to make mat-| ' ters worse, If I knew anything that|: would help you—if I could give you |: any light on anything, Qld Mother Howard would do it! in the dark as you. All that I ever knew was that your father came to|, this boarding house when he was a|: young man, the very first day that he |} ever struck Ohadl. He didn’t have|: much money, but he was enthusiastic |, —and it wasn’t.long before he'd told |; me about his wife and baby back in Indianapolis and how he'd like to win out for their sake. As for me—well, |: they always called me Mother How-| ard, even when I was a youpg thing, |! sort. of setting my cap for every good- looking young man. that came along. I guess that's why I never caught one of 'em—I1 always insisted on- darning their socks and looking after all their troubles for ‘em instead of going out buggy-riding with some other fellow and making ’em jealous.” She sighed ever so slightly, then chuckled. “But that ain’t getting to the point, though, fs it?” “If you could tell me about my fa- ther—" “I'm going to—all T know. Things were a lot différent out here then from what théy were later. where around ;the hills and gulches you could see. !egros'pectora. with their gads and”Mttl¥ picks, fooling around like life didd't-mean anything in the || worldto 'em,'txeept to grub around|! in those rocks, “Your father was one of these men. ‘Squint’ Rodaine was another—they || called him that: because at some time |, in his life he'd tried to, shoot faster|: than the other ‘fellow—and didn't do it der behind 1t—41l it did was to cut|! through the skin and go straight up|' his forehead. When the wound healed, the scar drew his eyes close together, like a Chinamin's. You never see Bquint's eyes more than half open. “And. he's - crooked. just like his| eyes—" ‘Mother ‘Howard’s voice bore a touch of resentment. “I never liked him from the minute I first saw him, and I liked him, less afterward. Then \I got . next, to his game. “Your fither ;had’ ‘been prospecting i Just ' like n;;&fiy else. He'd come ‘on float up Kentucky gnleh and was trying ‘to follow"{t to the vein. Squint isaw. him-—and. what’s .more, he. saw | that #loat. ‘It looked good to Squint— 'and fate that night, I heard him and his two drinking partners, Blindeye Bozeman and Taylor Bill—they just reverse his name for the sound of it— talking in Blindeye's room. I'm a woman—" Mother Howard chuckled— | “s0 I just leaned my head against the | door and listened. Then I flew down- {stairs to wait for your father when {he came in from sitting up half the {night to get an assay on that float. Squint and them two others was figur iing on jumping his claim before he| ;cm:ld file on it and all that. “Well, there was a big Cornishman 1here that I was kind of sweet on—-and I guess I always will be. He's been | gone now, though, ever since your fa- ither left. I got him and asked him ;to help. And Harry was just the kind {of a fellow that would do it. Out in |the dead of night they went and | staked out your father's claim—Harry |was to get 25 per cent—and early the | next morning your dad was waiting | ta file on it, while Harry was waiting |(or them three. And what a fight it must have been—that' Harry was a wildcat in those younger days.” She |laughed, ‘then her voice grew serious. {“But all had fits effect. Rodaine . didn’t Jump that claim, and a few of ‘us around here filed dummy claims i enough In the vicinity to keep him off 0! getting too close—but there was ‘one way we couldn't stop him. He ihld power, and he's always had it— ]und he’s got it now. A lot of awful strange things happened to your fa- !ther after that—charges were filed iagainst him for things he never did. {Men jumped on him in the dark, then iwent .to the district attorney's office iand accused him of making the at- 'tack. And the funny part was that the district attorney's office always ibelieved them—and not him. Once !they had him'just’at the edge of the penitentiary, but I—I happened to /know a few [things that—well, he didn't go.’ Again Mother Howard { chuckled, ‘only ‘to ‘grow serious. once more, ‘Men who. went to work for {vour father ‘and Harry disappeared, tor got hurt acclidentally in the mine or ‘Just quit through the bad name it | was getting. Once Harry, coming {down from the tunnel at night, | stepped on a little bridge that always | before had been as secure and safe as ithe hills themselves. It fell with {him—they went down together thirty !feet, and there was nothing but Na- ture to blame for it, in spite of what we three thought. Then, at last, they | got a fellow who was willing to work i for them In spite of what Rodaine’s | crowd—and it consisted of everybody 'In power—hinted about your father’s ' bad reputation back East and—" ! “My father never harmed a soul in ‘his life!” Fairci.d’s volce was hot. resentful. llomu ‘Ioward .went_on: Lord, didn’t I, help out your father when he needed |: it the worst way? But I'm as much | Every-|; The bullet hit right between his|: eyes, but.it mudt have had poor pow- |: tellln' the story. Mlnen are x\lper stitious as a general rule, and they're ‘chlldlah at belleving things. " It all | worked In your father’s case—with the }excentlon of Harry and ‘Sissle’ Lar- a Swede with a high voice, just ‘uho\nz llke mine. That's why they ' gave him the name. - He went to work. A few months later they got into ‘ore. It looked 1ikeé the bad: ! over at last. Then—" Mother ‘Howard hesitated lt the i brink’ of the very nubbin of it all, to | “The Three of Us Drove Up the Main i Street.” i Robert Fairchild. A long moment ; followed, in which he repressed a Ge- i sire to seize her and wrest it from ! her, and at last— “It was about dusk one night,” she ; weht on. “Harry came in and took { me with him into this very room. He , kissed me and told me that he musi igo away. He asked me if I would xgo with him—without knowing why. : And, Son, I trusted him, I would have xdone anything for him—but I wasn't i a8 old then as I am now. I refused— and to this day, I don’t know why. It ' was just woman, I guess. Then he i asked me if T would help him. 1 sai¢ I would. “He didn't tell me much; excepl | that he had been uptown spreading the word that the -ore.had pinched out and that the hanging rock' had caved In and that he and ‘Sissie’ an¢ your father were through, that thej !'were beaten and were golng away tha | night, But—and Harry waited a long time before he told me this—‘Sissie’ was not going with them, “‘I'm putting a lot in your hands,’ he told me, ‘but you've got to help us. “Sissie” won't be there—and I can't tell you why. The town must think that he 1s. Your voice is just like “Sissle’s.” You've got to help us out of town. ““And. I promised. - Late that night, the three of us drove up the main street, your father on one side of the seat, Harry on the other, and me, dressed in some of ‘Sissie’s’ clothes, | half hidden between them. Nobody dreamed that I was anyone élse but the Swede—my head was tipped for- | ward, so they couldn’t see my fen- tures. We drove outside town and stopped. Then we said goodby, and I put on an old dress that I had brought with me and sneaked back home. No- body knew the difference.” “But Larsen—?" “You know as much as I do, Son.” “You never saw Larsen again?” “I never saw any of them. That was the end.” "'“But Rodalne—?" “He's still here. You'll' hear from him—plenty soon. I could see that, the minute Blindeye Bozeman and Taylor Bill began taking your meas- ure. You noticed they left the table before the meal was over? It was to tell Rodaine.” “Then he'll fight me, too?” Mother Howard laughed—and her voice was harsh. “Rodaine’s a rattlesnake. His son's a rattlesnake, His wife's crazy—Old Crazy Laura. He drove her that way. She lives by herself, in an old house on the Georgeville road. And she'd Kkill for him, even if he does beat her when she goes to his house and begs him to take her back. That's the kind of a crowd it is. Just to put a good finish on it all, the young 'un moves In the best soclety in town and spends former district judge's daughter into marrying him. So there you are. That’s all ‘Mother Howard knows, Son.” She turned to the door amd then, :’urnlng, patted Fairchild on the shoul- er. “Boy,” came quietly, “you've got a broad back and a good head. Rodaine beat your'father—don't let him beat you. Ands always remember one ;thing: Old Mother Howard's played the game before, and she'll play it with you—dark streets aren't exactly ‘the place for you.” Robert Fairchild obeyed the in- structions, a victim of many a conjec- ture, many an attempt at reasoning as he sought sleep that was far away. Again and again there rose before him the vision of two men in an open buggy, with a person between them whom Ohadl believed to be an effemi- nate-voiced Swede; in reality, only a woman. And why had they adopted the expedient? Why had not Larsen been with them in reality? It was hours before Fairchild found sleep, and even then it: was a thing of troubled visions. ook e TUESDAY EVENING, JULY 11, 1922 ——— B. W. LAKIN, President C. L. ISTED, S E. R. EVANS, Manager ecretary-Treasurer BEMIDJI LUMBER & FUEL CO. OPPOSITE GREAT NORTHERN DEPOT LET US SUPPLY YOU WITH LUMBER - LATH - ) LIME — CEMENT - PLASTER PAPER—Roofing and Sheathing BRICK—Common, Fire and Fancy Sash Doors and Mill Work. FULL LINE OF DRAIN TILE AND SEWER PIPE SHINGLES Residence Phone 17-F-4 tor Trucks— “E.-B.” Tractors— most of his time trying to argue the | 204 Fourth St. BEMIDJI, MINN. There Will Be No Need to Ask You to - “Look Pleasant Please” When You Get Our Prices on Fine PHOTOS and POSTCARDS. REMEMBER!—You take no Photos or Post Cards from RICH STUDIO UNLESS THEY PLEASE YOU! Kodak Films Developed 6 Exposures, any size 10c Prints, 3c, 4¢, 5¢c —Phone 570-W— 29 Tenth St., Cor. Doud Ave. F. M. Pendergast Implement Co. \GE fi . '{HE BEMIDJI DALY FIONEER . 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